Pretty Little Tease (Pretty Obsessions

Book 1) 1st Edition Aj Merlin

Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmeta.com/product/pretty-little-tease-pretty-obsessions-book-1-1st-edition
-aj-merlin/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

Pretty Little Tease Pretty Obsessions Book 1 1st

Edition Aj Merlin

https://ebookmeta.com/product/pretty-little-tease-pretty-
obsessions-book-1-1st-edition-aj-merlin-2/

Pretty Little Killer Pretty Obsessions Book 2 1st

Edition Aj Merlin

https://ebookmeta.com/product/pretty-little-killer-pretty-
obsessions-book-2-1st-edition-aj-merlin/

Vicious Pleasure And Prey 3 1st Edition Aj Merlin

https://ebookmeta.com/product/vicious-pleasure-and-prey-3-1st-
edition-aj-merlin/

Pretty Little Things Thieves Honor 1 1st Edition Brooke

Harper

https://ebookmeta.com/product/pretty-little-things-thieves-
honor-1-1st-edition-brooke-harper/
The Other Merlin Emry Merlin 1 1st Edition Robyn
Schneider

https://ebookmeta.com/product/the-other-merlin-emry-merlin-1-1st-
edition-robyn-schneider/

Pretty Little Mess 1st Edition Nichole Rose

https://ebookmeta.com/product/pretty-little-mess-1st-edition-
nichole-rose/

Dirty Little Secret (Forbidden Fantasies #29) 1st

Edition S.E. Law

https://ebookmeta.com/product/dirty-little-secret-forbidden-
fantasies-29-1st-edition-s-e-law/

Dark Obsessions Anthology (Volume 1) 1st Edition Leann

Ashers

https://ebookmeta.com/product/dark-obsessions-anthology-
volume-1-1st-edition-leann-ashers/

Cambridge Little Steps Level 1 Student s Book Zapiain

https://ebookmeta.com/product/cambridge-little-steps-
level-1-student-s-book-zapiain/
Pretty Little Tease
PRETTY OBSESSIONS
BOOK ONE

AJ MERLIN
Pretty Little Tease
Copyright © 2023 AJ Merlin
All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover Design by Books & Moods

Ebook isbn: 978-1-955540-25-4
Pretty Little Tease is a dark romance that contains some content that may be problematic for
some readers including murder, graphic violence, serial killers, kink, sex work, coercion,
and consent that isn’t always given properly.

The men are morally terrible, at best, and not fit to be brought home to meet your parents.
 Contents

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
 Chapter 1

“S o what’s the catch?” I can’t help the question slipping out as I stand in the small foyer of our new
apartment, and it’s hard to stop myself from chewing my bottom lip as I look around this small
space of our apartment.
“Hmm?” Juniper slides her backpack off her shoulders and blinks at me, confused. “What do you
mean ‘the catch?’”
“I mean that, last time I checked, we aren’t in the uh, financial bracket of people that get foyers in
their apartments. It’s like a tiny little greeting hall.” I sweep a hand toward the other end of the small
hallway, where a door into the rest of the apartment sits ajar. In this small, already decorated space, a
long sideboard hugs the left wall, a rack on the other to hold… whatever we might come home with
that we don’t want to take further inside.
“It’s considered college housing.” Juniper shrugs. “We got a bit of a discount to live here. Enough
that it was still in our price range, and not even at the very top.”
I shift, slightly uncomfortable at the discussion of money. I don’t have a lot of it, and I don’t have
a job lined up like she does for after the year is over. A potential one, anyway. It’s always been
Juniper’s plan to work at her mother’s company, and her entire college education plan has always
revolved around that.
On the other hand, being that I’m a history major minoring in folklore and Ancient Roman Studies,
I do not have a solid life plan of my own. Hopefully, at some point, I get the Night At The Museum
treatment and get whisked away by Teddy Roosevelt for nighttime shenanigans.
That or I learn how to time travel and ask my college freshman self if we’re sure we want to go
through with a questionable course of study.
“Some college housing. Did someone die here? Is this part of the St. Augustine ghost tour on
Saturday nights? That’s totally why there’s a foyer, right?” My voice is light, the tone playful, and
even though it’s clear that I’m joking, I can’t imagine doing this with someone I don’t know as well as
Juniper. After all, she’s been my best friend since freshman year, intro to roman studies. If anyone can
tell when I’m joking and not take my inappropriate, nervous giggles seriously… it’s her.
“Yeah, and your bedroom is their first and last stop, Blair,” Juniper agrees, teasing. She glances at
me, her dark hooded eyes solemn as she tries to keep with the joke. “Totally should’ve told you that
before we picked rooms off the online pictures. Oh, well.”
“Guess I’ll die,” I reply, following her as she pushes open the door that takes us into the apartment
proper. It’s a good thing she can’t see my face, or the way I’m sawing at my lip. This is in my budget,
but when I was on my way back from Tennessee this morning on the bus, it had suddenly hit me.
I don’t have a life plan.
I don’t have a career picked out.
I don’t have a job or a huge savings account.
I’m not related to the Rockefellers or Bill Gates.
And I’m not in a relationship with a sugar daddy who takes care of all my wants and needs.
I can afford this apartment without hurting myself, honestly. Especially because of the student
housing discount we’re getting. It would’ve been almost as expensive to live in a single room on
campus, as there was no way in hell I was moving in with anyone other than Juniper, and she’s
wanted out of the dorm for a year.
The rest of the apartment is just as great, because of course it is. The furniture looks new, and the
place smells like fresh paint and cleaning supplies. Surely we aren’t the first ones to live here, though
for the life of me, I can’t see any other signs of someone having moved out a few months ago.
“Someone died here,” I assure Juniper, opening the door to the bathroom that’s more spacious
than I would’ve thought it would be. There’s even a small washer and dryer stacked in the corner by
the door, giving us a reason to never have to find a laundromat or do our laundry on campus two miles
away. Not that I’d want to do my laundry at Wickett University of St. Augustine. No offense to the
school, but some of its accommodations are a little less than inspiring. It’s one reason so many
students prefer to live off campus, rather than on.
My eyes flick over the square, glass-walled shower in the corner before I step back out, looking
at the shiny kitchen before passing by the kitchen island to get a look at the open living room. Nothing
separates the two, other than the island with three stools slid under it. A long, L-shaped couch sits in
the living room, a coffee table perched on a dark blue rug on the faux-wood flooring in front of it, and
on one wall a large tv hangs, screen a bright and shiny black.
It looks so much better than my dorm room that I could die.
Instead of dying, I peek out onto the balcony where two wicker chairs sit, barely noticing the view
of the water I can see a half mile away. How in the world is this actually student housing?
Maybe a whole family was murdered here, and their bodies were used in some kind of dark
summoning ritual that nearly leveled the city. It’s so cheap because every month or so the
Ghostbusters have to show up, with the exorcist from the Poltergeist tagging along, so that the
apartment building can be made clean again.
Or something similarly displeasing and inconvenient to the tenants.
“Have you looked at your room yet?” Juniper asks, the door to hers ajar. They’re on opposite
sides of the apartment, and it takes me a few seconds to stride over and open the door to my private
room.
It’s been awhile since I had one. Even before living in a dorm room with Juniper, I was sharing a
bedroom with my younger sister back home whenever she was at Mom’s house instead of her dad’s.
My hand finds the cold metal and I turn the knob, peeking inside like I’m going to find the grisly
remains of a dead, sacrificed body. Maybe it’ll be like in 13 Ghosts and a body will be rolling
around in cellophane.
Maybe I should just stop watching horror movies while I fall asleep. Or at least stop letting them
play on repeat, allowing them to infect my dreams.
The room is about as large as our dorm room, give or take three square feet in my novice opinion.
A full size bed sits against one corner, the bedside table is white and minimalist. A desk sits in the
opposite corner, and across from both the bed and the desk, set into the walls on either side of the
door, are two shallow closets with shelves marching from the top to about knee-height. My bags are
in here, where they’d been left by the employees who had helped us sign the last of our contracts. I
still can’t believe our apartment building basically has a bellboy service.
Had they helped the residents of the other nine apartments?
Being on the third floor, we’re at the top of the building, and there are two apartments on our floor
apart from ours. I don’t mind, and I like the view, frankly. Besides that, there’s a window in my
bedroom that overlooks the street and at least if I’m stupid and walk in front of it naked, I have less of
a chance of flashing the entire world. That’s what I hope for, anyway, though I’ll clearly have to do
some street-level scout work to see for sure.
Footsteps herald the arrival of my best friend and roommate, and seconds later Juniper presses
her hands against the doorframe as she looks around. “This is really nice, huh?” she asks, her dark
gaze flicking from one piece of furniture to the other. “I don’t want to admit it, but maybe you’ve a
point about the ghosts and death.”
“And the grisly murders,” I remind her stoically. “All of which clearly happened in our
apartment.”
“Clearly,” she agrees quickly. “Anyway, I guess now we just unpack and wait for the undead to
seek their revenge?”
“It will be swift and mighty.” I fight not to yawn, and I cover my mouth with my hand as if she
doesn’t know from the sound of my voice what I’m doing. “Maybe we’ll get drowned, or possessed.
Maybe drowned and possessed.”
“You want pizza?” Juniper asks, breezing past my warnings of woe. “There was that place down
the street, kind of where the bus dropped you off.”
“God, ugh. Don’t say ‘bus.’” I shudder. “I’m striking it from my vocabulary until two weeks
before winter break on the exact day I need to schedule a ticket back home for Christmas.”
Juniper snorts. “Canadian bacon and pepperoni?”
“Pineapple?” I ask hopefully, going to sit on my bed with my laptop out. “Please, o great
apartment-finder. Hero of my life. Moon of my heart. Pineapple?”
“Drop dead,” my best friend replies oh-so-sweetly… and disappears from my doorway.
I snort and pull my legs up under me, glad I get the chance to sit down even though I know I need
to be unpacking. When I grab my laptop, my new tattoo, which still looks darker than it will in a few
more days, catches my eye.
It hadn’t hurt more than, say, the one just over my collarbone, but getting the back of my hand
tattooed hadn’t been the greatest experience of my life. Flowers litter the skin just behind my fingers,
draping along the sides of my hand as they work their way back to my elbow before stopping. Twined
between the blooms and only visible in a few places on my arm are the coils and shapes of snakes.
On my hand, a snake’s head is actually visible, and I flex my hand as I look at the design.
I hadn’t planned this part. Not that I’ve told anyone other than Juniper that, but I had thought I’d
just get more flowers to match the ones on my thigh. Even the tattoo on my left upper arm and
shoulder, which features a twisting fox with wide, sightless eyes and a mouthful of fangs, is buried in
a background of flowers.
But I’d never thought to get a snake. Still, it fits. I love the design, and I love the contrast of the
black to the flowers against my pale skin.
Absently, I open my laptop, hands going up to push my thick, blonde hair back from my face as it
boots up. I try not to scowl at my hair, because that’ll just give me something else to be pissed about,
but it really is wild that after just a few hours of not brushing it, my hair gets tangled like it’s been
days since I’ve touched it.
One of these days, I’m going to take it from waist length to chin length and never look back. Hell,
maybe I’ll even get a damn pixie cut if I’m feeling frisky enough.
My brain short circuits when I see my computer screen, and I realize that it’s a damn good thing I
hadn’t tried to use it on the trip today, since someone had forgotten to close out of all the eighteen plus
browsers she’d had up last night.
That someone is me, and I’m surprised the muted videos haven’t decided to spontaneously start
moaning at me.
Studiously I click out of them, pretending that I’m not scrutinizing every single one to see if I want
to throw it into my favorites. But they were just filler. Just things to watch while passing the time, and
most of them aren’t even my thing.
Even the camsite, which features less scripted porn and more people talking to their audiences
while they fuck or get off, doesn’t appeal to me that much. Though, according to Juniper, that’s
because I’ve never found someone to connect to.
Before I click out of it, I hesitate, refreshing the screen instead as I glance up at the door. I’m
certainly not about to watch porn in the middle of the day with my door open but… I scroll through
the thumbnails until one of a guy in a white, almost handmade looking mask with a drawn-on smile
catches my attention. He tilts his head to the side, like he’s amused or questioning, and I click on the
thumbnail while turning my volume up just enough that I’ll be able to hear him but I won’t be blasting
out my roommate’s ears with his sexy sounds.
Besides, I’m not about to watch this, anyway. Cam shows aren’t normally my thing, and while he
looks attractive from what I can see, I doubt I’ll like watching him.
Whatever he’s saying, he breaks it off when my username comes up in the chat, and he leans
forward just enough to read it, his cock gripped lightly in his fingers and drawing my attention as it,
too, gets bigger on my screen.
Okay, so, judging from his appearance outside of the crudely made mask… he’s definitely my
type.
“You’re a little late, finalistgirl,” he greets me with a low chuckle, reading my username out loud.
“I’ve just finished up.”
Damn. But, I remind myself, this is probably better. I’m not going to watch porn right now. I need
to unpack and go get the pizza if Juniper doesn’t want to do it herself. Sighing, I go to close my
laptop, only for his voice to pull my attention back to the screen.
“Aren’t you going to say sorry?” His tone is goading, and more than a little flirty. “You missed
what I worked so hard for… and now I’m missing the joy of your company.”
Is he talking to… me?
“I’m talking to you, finalistgirl. I know you’re still here with us.” Messages of support start
popping up in the chat, and I freeze, not knowing what to do. This isn’t what I expected, and no
camboy has ever said anything to me before this.
“Tell me you’re sorry, and maybe I’ll let you leave.” His sultry purr of a voice sends shivers up
my spine so I do what any reasonable, rational citizen would do.
I close out of his stream… and slam my laptop shut. My cheeks burn with embarrassment and I
force my thighs to unclench, eyes wide as I stare into my empty closet.
Forget my apartment being haunted. Now I’m going to have to relive this moment every day for
the rest of my life and wonder what would have happened if I had typed out the words I’m sorry like
my fingers had itched to do and hit send.
 Chapter 2

