CHAPTER 2: I Fucking Loved It

"James," I said, voice tight.

"Yeah?"

"Shut the fuck up."

He burst out laughing. Actually laughing. Like this was the funniest shit in the world.

I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt. My patience was already stretched thin, and James acting like this was some kind of joke wasn’t helping.

"You’re real fucking annoying, you know that?" I muttered.

"Yeah, yeah, I love you too, man," he said, still amused. "So what now? You gonna sulk about this all night? Or—wait—" He gasped dramatically. "Don’t tell me you’re obsessed with Pretty Boy now."

I nearly threw my damn phone out the window.

"I’m not fucking obsessed," I snapped.

"Uh-huh. You sure? ’Cause you stormed out of the bar like a lover scorned."

"James."

"Like a princess whose hand was refused—"

I ended the call and tossed my phone onto the passenger seat.

Fucking asshole.

I focused on the road, but irritation burned under my skin like a low flame. My mood had already been shit when I left the bar, but somehow, James had made it worse. Now I felt like I had an itch I couldn’t scratch.

Then my phone vibrated again, and I cursed under my breath. “What the fuck—”

I reached over to grab my phone from the passenger seat, barely sparing a glance at the road as I unlocked it. If it was James, I was gonna lose my shit.

But it wasn’t.

The notification wasn’t from my texts, wasn’t from I*******m or any of my usual group chats.

It was from OnlyFans.

A slow grin spread across my lips.

Now that was the kind of notification I didn’t mind.

I tapped it open, my annoyance momentarily fading as I checked my account. A new message, a fat-ass tip, and a comment from one of my subscribers telling me how fucking hot my last video was.

Goddamn.

That was exactly what I needed.

I could already feel the tension in my shoulders easing, my mood shifting. Yeah, being ignored was frustrating. Yeah, getting laughed at by your friends fucking sucked. Yeah, Andrew Parker was a smug little shit.

But this?

This was my thing.

Not just the money—though, fuck, the money was good. Better than I ever expected when I first started. But it wasn’t about that. Not really.

It was the attention.

That raw, undivided focus. The way people craved me, needed me, hung on to every word, every movement. Every time I posted, the reactions poured in instantly. Desperate. Thirsty. Obsessed.

And I fucking loved it.

Every man had his kink.

This just happened to be mine.

A little secret. A little indulgence. Something just for me.

I flipped through the messages, skimming over the comments, the praise, the requests. Some of them were standard—compliments, heart emojis, the usual fuck, you’re hot as hell messages.

Others?

A little more interesting.

I smirked, already considering what I would post next, already picturing the reactions, the rush of notifications.

By the time I parked and stepped out of my car, my mood had done a complete 180. I stretched my arms over my head, rolling my shoulders as I made my way toward my apartment building. The air was crisp, the cold biting through my hoodie, but I barely felt it. My phone buzzed in my hand, and I swiped through my notifications, grinning at the flood of thirsty comments rolling in.

‘Damn, I needed this after a shit day.’

 ‘Your body should be illegal.’

 ‘Daddy, step on me.’

I huffed out a laugh. Never got old.

As I passed by my neighbors, I actually nodded in acknowledgment, which was a rare fucking occurrence.

“Evening,” Mrs. Carter greeted, pulling her little yappy dog along.

“Evening,” I replied, shocking even myself with how friendly I sounded.

Damn, I really was in a better mood. Nothing like a reminder that thousands of people would sell their souls just to get a glimpse of me.

I scrolled absently as I climbed the stairs to my floor, sifting through messages and tips, until a certain post made me stop in my tracks.

A heat sparked low in my stomach, shooting straight to my groin.

Anonymous69.

Fucking hell.

I swore under my breath, my grip tightening on my phone as I opened the post.

This guy—this guy—was a goddamn menace.

He had way more fans than me, and it wasn’t hard to see why. Every time he dropped something, people lost their fucking minds. And me? I wasn’t any different.

The picture was pure sin.

Perfectly sculpted abs, low-hanging sweats, just enough of a tease to make my blood rush south at an alarming speed. The caption?

Thinking about misbehaving tonight.

Jesus fucking Christ.

My fingers twitched, resisting the urge to drop everything and reply like some desperate fanboy. But fuck if it wasn’t tempting.

I had no idea who Anonymous69 really was, but I knew one thing—whoever he was, he owned the internet. Hell, he probably owned me at this point.