in the game and not let his mind wander. “How do you want me, Sir?”
“You know what I want.”
Day sighed inwardly. For somebody who claimed his wife wasn’t kinky enough, Jay’s requests were always the same. Day turned away from the camera, popping up on his knees, canting his hips back, head and shoulders to the mattress.
“Open your legs. Wider. Fuck yeah, that’s it.” Day’s eyes caught on a chip in his silver polish. Fuck, he really needed a manicure. “You like that, baby?”
Day rolled his eyes, grateful the camera couldn’t see his face. “Mmm, yes, Daddy.”
Day waited for Jay to tell him to lower his panties and start jerking off, but instead, he made a startled noise, a sort of half cry-half shout that had Day spinning around. Even from the strange angle of Jay’s laptop, Day could see crimson blooming from the older man’s collar, overwhelming the snowy starched white fabric faster than Day could even comprehend what was happening.
Jay made a horrific gurgling sound, and then his laptop tumbled backwards. Day sat frozen on the edge of the bed, hand to his mouth for a solid minute. Hands trembling, he crept closer to his monitor.
“Jay?” he whispered. There was no response. Day felt like his whole body was electrified, a metallic taste coating his tongue. “Jay?” he tried again, his voice one step above his last attempt.
A shadow swept across the camera’s lens, and then a figure stood above, peering down at the laptop. It felt like he was looking directly into Day’s soul. Day wanted to disconnect before the man saw him, but it was already too late. Day sat in a well-lit room. He was probably visible from Mars, unlike the man shrouded in darkness, with only Jay’s amber desk lamp for light. Before Day could think to do anything, a booted heel came towards his face, causing Day to yelp and jump away even though he wasn’t the victim of the man’s assault. Jay’s laptop was.
Day sat there at his desk for far longer than he should, but his limbs felt like they were encased in cement. Jay was dead. Somebody had killed him. Right? Nobody could survive that kind of blood loss. Had the killer seen Day? Did it matter? Day hadn’t really seen him. But did the killer know that? Could he find Day if he wanted to? Day bounced on his heels. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Report a murder of somebody named Jay in Los Angeles? What if that wasn’t even his real name?
“Fuck! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
Day picked up his cell phone and dialed 911, his teeth gnawing through the polish on his already chipped thumbnail. “911. What’s your emergency?”
“I think I just saw a man get murdered.”
There was a pause. “You think…you saw a man get murdered?” the woman asked, her tone edging on boredom.
“Yeah. I was on a video call with a…friend, and I think somebody slit his throat.”
“What’s this friend's name?”
“Uh, Jay.”
“Jay what, sir?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“You don’t know your friend’s last name?”
Day sighed. “Look, I’m a cam model. I talk to men for a living. I only know he was an attorney named Jay, and he lives somewhere here in Los Angeles.”
“Sir, please hold the line.”
Day did as she asked, grimacing at the feel of nail polish flakes on his tongue even though he had no intention of stopping.
“Sir? Please give me your name and address. I’m sending officers to your home to get more information.”
Day didn’t have any more information to give, but he rattled off his name and address anyway. As soon as he disconnected, he set about changing his clothes, ditching his satin and silk for threadbare black athletic shorts and a red cropped hoodie. He scraped off his makeup and tossed the makeup wipes into the trash just as his phone dinged.
It was a notification. DannysDaddy666 has sent you money.
It wasn’t unusual to get notifications like that. Day was auctioning off his virginity to whichever of his patrons donated the most this year as long as they met his minimum bid of ten thousand dollars. A price that Day had assured himself none of them would be willing to give just to be his first non-silicone dick. Day usually received anywhere from one hundred to five hundred dollars from most of his clients once or twice a week. At least, the ones he considered his private patrons. But there was one who never wanted to be seen on camera. He