I
let out a sigh as I walk down the outdoor hallway that connects the campus center to the liberal
arts building, absently chewing my lower lip. By now I’ve been doing it so long that my mouth is
sensitive and my bottom lip feels like it might be starting to swell, just a little. Almost forcibly, I
remove my teeth from it and run my tongue along my lips, thinking to myself as I walk.
I was supposed to have photography with Juniper. That had been the plan when my roommate and
best friend had coerced me into taking the class with her, but now that she’s dropped out because of a
last second conflict in her schedule, I’m the only one here.
And from what I know about our professor, who’s a famous photographer in his own right and
sometimes works with the local news, I really could’ve used her help here. He’s supposed to be an
absolute hardass; a jerk, with no consideration for things that happen outside of his class. I’ve heard
it’s impossible to do well, unless you spend your entire life working toward his expectations, and
that’s not something I’m interested in doing.
I don’t want to be a photographer after all. I’m just here because I needed an elective and, when
Juniper would’ve been here too, it probably would’ve been fun. But with all the other art electives
full and me not wanting to overbook myself on credits next semester, this is my only choice.
Not that I’m afraid of a strict professor, but Professor Solomon, along with having an intimidating
name, has the reputation of being pretty unpleasant to deal with most of the time.
Silently, I walk into the classroom, noting that the desks are lined up like a ‘U’ instead of sitting in
lines. A soft breath of disdain leaves me, and I wish I could throttle Juniper. Or at least send her a
stern glare. This is yet another reason I didn’t want to be in here alone. I have two options, it seems to
me. Option one is that I take one of the corners of the U, and if I do that, then I’m as close as possible
to Professor Solomon’s desk or where he’ll probably stand to teach.
If I don’t, then I’m going to be trapped between two people I may not know. So far I haven’t heard
about any of the acquaintances I have in my arts major taking this class, and with a professor that has
a reputation like his, why would they?
So I hesitate, only to scoot to one side as two girls walk in and rush to the tip of the U closest to
the desk, like they’re dying to be as close as possible to our professor. Have they had him before? Or
maybe they’re really interested in what he has to teach?
All I know about him are the rumors I’ve heard.
After another moment of hesitation and three more students walking in to sit at different parts of
the U, I realize that class is about to start. Even though Professor Solomon hasn’t shown up yet, I
lunge forward and take the seat at the other tip of the U, closest to the door. It’s not because I want to
sit near him, or that I want to escape.
Well, okay, it might be that one.
But because I don’t want him to come in and see me just hovering. He might think I need help. Or
that I’m an idiot. I’d at least like to get a jumpstart on the semester before having one of my professors
hate me.
Laughter from the hallway catches my attention and I turn slightly, not enough to see the door, and
certainly not enough to see the person breeze in who dumps his things on the table beside me. I flinch,
surprised, and look up into the friendly face of a guy who might be a few years older than me. Not that
I’m surprised by that, exactly. Wickett offers multiple masters programs, and sometimes those students
audit lower level classes, according to Juniper. Her brother had done that when a class had come
around he was interested in.
That, or I’m just really bad at guessing ages.
The guy smiles broadly, sitting down hard in his seat with a sigh while he does. “Want to trade
seats?” he asks, catching me off guard. “I don’t mind. He’s yelled at me before.”
“…What?” I ask, barely listening to the low buzz of conversation outside the door.
“Oh, too late I guess. Next time?”
I don’t get the chance to ask him to clarify or figure out what in the world is going on. The door
slams shut, and I clench my teeth so hard I’m surprised they don’t crack.
“Color me surprised,” a low, disappointed voice sighs, and I have the distinct feeling I’m being
glared at. “I thought you’d be the one looking for an escape, Oliver.”
Who the hell is Oliver?
I don’t turn around. I don’t want to look afraid, or like I’ve done something wrong. But
embarrassment rises in my chest as I look down at the smooth fake wood of the table under me and let
out a long, low breath.
I hate this class already.
“She was just trying to be nice to me,” the guy beside me chuckles. “She heard about how rude
you are to me every semester and thought that I deserve a break.”
“Oh yeah?” My professor prowls around the side of the tables, not even looking at me. Finally, I
have a chance to scrutinize him, my heart still pounding from his words.
He’s younger than I thought he’d be. His hair is brown, though its shade is somewhere between
my light, almost blonde hair and Oliver’s dark auburn beside me. He’s tall, probably six feet, though
to my five-foot-five, a lot of people are considered tall.
Unlike some of my more formal professors, he’s dressed in snug jeans, a long-sleeve shirt, and
dress shoes. Frankly, he looks like he’s just stepped out of some magazine. Especially when he leans
against his desk, rolls up his sleeves, and takes off his sunglasses so he can look all of us over. All in
all, the class numbers maybe thirteen, and I endeavor to make that twelve by the end of the week.
I don’t need to be in a class where the professor is a dick just because I sat near the door.
My nails tap lightly on the table in front of me, and somehow that draws Professor Solomon’s
attention again, making me still. His eyes flick down to my hand, then immediately to the female
student nearest him, who can’t help but hide her smile at his nearness.
How could anyone have a crush on him?
“As this is an elective, I’m assuming most of you are just using it to fill that requirement,” he
sighs, like this job is beneath him. Hell, maybe it is. In that case, I wish he would’ve found someone
else to teach it. “But I’m going to pretend you’re all enthusiastic photographers and you’re aiming to
shoot for either journals, the news, or fashion. If that’s not the case, I don’t really need to know. In
fact, for this semester, pretend it is the case. Who knows?” He lifts a brow. “Maybe I’ll convert some
of you and see you next semester as well.”
Count me out.
Beside me, Oliver’s leg brushes against my thigh, causing me to flinch, and I fight the urge to do
anything but stay still. I don’t want to look at him, or see him, or do anything. In fact, it is absolutely
my goal to make this professor forget I’m here so that, at the end of class, I can slip out of here and
run straight to my dorm so I can unenroll from this class immediately.
It shouldn’t be hard, really. It’s not like he knows me and I’m not a photography major who’s
taking this class for more than side-credit. Not to mention that while he talks, I find myself only half-
paying attention. Unlike my other classes, he actually reads through the syllabus, ignoring the looks
shot towards the door by the other students who clearly thought that we’d get to leave early.

“AND THAT ’ S ALL. You’re free from my clutches and if you’re upset that I didn’t end class early after
handing out syllabi like other professors…” He shrugs. “You know where the unenroll button is just
as well as I do. Don’t hesitate to use it.”
He looks pointedly at two guys sitting near the back of the room, who had seemed particularly
disgruntled at having to stay the whole hour today. They avoid his look, pretending that he’s not
clearly talking to them as they shuffle to their feet and head for the door fast.
The two girls get up as well, though they crowd at Professor Solomon’s desk, leaning over it to
speak in low whispers to him. I can’t help but frown. Can’t they pick a better professor to swoon
over? At least someone who isn’t so, well, mean?
Though degradation is certainly a kink, and maybe these two are into it. Who am I to yuck on their
yum?
“Sorry,” Oliver says again, arm sliding against mine as he gets his stuff together. He’s sitting
closer than I feel like he needs to, and my stomach twists every time I get a hint of his spicy-sweet
cologne in my nose. It’s not unpleasant, that’s for sure, but I don’t know anything about him, and I’m
on the opposite side of the spectrum from extroverted.
“For what?” I murmur, hurrying to get my shit packed up. I should’ve tried doing it sooner, but
when someone else had, once it was close to class ending, our professor had made an unfriendly
comment that had frozen the other student in their tracks and caused everyone to sit perfectly still for
the rest of the time.
Well, except Oliver. He, on the other hand, seems like someone who never stops moving, never
stops fidgeting. Even when Professor Solomon had glared at him for clearing his throat or making
some kind of noise, Oliver had just fucking beamed.
“I try to take that seat since I know how he gets about it. Obviously you aren’t trying to escape or
anything, but he’s just…”
A dick, I want to say. A jerk, an asshole.
Not my problem for much longer, either.
“But give it a chance, okay?” It’s as if the older boy can read my mind, and I turn to look at him in
surprise.
“What?”
“Give. It. A. Chance. He’s…” Oliver glances at Professor Solomon, who’s currently looking like
the two girls trying to flirt with him are causing him to be in physical pain. Good for them. “Okay,
yeah. He’s an ass. I’ve audited this class three times, so I get that. But he’s a really excellent teacher.
Like, insanely good. You might end up finding you’re into photography.”
Doubt it.
“I didn’t catch your name, by the way. I’m Oliver Greer.” He doesn’t stick out a hand, but he does
follow as I get to my feet, like he’s prepared to bar me from my grand escape.
“Blair Love,” I say after a second’s hesitation. “I, umm. My friend was supposed to take this class
with me,” I explain, as if he’d asked. Students filter out around us, but I barely notice as Oliver grins
sympathetically.
“Do you think she quit because of him?” He tilts his head towards the other side of the room.
“No. I don’t think so. There was a scheduling problem with one of her science classes. Anyway,
she can’t fit this in her schedule now, and I…” I let out a sigh, holding my iPad tighter in the crook of
my arm. “I really need the elective, since I’m hoping to take it easy next semester before I graduate.”
“Then I guess you’ll just have to grin and bear it, and wallow about with us photography peasants,
won’t you?” The voice behind me makes me close my eyes hard, my teeth clenching so much that the
muscles in my jaw ache.
Oliver turns, still smiling, and doesn’t appear perturbed to see our professor leaning against the
wall behind me. I look as well, wishing I could do something to stop him from glaring at me like this.
What did I even do to irritate him? Is he really so upset that I sat in front of the door?
“I’m… sorry about sitting in front of the door,” I apologize. “I didn’t know that… umm.” I tuck my
hair behind my ear, heart in my throat trying to choke me. If this were Juniper, I’d make stupid jokes
about escape and running for the ocean, but it’s not.
Instead, it’s a professor that already makes me uncomfortable and a student who radiates
friendliness so strongly I’m afraid I’ll burn from it like a vampire doused in holy water.
"She didn’t know you had such a weird thing about it, or she would’ve run out of class
beforehand instead of sitting here while you called her out,” Oliver supplies, smiling sweetly with
glittering brown eyes like he thinks he’s helping me.
Immediately my gaze goes back to our professor, my lips parted as I look at him. There’s no
humor at all in his green eyes that are fixed on Oliver, and before I can say a word, he turns to look at
me instead. “You’re an art history student,” he states, not phrasing it like a question. When I make a
noise of surprise, he adds, “It’s on my class paperwork, in case you think I’d bother to research my
students before the semester started.”
“I’m an art history major with minors in Roman Studies and Folklore,” I force myself to correct.
He is not going to leave out all the work I do to make those one cohesive thing, even if I have to drag
the words out of my throat when he looks at me like I’m a speck of dirt.
Well, at least his eyes are pretty.
“All right,” he shrugs. “I was only saying it because Professor Carmine speaks highly of you…
and she never speaks highly of any student. I was curious about who you were when I saw your name
on my roster, and…” He looks at Oliver, then back at me, and my heart skips a beat. “You’re not
really what I was expecting.”
Yeah, that feels like an insult.
“But at least you have good taste in seating partners. He’s good at this. Though, I guess he should
be, given the training he’s had with me.” Oliver grins at the compliment, but doesn’t say anything
before our professor goes on. “If you want to be good at this, too, you should listen to him.
Sometimes.” He goes toward the door and halts without looking back. “Unless you’re going to
unenroll and I never see you again,” Professor Solomon remarks offhandedly, before breezing through
the doorway and into the hall beyond.
I stand there, confused as hell, as I listen to him go.
“You good?” Oliver asks, moving to stand in front of me again. “He can be a lot. I get it.”
“I think I’m… uh, insulted? Offended? Maybe I’m flattered.” I blink a few times, trying to sort
through his words. “I don’t know yet.”
“Ah, yeah, he’s good at that. Something to look forward to if you don’t drop the class, huh?”
Oliver chuckles. “Anyway, I’ll see you on Monday, I hope?” I realize that this class is a terrible way
to start and finish the week, and frown. “Have a good weekend, Blair.”
“You too,” I say, when he’s already halfway out the door. I almost add that he won’t see me on
Monday, because I’m about to go home and get out of this damn hellhole of a class that I don’t have to
put myself through.
I’m not a masochist, after all.
 Chapter 3

I
t’s only a little after four when I get back to the apartment, and I pause in the foyer, listening for
sounds of life within. Though, since Juniper has class until seven tonight, if I hear something, then
it’s probably a ghost.
We’re in St. Augustine, though, I should probably just take that as par for the course. Is property
value raised by the presence of the dead? Since it feels like that’s the whole point of tourists coming
here?
Letting out a soft sigh, I go to my room and thump my backpack down on my desk. It’s absolutely
time to get out of photography. I can’t deal with that attitude all semester, even if he is nice to look at
and Oliver, while also gorgeous, is actually nice. If Professor Solomon was a little less bad, I’d think
it would be worth staying.
But he isn’t, and it’s not.
Before going to my bed, I close my door on a whim, laptop in my hands so I can lay it on my
comforter. I hesitate, and decide that it’s not going to kill me to change out of my school clothes first.
They’re uncomfortable. Especially since, for the first time in my life, I’m trying to dress like a real
person instead of a zombie that crawls out of bed, hits class, and crawls right back into bed, thanks to
my friends asking me if I’m doing my best, continuous audition of a modern Sleeping Beauty.
Shimmying out of my snug black jeans and red tee, I kick off my shoes as well and go to my bed,
pulling on a pair of comfy, ripped sweatpants that are at least two sizes too big. On the left leg of the
black fabric, WICKETT is spelled out in big, blocky letters, while the other leg is just black. Once
my bra is off, I drag on a much looser t-shirt, this one purple and black tie-dye. It’s not like I’m going
anywhere else tonight, unless it’s to get takeout, so I’m safe to be comfortable. On the off chance that
Juniper wants to go somewhere, I’ll put jeans back on and complain about it for a while.
When I bring up my browser, I immediately go to my saved links, finding the one that will log me
into my student portal for classes. I click through the info, get to my page, and immediately find what
I’m looking for.
My schedule loads instantly, popping up before my eyes. It’s not bad, as far as semesters go. My
sophomore year was worse when I added Roman Studies as a minor. Back then, I’d had to take
eighteen credits in one semester, and I’d definitely prefer not to do it again. Though, if I drop
Photography, then next semester isn’t looking so great.
God, I don’t want to do eighteen credits again. Especially during my last semester as a college
student. Already I’m working on my senior project, or at least planning it out. My idea has been to
incorporate folklore and art history together to do a report on it, and some dumb little part of me had
thought about applying some photography to it as well when I’d signed up for the class. After all, I
have a camera now, thanks to enrolling and getting a student deal on a nice one.
It seemed like a great idea at the time.
So great, in fact, that I’m having trouble dropping out of the class now. It would be a waste. A
total waste of money, credits, and effort. There really aren’t any other electives open that will fill the
gap, and I’ve already bought the damn camera.
Could it really be so bad to just stick around? Professor Solomon will take up two hours of my
week, sometimes three, when we have a project to turn in and work in the darkroom. But it’s not like
he can do anything other than look disapprovingly at me and be shitty.
He isn’t some kind of real life monster, after all. Just an unhappy, dismissive college professor. I
can handle that. Instead of taking myself out of the class, I sigh and close out of the browser, leaning
back against the head of my bed. There’s no homework for me to do, and it’s becoming more and
more apparent that I’d really like a nap. It’s quiet, and nice, and the view into the city of St. Augustine
from my window gives me something to look at other than my phone screen.
Absently, I return to my favorites menu on my laptop’s browser, pausing when I see what I’d
added last night.
The camsite. It’s never made it to my favorites before. It probably doesn’t deserve to be here
now. But the guy from last night gave me weird, questionable dreams that weren’t completely bad…
and he was hot.
Plus, the way he’d talked to me? I haven’t been flustered by porn in a long time, and I hadn’t
thought I would be now.
Curiously, I click on the link to the site, funxcams, and end up firmly on the home page. Damn. I
realize now that my mistake from yesterday is going to haunt me today.
I never found that guy’s name. With hundreds of people streaming at once, the best I can do is
click on the menu for guys that are live now and scroll through it, hopefully landing on him. At one
point I do end up checking my history, but when I click on the link from yesterday that isn’t just the
base site, it takes me nowhere.
Damn it.
I blink, scrolling to the second page, and then pause.
Did I just see…? Curiously, hopefully, I scroll back up, just in time to see a shirtless, masked guy
sit down in a fancy office chair. Still wearing jeans, he sprawls back in the thumbnail, lifting his hand
idly like he’s talking to his viewers.
Yeah, it’s definitely him.
Will he notice if I join? The viewer count is going up by the second, so I know he must be
popular, and surely he has to have more important people to talk to than me. Better tippers, too, since
I haven’t given him real views or real money.
Refusing to overthink it, I click on the thumbnail, watching as his specific stream opens up in my
browser. Now I can see that there’s a tip list in the top corner, listing the top tippers for the show and
the top tipper of all time.
Both first place spots are held by the same person with the username framed_failures. Feels
weird, but who am I to judge? My username, made on a whim as I was watching Scream, is
finalistgirl.
“Oh hey, look who’s back.” That purr is unmistakable and I freeze, figuring he can’t be talking
about me. “It’s my friend from yesterday, finalistgirl. Say hi to our shy new friend, everyone.”
 Fuck. His viewers are literally telling me hi in the chat like this is some kind of roundtable
discussion and not a stream of this guy getting off and talking dirty. Absently I check his name as well,
noting that it’s letsplayjay. Is that his name? Jay? I also notice that, despite getting over twenty people
to tell me hello, none of the welcome messages are from framed_failures, even though he surely has
to be here if he’s already tipped.
“Don’t be rude, finalist. This is where you say hello.” A shiver goes down my spine as his
viewers agree, and again I consider slamming my laptop shut and never getting on here again.
But what can he really do? He’s being fun and interactive. There’s no crime in that, and since it
has me flustered, clearly it’s working. I bet he does it to a lot of new people, and it drags them in to
be his lifelong fans.
I wish I could do that, I think distantly, typing hi into the chat and smacking the enter key to send
it.
“There she is!” he chuckles when he sees it. “That’s a good girl.” Yeah, that does things to me that
normal porn doesn’t, and I press my thighs together as a shiver runs up my spine. After a few seconds,
I tune back in, half-listening as he explains his tipping system and that anyone in the top three can
request what they want or ask him anything. Except to show his face, of course.
I can’t help but think that’s an ingenious idea. Clearly no one here cares that they can only see his
body, though I do see a few messages begging him to take it off. But he only plays with the idea,
fingers skimming along the outside of his mask teasingly before dropping them to his upper body
again.
And yet, his top tipper never says a word. Finally, someone does tip a significant amount, and my
eyes widen when I see the person casually drop over a hundred dollars to letsplayjay so that he’ll
show the stream his cock.
“So soon? But we were having such a good chat.” The streamer is flirty when he says it, though
his deft fingers are already working at the button of his jeans. I watch, caught up by the movement, and
notice belatedly that he has tattoos winding up his sides, though I can only see the hint of wings and
maybe feathers from what has to be a giant back piece. “Now I’m scared you think my conversation is
boring.” He lifts his hips just enough to shimmy his jeans downward, revealing his cock slowly
enough that people in his chat moan in anticipation until finally he closes one hand around it and
moves it up and down slowly, clearly for his audience.
Even I’m into it, and it’s definitely not my usual type of thing. The same person tips him again,
begging him to use his other hand, and because of that, slides into first place on the tip chart.
Only to be immediately replaced with framed_failures in less than a millisecond. Meaning that
his top fan is watching, he or she just isn’t talking. They have to be paying attention to notice that and
correct it. So why not make requests like everyone else is?
Off-handedly, I hit the tip button as well, feeling like he probably deserves it for being the one
camboy in history to keep my attention. It’s not much, not enough to compete with any of his top
tippers, but still. At least it’s something, right?
“Looks like I’ve converted you already, haven’t I, finalistgirl?” He chuckles, though it sounds
like more of a purr than anything else. I feel myself shiver once more and hold my breath as I wait.
Will he say something else to me? I haven’t tipped enough to get a request. Even if I did, I don’t know
what I’d ask for, honestly. I’m new to stuff like this, and not really the type to take charge in the
bedroom. Or in the stream.
“Tell you what. Since it’s your first time and you came back even though I teased you, why don’t
you tell me what you want to see?” the masked camboy urges. “As long as you don’t tell me to take
off my mask, I’ll do it for you.”
God, he already does it for me, truthfully.
Messages blow up the chat, telling me what I should ask for, or begging for letsplayjay to notice
them too. Some people argue they tipped more, but I notice there’s still no message from
framed_failures.
Hesitantly, I lift my hands to the keys, typing out a message and hitting send before I can stop
myself.
Can I see your tattoos?
He reads it quickly, head tilting to the side behind his mask like he’s considering it. I cringe,
wondering if that’s not allowed, or maybe in the rules he went over before I started really listening.
But then he chuckles and nods his head, getting up enough so that he can turn around, his knees in
the chair, and leans forward for his audience to see not only his back, but most of his ass as well.
It is a very nice ass, though I can’t stop my eyes from being drawn to the tattoo that spans most of
his back. It’s gorgeous, with crows flying in and out of flowers, some of them more hidden than
others. The more I look, the more I see, and when I finally glance back at the chat, I notice a message
that is almost gone in the stream of requests.
Nice choice, finalistgirl. The sender is framed_failures, and I feel like I’ve had some kind of
honor bestowed upon me, since he hasn’t said a word to anyone else.
Once more I reach out, typing a quick thank you into the chat to be polite.
I don’t expect letsplayjay to pause as he’s reading. His hand curls around his length again and for
a few moments he doesn’t say a word. Then he sits back, gives a soft, rolling chuckle and continues
on, talking to his other viewers instead of me as they tip him or engage with him.
His stream goes on for longer than I expect it to, and even though it’s definitely interesting and fun
to watch him tease and flirt, I tear my gaze away from his perfect body and shut my laptop. I had a
plan for this afternoon, and I do still intend to take a nap before Juniper gets home so that I’m rested
and ready for whatever she wants to do for dinner and after.
Not that I think there’s going to be much of an ‘after’ in terms of going out. Juniper doesn’t love
parties and neither do I. Therefore, it’s normally at least a few weeks into the semester before she
gets the itch to go and drags me to some questionable frat house.
But just in case, I want to sleep and definitely not dream of letsplayjay and the way he spoke to
me in his stream.

ONCE I’ M AWAKE AGAIN , the sun is starting to set. I check my phone, unsurprised to see I slept for over
an hour, and that Juniper is on her way back as of five minutes ago. That gives me time to actually
wake up and check to make sure no teachers have left any announcements or assignments on the
school’s website.
Not that I think they have, but after nearly failing a class because of assumptions like that a few
semesters ago, I don’t take anything for granted.
I pull my laptop off of the nightstand and into my lap once more, combing my fingers through my
long, tangled hair. Naturally I’d forgotten to close out of letsplayjay’s stream, and I frown at the ended
stream as I go to close it.
Or I would, if there wasn’t a message blinking in my inbox. I’m not dumb, I know these sites send
messages urging people to buy tokens for tipping or a subscription to premium streams. This one is
probably offering some kind of special or sale, but if I don’t delete it now, it’ll bother me.
 Except, it isn’t what I think it’s going to be.
The message is from letsplayjay and doesn’t look like one of the ‘official’ ones showing their
links and stream options. It looks like a real message, though the subject is just :] and nothing else. I
click it anyway, and am even more shocked to see I was right. It isn’t an automated subscription
message at all.
Thanks for coming back. I hope you had a good time, finalistgirl. I stream mondays and fridays
from 5 to 6 and sometimes on Saturday. Maybe I’ll see you around? I think I can make it worth
your while.
I snort and finally close the browser with a shake of my head. If he hadn’t locked in my interest
before, this has definitely done it. And while it’s not my normal go-to, I can absolutely see myself
making an exception just this once, for just this camboy.
Though, I can’t help but wonder what it’s like to be on the other side of the stream, talking to
viewers, not showing your face, and getting paid to do it.
Could I do it? Or would I crash and burn like the world’s saddest tree falling miserably down a
cliff into lava?
 Chapter 4

“I hate you,” I tell Juniper lightly, no real enthusiasm in my tone as I mop up sour cream with my
cheese quesadilla. While I’m not exactly vegetarian, meat has a habit of upsetting my stomach.
Especially when I don’t cook it myself. Besides, it’s not like I mind eating what’s basically cheese,
spices, and bread dipped in dairy. Quite the opposite, in fact, as dairy is my favorite of the food
groups.
“Do you?” Her finger runs down the lines of her syllabus as she reads. “Tell me all about it while
I give you all of my attention.” She doesn’t look up, or stop reading, and it’s clear I won’t be getting
even half of her attention, truth be told. Not that I need it for slightly insulting her.
I snort anyway, like she’s hurt my feelings. “You quit photography, and now I’m stuck there. I need
the credits, and I’ve already bought the camera.”
“So?” She looks up at me, brows raised. “What’s the big deal? You wanted to take it anyway, last
time I checked. And Professor Solomon is drop dead gorgeous.”
“And awful,” I amend vehemently. “He’s awful. Incredibly mean. Talks shit about students while
they’re in class. I have never had a worse professor, and after freshman year, Mr. Porter, and earth
and space science, that’s really saying something.”
“It is,” Juniper agrees, nodding at me. “I didn’t think anything would ever top Porter for you.
Especially when that Christian student locked eyes with you and, what was it?” There’s a smile
growing on her lips as she pretends to forget what happened.
But she hasn’t. Not only was she there, she’s never let me live it down.
My mouth opens, but before I can speak, I hear my name and a person slides onto the bench beside
me, grinning. “Hey,” Oliver Greer greets, resting his face on his chin. “So, uh, it’s not four o’clock
yet.” He throws a quick look at Juniper, who’s looking at him like she’s never seen something so
offensive before. “I’m Oliver.”
“I wasn’t asking,” she assures him. “Besides, I know who you are. You tutor on Thursday and I do
too. You’re a… criminal justice student, right? You’re about halfway through your masters?”
Well, I was off in my calculations. I’d pegged him at twenty-three or twenty-four, but if he’s
halfway through, there’s a chance he’s closer to twenty-six, depending on whether he took a year off
in between.
“Oh, right!” Oliver sits back, palms on the table. “I remember seeing you.” I glance at him,
surprised to see that his incredibly friendly grin is… different somehow. When he looks at Juniper, I
don’t feel as much of the friendliness or the helpful attitude.
 It feels almost fake.
But it’s also none of my business and I have a quarter of a quesadilla left, so I just watch them
instead of butt into their conversation.
“Are you guys in a class together?” Juniper asks, focused on him instead of me. I’m glad for it. I
get nervous around strangers, and Oliver’s attitude is enough to throw me off my pathetic game, even
with his seemingly easy-going nature.
“We’re in Basics of Photography together,” Oliver nods. “Look, I was just…” He frowns, tapping
his fingers on the table, and I bite my lip as he turns to look at me. “You didn’t quit, did you? Like I
said, I know Rook is awful, but—”
“Rook?” I ask, confused. Who the hell is Rook?
“Professor Solomon, sorry. Anyway, I know he’s awful to be around, and a jerk. But he is a good
professor, and most of the shit we do in here is independent work. He won’t be breathing down your
neck for long. Though, I guess it’s probably too late, if you have decided to opt out, for me to
convince you otherwise.”
“I didn’t, actually.” Unsure why I feel almost excited about telling him. “I didn’t quit, I mean.
You’re umm, still stuck with me, sorry to say.” I match his voracious smile with a nervous one of my
own, watching as he rakes a hand through his soft-looking auburn hair. I realize now that it’s always
tousled, as if he’s constantly running his hands through it, and that it’s a stark contrast to his pale skin
that’s only a few shades darker than mine.
Which is definitely saying something, since I could use white paint as foundation and get away
with it from a distance.
Oliver opens his mouth to say something then stops, suddenly looking almost sheepish. His eyes
narrow, fingers tapping on the table again, and the change is so sudden that it takes me a second to
realize that he’s no longer thrilled to be here.
“Uh oh,” he mutters, in a much softer, darker voice. “Guess my fun’s over.” He gives me one more
quick, effortless smile. “But I’m glad to hear you’re not leaving class—”
“Mr. Greer.” The unhappy, snappish voice behind me can only be one person, and I nearly choke
on my quesadilla as I realize it’s Professor Solomon.
Shit. Shit. There should be a rule that he can only terrorize my classroom hours, not my quesadilla
eating time.
Not to mention he sounds angry, and I’m scared my name is next and he’s going to call me out for
eating cheese and bread or for how much sour cream I’m using. Sure, it sounds stupid when I think
about it, but why the hell is my photography professor here to yell at Oliver outside of class?
Even Juniper looks confused, and stares unabashedly over my head where I know Professor
Solomon is standing. She looks at me, eyes narrowed, then back up as he starts talking again.
“I need you to come to my office before class.” His voice is tight and irritation bubbles through
the words. “Now, Greer. Before class.”
Oliver raises his hands in surrender, eyes widening. “Yessir,” he agrees, getting to his feet.
“Sorry. I…” He frowns, looking at me as I bite my lip. “I was just checking to see if Blair was still in
your class.”
I close my eyes hard and fight not to let out a sigh. That’s totally what I need my professor to hear.
That I was thinking of unenrolling.
But thankfully, Professor Solomon doesn’t seem to care. He hisses out a breath and Oliver
stretches lazily, as if to show he doesn’t take orders.
I watch, captivated by his bravery, and see the tiny flash of skin under his t-shirt that feels more
like a tease than anything else.
“Yeah, that was weird,” Juniper admits, once the two of them have left the courtyard. She shakes
her head and looks down at her syllabus. “Now I’m glad I’m not in your class. That feels like way too
much to deal with.”
“I want out. I hate it there,” I inform her.
“So leave. Nothing bad is going to happen if you drop the class, except you’ll have to make it up
next semester.”
Instantly, I’m shaking my head. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t want to have to overload my credits
next semester, for one thing. And also? I want to learn some about photography so I can maybe
incorporate it into my senior project next semester. Besides, nothing bad’s going to happen if I stay.
Except that I might die of embarrassment. Or Professor Solomon might scream me to death.”

I’ M NOT EXPECTING Oliver’s absence in class.

Our professor, of course, doesn’t mention it. He seems almost distracted in some ways, though
still manages to snap at three students and glare at the rest of us. Then at the end, instead of sticking
around for the two girls near his desk to flirt with him, he just… leaves. Grabbing his stuff from his
desk, Professor Solomon breezes out the door without a look back, like he has somewhere incredibly
important to be.
Still bewildered by it, I make my way home, forgetting until I’m there that while this is one of my
early days, it’s Juniper’s longest. She planned it like this, I know, but I still don’t see how she does it.
I’d much rather get up early and be done with class early, so I have the evening to myself. But not her.
Juniper schedules all of her classes for afternoon or night, and Mondays are when she has class until
nine.
I mulled over photography all the way back to my apartment, and only part of that was about
Solomon’s weird behavior. I also can’t stop thinking about what he’d taught, and I pull my
photography textbook out of my backpack before sitting on my bed, legs crossed under me.
Admittedly, it isn’t long before I’ve tossed my textbook to the side and opened my laptop instead of
doing any of the reading I’d said I might.
It’s Monday after all. While he hadn’t streamed on Saturday, this is the day that letsplayjay will
be live again, hopefully. And it’s just now five, so I have a few minutes before he starts. Still, I
navigate to his page and wait, seeing the THIS STREAM IS OFFLINE text bright and clear on my
screen.
If he doesn’t stream, then he doesn’t. It won’t ruin my day at all. Especially now, while I’m
thumbing through the book I haven’t bothered to crack open yet. While it focuses on DSLR
photography, there are a few references to film and how certain things differ from digital.
Not that I’d trust myself shooting with actual, valuable film any time soon. I’m more than willing
to stick with the digital camera I’d bought for class, thank you.
My interest wanes quickly, however, and I move to my laptop, sighing. He’s still not live, and
maybe I’m obsessed if I’m going to just sit here and wait. Besides, having this stream up makes my
other curiosity itch a bit.
Is camwork hard to do?
It doesn’t seem like it. Sure, I’m betting there are a ton of nuances and skills that I could never
fathom. But I'm not thinking about it in terms of getting famous. I’m just considering that it would be
easier than getting another part-time job as a barista, or waitress. Wouldn’t it be better to do
something out of the comfort of my room? With Juniper’s long hours and the fact that I have no
neighbors above or to the side of my bedroom, I should be safe as long as I’m not screaming.
Plus, I don’t have to show my face. Letsplayjay doesn’t, and while it leads to thirsty simps in his
chat, no one actually complains about it. If anything, his viewers seem to enjoy the mask, and the
character he plays.
Why couldn’t I do that?
Because you have no people skills, my brain hopefully points out, but I chase that thought away.
Wouldn’t it be easier to do if I had a mask like him? Or at the very least found a way to not show my
face?
My eyes dip to my hands on the keyboard and I frown, recognizing the other problem with my
scenario. My tattoos are noticeable and unique. They’re easy to see, and it would be easy to identify
me off of them.
Though, how many people see my arms that much in class? Usually I’m wearing a light hoodie if I
can, or a longer shirt, and I could just start making an effort to do that. Besides that, how many people
from my school would ever actually click on a link that was of me?
I’m not vain enough to think I’m some godly catch. Sure, my tattoos are great. I love all of them,
even the slightly wonky flower on the inside of my right thigh. But I’m not thin enough, not blonde
enough, not well-endowed enough to be a standout.
Still, if I could just make some extra money by streaming a few times a week, that would be more
than worth it. Especially if I could make just a few hundred a week. Just enough to get by, and it’s not
like I’d need more than four hundred or so to be able to most likely put some back.
Would it really be so hard? My curious fingers itch to explore, and when it becomes clear that
letsplayjay isn’t streaming today, I let myself head over to the other, more feminine side of the
streaming site to see just what exactly I’d have to do if I really wanted to make this work.
 Chapter 5

I
s it coincidence that letsplayjay streams on my least favorite days of the week, just after my least
favorite class? It feels like a divine gift, if anything, and I’m thankful for it as I drag myself down
the hall of the arts building toward the lounge that’s just outside of Professor Solomon’s
classroom. Or at least, the classroom he uses for photography. There’s nothing permanent in it, though
I guess classes switch rooms every semester, and it looks like a generic arts room.
But what had I expected? Framed photographs on the walls? Medals? Awards or him standing
with celebrities he’s worked with? From what I understand, he’s not that kind of photographer,
anyway.
I’m early enough that the classroom door’s shut, and the lights are off, so I go past the room and to
the small lounge instead, staring at the vending machine to figure out if I want something to drink.
With how my stomach feels, I’m sort of craving a ginger ale. But Professor Solomon has strictly
outlawed food and drink from his class, so I’d either have to stuff the bottle into my backpack or chug
it on the spot.
It’s not worth it. I sigh internally, sinking down onto the sofa. I’m slightly hungry, but that can wait
too. This is my last class, and I’ll head home after this to the apartment that I’m really starting to love.
“Do you want something?” There’s no mistaking the overly friendly voice behind me and I turn,
spotting Oliver sitting on one of the couches with his face turned up to me.
When in the world did he get here?
“Oh… no,” I tell him, going to perch on the couch nearest him. Dressed in a v-neck tee and dark
jeans that hug his body perfectly, he’s fantastic at edging the line between cute and hot. It’s perfect, in
my opinion, and he’s the one good thing about photography class.
“Besides, I’d have to hide it in photography. And I don’t want to chug a ginger ale in three minutes
or throw it away, on penalty of death by glares,” I admit ruefully, a half-smile on my face. He makes
me nervous, like most humans do, but I’m starting to soften toward him and talk to him almost like I
talk to Juniper.
Almost. I’ve even mostly put Monday’s episode out of my mind, where he sat at my table in the
courtyard and acted so… strange.
“Oh, hey. Where were you Monday?” I ask, remembering. “You came to see me when I was
eating, but then you just didn’t show up here. Did something happen? You umm. Had to meet with
Professor Solomon, right? Did he, like, do something to you?”
Oliver, who’s taking a drink from his water bottle, chokes suddenly. It’s almost surreal, and I
watch in surprise and confusion as he chokes on water, nearly aspirating in front of me. “Are you
okay?” I demand, worried, my hands raised from my lap as if I’m going to do something like give him
mouth to mouth or Lassie-run out of here for help.
He nods, working on getting himself under control. His face is red, water bottle forgotten in one
hand, and finally he looks at me, eyes watering, with an incredulous look on his face. “I’m sorry,” he
laughs breathlessly. “I wasn’t expecting that. What do you think Rook did to me, exactly, Blair?”
“Why do you call him Rook? Isn’t his first name something with an A? Does he know you call him
that? Because honestly he doesn’t seem like someone who’s fond of nicknames.” I look behind me,
making sure he’s not in one of the offices at this end of the hall. I don’t want him overhearing anything
I say and taking it the wrong way.
“It’s…” Oliver trails off, frowning. “It’s his middle name,” he says finally. “And it feels
disrespectful to use it. So I do.”
“That seems dangerous.”
“Very.” He coughs again, clearing his throat, before he wipes his eyes on the back of his wrist.
“Anyway, no. He didn’t do anything to me. I wasn’t feeling well on Monday, and I knew what he was
going over in class. So I skipped. It’s not like I have to attend. I’m just auditing it for fun. I kind of
like to think of myself as his TA, actually.”
“Does… he think of you as his assistant?” I ask, skeptical about his take on it.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
“Yeah, I kind of figured.”
I glance at my phone and let out a breath through my nose. “I guess it’s time to suffer. Or, not suffer
for you. Since you’re in this class every damn semester.”
“What makes you think I’m not suffering too?” His eyes dance, a smile curling over his full lips as
he walks toward the photography room with me. The door’s open now, light on, and inside I see that
Professor Solomon is already there.
“Why would you come here if you didn’t like it?” I lower my voice as I ask, eyes on our
professor as we walk in.
Only for Oliver to chuckle and say, loud enough for him to hear easily, “Maybe I’m just a
masochist.”
Professor Solomon’s hand stills, pen going rigid as he looks up from the small notebook he’s
writing in. We’re the only ones here, out of the eleven students remaining, and he looks both of us
over with careful scrutiny.
Oliver still just fucking grins like we’re probably not going to fail the class for this, while I
wonder if an apology would help the situation.
But our professor just scoffs and looks back down, paying us less attention than if we were flies
on the wall or specks of dirt on the desk.
As I get comfortable beside Oliver and try not to bump into him, even though he sits so close
when I know he could move toward the empty table beside us, I freeze.
Oh no.
Oh, God.
I’ve forgotten my photography textbook. I know where it’s at with absolute clarity: on my desk,
where I’d been working through the first chapter like the professor instructed us to do. It’s right there,
with my neon tabs sticking out of the pages where I’d found information I wanted to mark for future
use.
And that means it’s not here. Where it should be.
 “Uh oh,” I whisper, mostly to myself as my stomach twists. In any other class, it wouldn’t be a big
deal, but this is certainly not any other class.
“What’s wrong?” Oliver’s quick to lean over, eyes scanning my backpack like he’s going to see
some kind of issue.
“I, umm.” Quickly, I glance up at Professor Solomon, who’s still writing in his notebook. “I don’t
have my photography book. Should I… leave?” Leaving seems like a better idea than sticking around
and waiting for him to notice.
“He’d notice if you walked out,” Oliver tells me. "No way you’d get away clean.”
My heart sinks in my chest, and I prepare myself for the berating and embarrassment I’m sure is
going to happen when class starts. My fingers tighten on my bag before I let it fall to the floor between
my knees, face in my hands. Fuck. This is exactly what I’d wanted to avoid, and here I am creating a
self-fulfilling prophecy of him being an asshole to me.
“He’s going to kill me,” I mutter against my palms. “I should’ve dropped this class last week.”
Lord knows if he rips me apart today, I absolutely won’t be able to show my face here ever again.
“Nah, he’s not.” Oliver pulls one of my hands down, voice gentle, and presses something large
against my fingers. “You’ll be fine, okay?” I open my eyes and look down, heart twisting in my chest
when I see what he’s pressed into my hand.
It’s his photography book. The soft cover feels worn, not smooth like mine, and the book is tabbed
and dog-eared. The spine is worn, with duct tape holding the bottom part of it together, and overall it
looks… very well loved.
Does Oliver really love photography this much? I still can’t fathom why he keeps showing up to
Professor Solomon’s classes, but I suppose it's something he truly enjoys.
“But he’s going to yell at you, isn’t he? And he’s going to know it’s not my book,” I point out,
placing it down on my side of the table.
“No, Blair,” Oliver chuckles. “Well, yeah. He’ll yell at me. But he isn’t going to know it isn’t
yours as long as you keep it open. You think he’s really that observant to be able to tell the difference
between our textbooks?”
It might be my imagination, but his voice rises as he says it, tone almost… goading? Like he wants
our professor to hear. Nervously I glance up, but if he did, he isn’t acting like it.
“And then I’ll share with you, with the book in front of you like this…” He slides it more directly
under my nose and scoots his chair even closer, which I wouldn’t have thought possible, before
draping an arm over the back of my seat and leaning in so he can look at it too.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. My heart stutters in my chest, and when I look up at him, I realize
I’m close enough that I can almost feel his breath on my cheek.
Oliver blinks and looks down at me, grin turning big and goofy. Right. I remind myself that this is
just him. Just… Oliver. He’s too friendly, too physically affectionate, even though we barely know
each other.
Too intense for someone like me, who worries over personal space and tone of voice. It feels like
I’m a mess when he’s around me like this, even though it’s clear to me that he’s just doing it because
he really is this nice and maybe a little unobservant of my personal comfort levels.
“Oliver.” I hadn’t realized our professor had gotten to his feet, and I jump at the tone of his voice,
and the closeness of it. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, well, I forgot my textbook,” Oliver lies, beaming up at our professor as he looks at us. “So
I’m sharing with Blair. She told me I could, actually.”
Professor Solomon’s gaze slides to mine, the epitome of unfriendly, and I smile nervously. He
stares at me, lips pressed to a thin line like he wants to say something, then looks at Oliver again.
“You don’t need your books today, so you can sit up, Greer,” he warns quietly.
Oliver does, looking almost like a kicked puppy.
“And you can give him his book back, Love,” Professor Solomon adds, taking a breath and
launching into his discussion topic of the day: digital vs. film and how we might use each.
Sufficiently embarrassed and more than a little surprised, I slide Oliver’s book back over to him
and focus on the lesson, trying to fight the urge to curl up into a ball and pretend I’m not here.
When Professor Solomon’s lesson ends, I’m surprised. Glancing at the clock, I see that it’s time to
go, and I feel almost… disappointed, in a way. He’s a good professor, and he makes the material
interesting. Even the details that I hadn’t thought of, such as going into the details of DSLR
photography, are more interesting than they have a right to be when he talks about them.
Sitting back, I push up the sleeves of my light-weight hoodie until they’re at my elbows. I watch
as Professor Solomon goes back to his desk, shoving his supplies into his fancy leather bag like he
wants to be out of here just as much as the rest of the class.
I’m so focused on him that when Oliver nudges me, I jump, eyes flicking to his. “What?” I ask,
unthinking, as I look at him, only to see a peculiar look fading from his face.
I don’t recognize it at all. Just that it’s not as friendly or enthusiastic as he normally is. But as I
watch, it’s replaced with his usual, overly friendly grin and he gets to his feet to stretch, my nose at
the line of his jeans as I silently beg for his shirt to ride up as it had on Monday.
It does. His skin is pale here as well, though still not at the level of my own Tb-ridden-child
complexion. I look away before he can catch me, shoveling my notebook into my backpack and getting
to my feet as well, so I can sling it onto my back. At least now I get to go home, check to see if
letsplayjay is streaming today, and maybe take a nap.
I do love my naps, after all.
“Blair.” Professor Solomon loudly sighs my name and I look up at him, perplexed and maybe a
little bit terrified. As I watch, he crooks his fingers at me, dropping them a second later as his eyes go
back to his phone that’s in his hand. The last few students, the two girls who clearly want in his pants,
go out the door, whispering something I don’t bother trying to catch.
Can I make it out the door too? Could I run and pretend I didn’t hear him say my name?
“Blair.” His voice is firm, stern and sends a chill down my spine as he looks up and sees I’m not
at his desk. “Come here.” God, I’m not a dog and I’d love to tell him that. But instead, I walk toward
him slowly, dragging my feet like they’re connected to heavy chains.
Professor Solomon looks over my shoulder, eyes narrowing. “Last time I checked, your name isn’t
Blair,” he tells Oliver lightly, though there’s not an ounce of friendliness in the words. “And this is a
private conversation.”
“Is… it?” I ask, looking back at Oliver. “Did I do something wrong?” I’d prefer him here as well,
just for moral support, but our professor just shakes his head.
“No. Out, Greer.” He points at the door and Oliver raises his hands in surrender, smiling
apologetic as he makes his way to the open door. “And close it behind you,” Professor Solomon adds.
Oliver hesitates, and as I watch, he turns to look at our professor with something like disdain, and
disappointment on his face. But when he just gets a look in return, Oliver rolls his eyes and closes the
door hard, almost a slam, behind him.
In the silence, I can clearly hear Professor Solomon’s sigh. This close, I can also smell his
cologne, that’s a mix of citrus, sandalwood, and maybe cedar. Though, the sandalwood is more of an
undertone and I wouldn’t know if my mom hadn’t loved to use it in her incense burner.
 “So…” It’s awkward to just stand here while he’s on his phone, but he sure seems intent on
making me do it. “Is there—” He holds a finger up at my words, and I go quiet.
“One moment, Love,” he says, and for half a second, it’s almost as if he’s using my last name as a
pet name, instead of just my surname.
God, it’s so easy to see why so many students are in love with him. If only his personality wasn’t
as appealing as a trash can full of broken, dirty razors in the middle of an interstate.
“All right.” He shoves his phone in his pocket and straightens, meeting my gaze. “Is Oliver
bothering you?” he asks, throwing me off guard.
“What?” I blink, unsure of what to say. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve seen how he acts. I know he can be a lot. Is he bothering you, or upsetting you in any way?”
He watches me carefully while he speaks, and it only serves to make me even more nervous.
I shake my head, and he frowns. Had he wanted the answer to be something different?
“No, umm. I like him.” I shrug. “Well, from what I know of him, anyway? Oliver’s really nice.
He’s a lot, and I’m not exactly used to that.” I’m not about to do a deep dive of my personality and
past to this professor. “But he’s not being too intense, or whatever you’re asking me. He’s really,
really nice. I’d tell him if I wanted him to leave me alone.”
“If you say so,” he says at last, looking away once more. “That’s all, Love. You can go now.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, not sure what I’m even grateful for as I head for the door.
“What did you say?” The demand of his voice draws me up short. “I didn’t hear you when you
were muttering.”
I look over my shoulder, surprised at his strict, firm tone. “Umm. I said… thanks?” I repeat, hating
how apologetic I sound.
“You’re welcome,” he replies, dark eyes narrowed as he lifts his hand and shoos me out the door
with two fingers. It’s fine with me, and I’m all too happy to get out of his room at breakneck speed.
I feel like I don’t stop rushing until I’m back home, facedown on my bed, and letting out a tired
sound of irritation. My hair is tangled, I can sense it, and I need to brush it before I nap or do
homework or get food. It’ll bother me if I don’t, and at this point I’m probably going to put it back
into a braid for the weekend so that I can just forget about it somewhat. At least for a little while.
Instead, however, I open my laptop, wondering if my favorite streamer, aka the only one I ever
plan on watching, is live today. He hadn’t been on Monday, and I’d checked a few times during the
week to see if I’d missed anything, but I hadn’t.
Am I destined to no longer get to swoon for him? Even though I only discovered his stream a
week ago, that would be tragic.
Clicking on his name on my homepage, I wait as the page refreshes, bringing me onto his page
instead, just in time for me to see that he is starting his stream.
The masked camboy, letsplayjay, sits back in his chair, twisting it this way and that as he waits
for his viewers to pile in. Which, of course, they do. The viewer list updates by the second, and it’s
unreal that so many people join the instant he starts his stream.
I wonder how long he’s done this, and how long he’s been this popular.
“Am I having a good Friday?” he leans forward to read the messages, his slightly muffled voice is
light and playful. “Oh, I guess. It was a little stressful, but it’s over and now I get to hang out with all
of you. Sorry about Monday, by the way.” He raises his hands in apology. “Maybe you can all forgive
me? I was having a pretty bad day, and I was… tied up. Not how you all are probably thinking,
though. Or was it?” He puts a finger to his mask thoughtfully, and comments pour in, begging him to
talk about it.
 “Oh, I couldn’t take up your time with something so boring, could I?” he teases. “Why don’t you
tell me about your day, hmm?” He checks the chat and calls a random username, asking how his
appointment went as his fingers toy with his waistband.
He’s so good at this, and again I wonder if I could do it too, if I had something to hide my face.
Surely I could put on a persona, a character kind of, and it wouldn’t really be me. Because it isn’t the
sex-work aspect that scares me.
It’s the people being judgmental, or mean, or creepy. What if no one liked me? Or worse, what if
they did? Could I handle the kind of requests or comments that letsplayjay seems to constantly get
from his fans?
Well, in my case, at least I know I wouldn’t have the same volume of audience he has. I don’t
even know if I’d want to.
“I just finished eating, actually,” the streamer chuckles, answering someone’s question. “What did
I have? Teriyaki chicken from, uh…” He moves offscreen, shoving stuff around on his desk as he
moves. Finally, a pile of books falls in front of the camera, obscuring the bottom few inches as he
picks up the brown bag and reads the name on it, but I’m not listening.
I’m too fixated on the pile of books.
Or, more accurately, I’m fixated on one of them. The one that’s closest to the camera, and the
easiest to read the spine of.
An Introduction to Digital Photography.
That wouldn’t be so bad… except that the spine is bent and cracked, and at the bottom, holding it
together, is a line of dark silver duct tape.
I know this book, because I’d had my hands on it earlier today. It’s Oliver’s book.
And when Oliver chuckles again and says something sweet to his viewers, it clicks into place that
I should’ve realized it sooner, since I’ve now spent time listening to his voice and the way he speaks.
Letsplayjay is definitely, unmistakably, Oliver Greer.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 Merry’s Adventures.

chapter xvii.

I cannot easily make my readers, who have always lived in cities

or towns, understand the pleasure of sleeping in the woods, with no
roof but the sky. Perhaps most persons would think this a hardship,
and so it would be, if we had to do it always: but by way of adventure
now and then, and particularly when one is about seventeen, with
such a clever fellow as Mat Olmsted for a companion and a guide,
the thing is quite delightful.
The affair with the panther had excited my fancy, and filled my
bosom with a deep sense of my own importance. It seemed to me
that the famous exploits of Hercules, in Greece, which are told by the
old poets, were, after all, such things as I could myself achieve, if the
opportunity only should offer.
Occupied with these thoughts, I assisted Mat in collecting some
fagots for our night fire—but every moment kept looking around,
expecting to see some wild animal peeping his face between the
trunks of the gray old oaks. In one instance I mistook a stump for a
bear’s head, and in another I thought a bush at a little distance, was
some huge monster, crouching as if to spring upon us.
The night stole on apace, and soon we were surrounded with
darkness, which was rendered deeper by the fire we had kindled.
The scene was now, even more wild than before: the trees that stood
around, had the aspect of giants, lifting their arms to the sky;—and
their limbs often assumed the appearance of serpents, or demons,
goggling at us from the midnight darkness. Around us was a
seeming tent, curtained with blackness, through which not a ray of
light could penetrate.
 I amused myself for a long time, in looking at these objects, and I
remarked that they assumed different aspects at different times—a
thing which taught me a useful lesson, and which I will give, gratis, to
my young readers. It is this, that fancy, when indulged, has the
power to change objects to suit its own wayward humor. Whoever
wishes to be guided right, ought, therefore, to beware how he takes
fancy for a guide.
When our fire had been burning for about half an hour, Matthew
having unbuckled his pack, took out some dried deer’s flesh, upon
which we made a hearty supper: we then began to talk about one
thing and another, and, finally, I spoke of the Indians, expressing my
curiosity to know more about them. Upon this, Mat said he would tell
an Indian story, and accordingly, he proceeded nearly as follows:
These six nations, you must know, were not originally confined to
this small tract of country, but they were spread far and wide over the
land. Nor were they always united, but in former days they waged
fierce wars with one another. It was the custom among all the tribes
to put captives to death, by burning them, inflicting at the same time
the most fearful tortures upon the victims. Sometimes, however, they
adopted the captive, if he showed extraordinary fortitude, into the
tribe, and gave him all the privileges of the brotherhood.
An instance of this sort occurred with the Senecas. They had
been at war with the Chippewas, who lived to the north. Two small
bands of these rival tribes met, and every one of the Chippewas was
slain, save only a young chief named Hourka. He was taken, and
carried to the village of the victorious Senecas. Expecting nothing
but torture and death, he awaited his fate, without a question, or a
murmur. In a day or two, he saw the preparations making for his
sacrifice: a circular heap of dried fagots was erected, and near it a
stake was driven in the ground.
To this he was tied, and the fagots were set on fire. The scorching
blaze soon flashed near his limbs, but he shrunk not. An Indian then
took a sharp piece of stone, and cut a gash in Hourka’s side, and
inserted in it a blazing knot of pine. This burned down to the flesh,
but still the sufferer showed no signs of distress. The people of the
tribe, came around him, and jeered at him, calling him coward, and
every other offensive name: but they extorted not from him an
impatient word. The boys and the women seemed to be foremost in
taunting him; they caught up blazing pieces of the fagots, and thrust
them against his naked flesh; but yet, he stood unmoved, and his
face was serene, showing, however, a slight look of disdain. There
was something in his air which seemed to say, “I despise all your
arts—I am an Indian chief, and beyond your power.”
Now it chanced that a daughter of an old chief of the Senecas,
was there, and her heart was touched with the courage and manly
beauty of the youthful Chippewa; so she determined to save his life if
she could: and knowing that a crazy person is thought by the Indians
to be inspired, she immediately pretended to be insane. She took a
large fragment of the burning fagot in her hand, and circling around
Hourka, screamed in the most fearful manner. She ran among the
woman and boys, scattering the fire on all sides, and at the same
time exclaiming, “Set the captive free,—it is the will of Manitto, the
Great Spirit!”
This manoeuvre of the Indian maiden was so sudden, and her
manner was so striking, that the Indians around were taken by a
momentary impulse, and rushing to the captive, sundered the strings
of bark that tied him to the stake, and, having set him at liberty,
greeted him as a brother. From this time, Hourka became a member
of the tribe into which he was thus adopted, and none treated him
otherwise than as a chief, in whose veins the blood of the Senecas
was flowing, save only a huge chief, called Abomico.
This Indian was of gigantic size, and proportionate power. He had
taken more scalps in fight, than any other young chief, and was,
therefore, the proudest of all the Senecas. He was looked upon by
the girls of the tribe, very much as a young man is among us, who is
worth a hundred thousand dollars. When, therefore, he said to
Meena—the daughter of the chief who saved the life of Hourka—that
he wanted her for his wife, he was greatly amazed to find that she
did not fancy him. He went away wondering that he could be
refused, but determining to try again. Now the long, dangling
soaplocks, and filthy patches of beard, worn by our modern dandies,
who desire to dazzle the eyes of silly girls—were not in vogue
among the Senecas: but foppery is a thing known among savages
as well as civilized people.
Accordingly, Abomico, when he had determined to push his suit
with Meena, covered himself entirely over with a thick coat of bear’s
grease; he then painted one side of his face yellow, the other blue;
his arms he painted red; on his breast he drew the figure of a snake;
on one leg he painted a skunk; on the other a bear. Around his neck
he hung a necklace of bears’ claws, and on his arm he bore forty
bloody scalps, which he had taken from the heads of enemies slain
in battle; at his back was a quiver of arrows, and in his left hand was
a bow. In his hair was stuck a bunch of eagles’ feathers; from his
right ear swung the skin of a racoon; in his right hand he bore the
wing of a crow.
Thus attired, Abomico marched toward the tent, where Meena
dwelt with her father. Never was a beau of one of our cities, new
from the hands of the tailor, more delighted with his appearance,
than was this Indian dandy, as he drew near to the tent, and waited
at the door for the maiden to appear. “If she can resist my charms
now,”—thought Abomico,—“she must be bewitched indeed!”
Meena soon appeared—and the chief spoke to her again,
begging her to become his wife. “Come!” said he—“go with me, and
be the singing bird in my nest. I am a great warrior. I have slain forty
brave men in battle. I have feasted on the flesh, and drunk the warm
blood, of my enemies. I have the strongest arm, the truest hand, the
swiftest foot, the keenest eye, of any chief in the mighty tribe of the
Senecas.”
“It is not true!” said Meena.
“Not true?” said the chief, in great anger and astonishment. “Who
dares to match himself with Abomico? Who can vie with him in the
race? Who can shoot with him at the mark? Who can leap with him
at the bar?”
“Hourka!” said Meena.
 “It is a lie,” said Abomico; though I must say, that he meant no
offence—because, among the Indians, such a speech was not a
discourtesy.
“Nay—nay,” said Meena—“I speak the truth; you have come to
ask me to be your wife. Hourka has made the same request. You
shall both try your power in the race and the leap, and at the bow. He
who shall be the master in the trial, may claim Meena for his slave.”
This proposition was gladly accepted, and Hourka being informed
of it, a time for the trial was appointed. The people of the village soon
heard what was going on; and, as the Indians are always fond of
shows and holidays, they rejoiced to hear of the promised sport.
The day of the trial arrived. In a grassy lawn, the sport was to be
held; and here the throng assembled. It was decreed by the chiefs
that the first trial should be with the bow. A large leaf was spread out
upon a forked branch of a tree, and this was set in the ground, at the
distance of about fifty yards. Abomico shot first, and his arrow
pierced the leaf, within half an inch of the centre. Hourka followed,
and his arrow flew wide from the mark, not even touching the leaf.
He seemed indeed careless, and reckless. But, as he turned his eye
upon Meena, he saw a shade of sorrow come over her face.
In an instant the manner of the young chief changed. He said to
himself,—“I have been mistaken: I thought the maiden slighted me
and preferred my rival: but now I know that she loves me, and I can
now beat Abomico.”
There were to be three trials of the bow. In the two which followed
the first, which we have described, Hourka had the advantage and
was pronounced the victor. And now came the leap. A pole was set
horizontally upon stakes, to the height of about five feet, and Hourka,
running a little distance, cleared it easily. Abomico followed, and he
also leaped over it with facility. It was then raised about a foot, and
Hourka, bounding like a deer of the wood, sprang over the pole,
amid the admiring shouts of the multitude. Abomico made a great
effort, and he too went over, but his foot grazed the piece of wood,
and the victory here again was awarded to Hourka.
 The face of the haughty Abomico, now grew dark as the thunder-
cloud. He could bear to be rejected by Meena; but to be thus
vanquished before the whole tribe, and that too by one who had not
the real blood of a Seneca, was more than his pride could bear. He
was, therefore, plotting some scheme of revenge, when the race was
marked out by the chiefs. It was decreed that they should run side by
side to a broad river which was near; that they should swim across;
ascend on the opposite bank to a place above a lofty cataract in the
river, and recrossing the river there, return to the point of their
departure.
The place occupied by the spectators, was so elevated as to
command a fine view of the entire race-ground; and the interest was
intense, as the two chiefs departed, bounding along, side by side,
like two coursers. The race was long nearly equal. They came to the
river, and at the same moment both plunged into the water. They
swam across, and at the same moment clambered up the rocky
bank on the other shore. Side by side they ran, straining every
muscle. They ascended to the spot above the roaring cataract, and
plunged into the river; then drew near the place where the water
broke over the rocks in a mighty sheet, making the earth tremble
with the shock of their fall. Still the brave swimmers heeded not the
swift current that drew them toward the precipice. Onward they
pressed, cutting the element like ducks, and still side by side.
Intense was the interest of the spectators, as they witnessed the
strife. But what was their amazement, when they saw Abomico rise
above the wave, grapple Hourka and drag him directly toward the
edge of the cataract. There was a shout of horror, through the tribe,
and then a deathlike silence. The struggle of the two rivals was
fearful, but in a short space, clinging to each other, they rolled over
the precipice, and disappeared among the mass of foam, far and
deep below!
Killed, by falling on the rocks, and gashed by many a ghastly
wound, the huge form of Abomico was soon seen drifting down the
stream; while Hourka swam to the shore, and claimed his willing
bride, amid the applauses of men, women and children.
 The Zodiac.

The Zodiac consists of a broad belt in the heavens, among which

the sun appears to make his annual circuit. The stars are arranged in
groups, and the ancients, who were fond of astronomy, called these
groups or constellations, by particular names. One group they called
ursa major, or great bear; one they called orion; another, the crown;
another, the dog; another Hercules, &c.
In the month of March, the sun is said to enter aries, that is the
group or constellation called aries, or the ram; in April it enters
taurus, or the bull; in May, gemini, the twins; in June, cancer, the
crab; in July, leo, the lion; in August, virgo, the virgin; in September,
libra, the scales; in October, scorpio, the scorpion; in November,
sagittarius, the archer; in December, capricorn, the goat; in January,
aquarius, the water bearer; in February, pisces, the fishes.
 The Voyages, Travels, and Experiences of
Thomas Trotter.

chapter xvi.
The grotto of Pausilippo.—​A dying man.—​The Lazzaroni.—​Weather
at Naples.—​The grotta del cane.—​Inhuman sport.—​Subterranean
fires.—​A Funeral.—​Characteristics of the Neapolitans.

I had heard a great deal of the grotto of Pausilippo, which is a

great tunnel through a mountain at one end of the city, and I took a
walk toward that quarter, for the purpose of visiting it.
This is certainly one of the most surprising works of art in the
world, considering its age. It was executed two or three thousand
years ago, and is probably the most permanent artificial work on the
face of the earth. Even the Egyptian pyramids will not last so long as
this. To have some idea of it, you must understand that Naples is
separated from the towns on the northern coast by the hill of
Pausilippo, which is a ridge of solid rock.
Through this rock an immense tunnel is cut, three quarters of a
mile long, and nearly a hundred feet high. It is broad enough for two
carriages to pass, and lighted by lamps. Several air-holes, at proper
distances, serve to ventilate it and keep the air pure. A great deal of
travel is constantly passing through it: and during the heat of
summer, the grotto, has a most refreshing coolness. The rumbling of
the carriages is echoed from the rocky vault overhead in a very
remarkable manner. Altogether, the place struck me with surprise
and astonishment; and when I thought of our railroad tunnels, which
we boast of as modern inventions, I could not help repeating the
observation of king Solomon, that “there is no new thing under the
sun.”
 While I sat at supper in the evening, I was startled by hearing a
bell tinkling violently under my window. I ran to the balcony and
found the whole street in a blaze of light. A religious procession was
going down the street bearing lighted tapers. I was told that it was a
priest going to administer extreme unction to a dying man.
At the sound of the bell, which was carried by one of the
procession, all the neighbors ran to the windows and balconies with
lamps and candles, and fell upon their knees; for this is the custom
on such occasions. In an instant the whole street was in a blaze of
light, and the prospect of this illumination, with the long procession of
persons dressed in white, chanting a mournful dirge, and the crowds
in the balconies in solemn and devout attitudes, struck me very
forcibly. As the procession passed by each house, the spectators
crossed themselves and uttered a prayer for the soul of the dying
man. So sudden are the transitions of these people from the gayety
and merriment of their daily occupations to the solemnity of their
religious observances.
Everybody who has been at Naples, has something to say about
the Lazzaroni, which is the name given to the idle fellows and
ragamuffins of this city. Many people imagine them to be a distinct
race of men, like the gipseys in other parts of Europe; but this is an
error. Every city in Europe has its proportion of lazy and ragged
fellows: but in Naples their number is so great that they have
obtained this peculiar name. By some, their numbers are stated at
twenty thousand. I will not vouch for the full number, but they exist in
swarms. Nowhere else did I ever see such comical raggedness as
among these people. The scarecrows, which Yankee farmers set in
their cornfields to frighten away the birds, are genteel figures
compared to these fellows. One has half a pair of trowsers; another
half a jacket, and no trowsers at all; another wears the leg of an old
stocking for a cap; another has a ragged pair of breeches the wrong
side upwards for a shirt. As to the patches and tatters, they surpass
all power of language to describe. How they get their living, one is
puzzled to guess, for they seem to spend all the day basking in the
sun; and in spite of their rags and dirt, they appear to be as happy as
lords. They are constantly in good humor, singing, chattering,
grimacing, and cutting capers from morning to night. In fact,
notwithstanding their want of almost all those things which we call
necessaries of life, they appear to be troubled with very little
suffering. Their rags and nakedness give them little concern, for the
climate is so mild that they hardly feel the want of a covering. Their
food is chiefly macaroni, which is very cheap here: two or three cents
worth will suffice a man for a day. Their manner of eating it makes a
stranger laugh; they hold it up in long strings, at arm’s length, and
swallow it by the yard at a time. As for their homes, the most of them
have none: they sleep in the open air, on the steps of the churches,
and wherever they can find a convenient spot to lie.
It was about the middle of March, which is the most disagreeable
month of the whole year in this country; yet I found the weather very
mild and pleasant. Light showers of rain happened almost every day;
but these lasted commonly but a few minutes and were succeeded
by warm sun-shine. I could discern the Appenines at a distance,
covered with snow, while the hills around the city were decked with
green olive trees. Oranges and lemons were plenty and very cheap:
three or four for a cent.
I set out on a walk to visit the famous grotta del cane, or “dog’s
cavern,” which is only a few miles from Naples. The road lay through
the grotto of Pausilippo, and I could not avoid again admiring this
wonderful cavern, the work of men who lived in what we have
supposed to be an age of barbarism. At the further end I emerged
into the open air and found a region of fields and vineyards,
separated by walls of clay. Little children ran along by my side,
tumbling head over heels, clacking their chops, making queer noises
and antic gestures by way of begging for coppers. All along the road
were poplar trees, to which the vines were trained, but they were not
in leaf. After a walk of three or four miles I came to lake Agnaro, a
piece of water about the size of Fresh Pond in Cambridge. On the
shore of this lake is the grotta del cane. It is a rocky cavern which
enters horizontally a little above the water, and emits from its mouth
a sulphureous steam or vapor, which will kill a dog if he is put into
the cavern. People who live in the neighborhood keep dogs for the
purpose of exhibiting this phenomenon to strangers. The dogs know
the fatal properties of this cave, and refuse to go in. While I was
there, some of these fellows came to me and offered to exhibit the
experiment; but I declined, not wishing to see an animal treated with
cruelty for mere curiosity. They assured me that the dog need not be
killed—that they would only keep him in the cave long enough to
throw him into a swoon, and then bring him to life again by plunging
him into the water. I told them this was as bad as killing him outright:
for the animal could suffer no more by actually dying. They were very
unwilling to lose their expected fee, and answered me that there was
no suffering in the case, but, on the contrary, the dogs were very
fond of the sport! I laughed at this impudent falsehood, and refused
to have anything to do with the exhibition.
A few minutes after, a party of visiters arrived who had no such
humane scruples: they were resolved to see the experiment tried.
Accordingly, a dog was brought forward; and I now had a chance to
see how much truth there was in the assertion that these animals
were fond of being choked to death. The poor dog no sooner
perceived his visiters than he became as perfectly aware of what
was going forward as if he had heard and understood every syllable
that had been said. It showed the utmost unwillingness to proceed
towards the cavern, but his master seized him by the neck and
dragged him with main force along till he reached the mouth of the
cave, into which he thrust him howling and making the most piteous
cries. In a few minutes he fell upon the ground motionless, and lay
without any signs of life. The spectators declared that they had seen
enough to satisfy them; on which the fellow took the dog up by the
ears and plunged him into the lake. After two or three dips, the poor
animal began to agitate his limbs and at length came to himself and
ran scampering off. These inhuman exhibitions ought not to be
encouraged by travellers.
Every part of the neighborhood of the city abounds with evidence
of the existence of volcanic fire, under ground. As I walked along the
road I found the smoke issuing from holes and clefts in the ground:
and on placing my hands in these fissures, I found them so hot that
one might roast eggs in them. Yet people build houses and pass
their lives upon these spots, without troubling themselves with the
reflection that they live on a thin crust of soil hanging over a yawning
gulf of fire! In my walk homeward I passed by a hill, about the size of
Bunker Hill, which some time ago rose up suddenly, in a single night,
from a level plain. It is now all overgrown with weeds and bushes. If
it were not for Mount Vesuvius, which affords a breathing-place for
these subterranean fires, it is highly probable that the whole face of
the country would be rent into fragments by earthquakes and
volcanic explosions. Vesuvius may be called the safety valve of the
country.
On my way home, I was stopped on the road by an immense
crowd. It was a funeral. A long train of monks and priests attended
the hearse, each one clad in a dress which resembled a loose white
sheet thrown over the head and falling down to the feet, with little
round holes cut for the eyes. They looked like a congregation of
spectres from the other world. The corpse was that of an army
officer. He lay not in a coffin, but exposed in full uniform upon a
crimson pall edged with gold. Everything accompanying the hearse
was pompous, showy and dazzling.
This indeed is the characteristic of the people; almost everything
in their manners and mode of life is calculated to strike the senses
and produce effect by dazzling and external display. Nothing can
surpass the splendor of their religious processions, the rich and
imposing decoration of their churches, and the pomp and parade
and showy display which attend the solemnization of all their public
festivals. The population of these countries are exceedingly sensitive
to the effect of all these exhibitions, and their lively and acute
feelings bring them under the influence of whatever is addressed
strongly to their outward senses. They are little guided by sound
reason and sober reflection, but are at the mercy of all the impulses
that arise from a keen sensibility and an excitable imagination.
 Story of Philip Brusque.

chapter xi.
The meeting.—​Discussion.—​A government adopted.—​Conclusion
for the present.

The time for the meeting of the people to take measures for the
establishment of a government for the island of Fredonia, was fixed
for the day which followed the events narrated in the last chapter.
This meeting was looked forward to with intense interest, by all
parties. The men, who knew that there could be no peace or safety
in society, without government, regarded the event as likely to decide
whether the inhabitants of the island were to be happy or miserable.
The women, who were perhaps not apt to reflect upon these
things, had also learned from their experience that a government,
establishing and enforcing laws, was indispensable to the quiet and
security of society: they saw that their own lives, their freedom, their
homes, were not secure, without the protection of law. Even the
children had found that government was necessary, and these as
well as the women, were now rejoicing at the prospect of having this
great blessing bestowed upon the little community of Fredonia.
The day for the meeting arrived, and the men of the island
assembled, agreeably to the appointment. First came the men of the
tent party, and then, those from the Outcast’s cave. The latter were
greeted by a shout of welcome, and mingling with the rest, a kind
shaking of hands took place between those, who so lately were
arrayed against each other in deadly conflict.
After a short time, Mr. Bonfils, being the oldest man of the
company, called the assembly to order, and he being chosen
chairman, went on to state the objects of the assembly, in the
following words:
“My dear friends; it has been the will of Providence to cast us
together upon this lonely, but beautiful island. It would seem that so
small a community, regulated by mutual respect and mutual good
will, might dwell together in peace and amity, without the restraints of
law, or the requisitions of government. But history has told us, that in
all lands, and in all ages, peace, order, justice, are only to be
secured by established laws, and the means of carrying them into
effect. There must be government, even in a family; there must be
some power to check error, to punish crime, to command obedience
to the rule of right. Where there is no government, there the violent,
the unjust, the selfish, have sway, and become tyrants over the rest
of the community. Our own unhappy experience teaches us this.
“Now we have met together, with a knowledge, a conviction of
these truths. We know, we feel, we see that law is necessary, and
that there must be a government to enforce it. Without this, there is
no peace, no security, no quiet fireside, no happy home, no pleasant
society. Without this, all is fear, anxiety, and anarchy.
“Let us then enter upon the duties of this occasion, with a proper
sense of the obligation that rests upon us; of the serious duty which
is imposed on every man present. We are about to decide questions
which are of vital interest, not only to each actor in this scene, but to
these wives and sisters and children, whom we see gathered at a
little distance, watching our proceedings, as if their very lives were at
stake.”
This speech was followed by a burst of applause; but soon a man
by the name of Maurice arose—one who had been a leading
supporter of Rogere—and addressed the assembly as follows:
“Mr. Chairman; it is well known that I am one of the persons who
have followed the opinions of that leader who lost his life in the battle
of the tents. I followed him from a conviction that his views were
right. The fact is, that I have seen so much selfishness in the officers
of the law, that I have learned to despise the law itself. Perhaps,
however, I have been wrong. I wish to ask two questions—the first is
this: Is not liberty a good thing? You will answer that it is. It is
admitted, all the world over, that liberty is one of the greatest
enjoyments of life. My second question then is—Why restrain liberty
by laws? Every law is a cord put around the limbs of liberty. If you
pass a law that I shall not steal, it is restraint of my freedom; it limits
my liberty; it takes away a part of that, which all agree is one of the
greatest benefits of life. And thus, as you proceed to pass one law
after another, do you not at last bind every member of society by
such a multiplied web of restraints, as to make him the slave of law?
And is not a member of a society where you have a system of laws,
like a fly in the hands of the spider, wound round and round by a
bondage that he cannot burst, and which only renders him a slave of
that power which has thus entangled him?”
When Maurice had done, Brusque arose, and spoke as follows:
“Mr. Chairman; I am happy that Mr. Maurice has thus stated a
difficulty which has arisen in my own mind: he has stated it fairly, and
it ought to be fairly answered. Liberty is certainly a good thing;
without it, man cannot enjoy the highest happiness of which he is
capable. All useless restraints of liberty are therefore wrong; all
unnecessary restraints of liberty are wrong. But the true state of the
case is this: we can enjoy no liberty, but by submitting to certain
restraints. It is true that every law is an abridgment of liberty; but it is
better to have some abridgment of it, than to lose it all.
“I wish to possess my life in safety; accordingly I submit to a law
which forbids murder: I wish to possess my property in security; and
therefore I submit to a law which forbids theft and violence: I wish to
possess my house without intrusion; I therefore submit to a law
which forbids one man to trespass upon the premises of another: I
wish to go and come, without hindrance, and without fear; I therefore
submit to a law which forbids highway robbery, and all interference
with a man’s pursuit of his lawful business.
“Now, if we reflect a little, we shall readily see that by submitting
to certain restraints, we do actually increase the amount of practical,
available, useful liberty. By submitting to laws, therefore, we get
more freedom than we lose. That this is the fact, may be easily
tested by observation. Go to any civilized country, where there is a
settled government and a complete system of laws, and you will find,
in general, that a man enjoys his house, his home, his lands, his
time, his thoughts, his property, without fear: whereas, if you go to a
savage land, where there is no government and no law, there you
will find your life, property, and liberty, exposed every moment to
destruction. Who, then, can fail to see that the very laws which
abridge liberty in some respects, actually increase the amount of
liberty enjoyed by the community.”
Maurice professed himself satisfied with this solution of his
difficulties; and the meeting proceeded to appoint a committee, to go
out and prepare some plan, to be submitted to the meeting. This
committee returned, and after a short space, brought in a resolution,
that Mr. Bonfils be for one year placed at the head of the little
community, with absolute power; and that, at the end of that period,
such plan of government as the people might decree, should be
established.
This resolution was adopted unanimously. The men threw up their
hats in joy, and the air rang with acclamations. The women and
children heard the cheerful sounds, and ran toward the men, who
met them half way. It was a scene of unmixed joy. Brusque and
Emilie met, and the tears of satisfaction fell down their cheeks.
François went to his aged mother, and even her dimmed eye was
lighted with pleasure at the joyful issue of the meeting.
We must now take leave of the island of Fredonia—at least for a
time—and whether we ever return to it, must depend upon the
wishes of our young readers. If they are anxious to see how the
people flourished under the reign of their aged old chief, and how
they proceeded in after years, perchance we may lift the curtain and
show them the scene that lies behind it. But I hope that our readers
have learnt, that not only men and women, but children, have an
interest in government, and therefore that it is a thing they should try
to understand.
 The Tanrec.

This creature resembles the hedgehog, but is larger than that

animal, and is destitute of a tail. It does not roll itself into a ball, for
defence, like the former animal. It passes three of the warmest
months of the year in a state of torpor, differing in this respect from
other animals, which become torpid from extreme cold. Its legs are
very short, and it moves very slowly. It is fond of the water, and loves
to wallow in the mud. It moves about only by night. There are three
species, all found in the island of Madagascar.

Letter from a Correspondent.

Little Readers of the Museum:
I sometimes read Mr. Robert Merry’s Museum, and I like it
very much, as I presume all his little “blue-eyed and black-
eyed readers” do. He talks very much like good old Peter
Parley. I should think he had heard him tell many a story while
he rested his wooden leg on a chair, with a parcel of little
laughing girls and boys around him. Oh, how many times I
have longed to see him, and crawl up in his lap and hear his
stories! But Mr. Merry says he is dead, and I never can see
him. I am very—very sorry, for I hoped I should sometime visit
him, for I loved him very much, and I guess he would have
loved me some, for I like old people, and always mean to treat
them with respect. How cruel it was for others to write books
and pretend that Peter Parley wrote them!—for it seems that
this shortened his life. I am glad, however, that Mr. Merry has
his writings, for I think he loves his little friends so well that he
will frequently publish some of them. I said that I loved Peter
Parley, and I guess you will not think it strange that I should,
when I tell you what a useful little book he once published,
and how much pleasure I took in reading it. He wrote a great
many interesting pieces which I read and studied, and they
did me much good, I think. I hope that the little readers of the
Museum will learn a good deal from what they read.
Peter Parley wrote a piece which told us how to make
pens. I read it over, and over again, and, finally, I thought I
would see if I could not make one. So I went to my little desk
and took out a quill, got my aunt’s knife and laid the book
before me and tried to do just as Peter Parley told me I must.
I succeeded very well, and my friends were quite pleased.
This encouraged me very much, and soon I made them so
well that my teachers made me no more pens. By-and-by my
little associates got me to make and mend theirs, and I loved
the business very much.
Well, a few years since, I went to a beautiful village to
attend school, where a splendid academy stands, around
which, are large green trees, under whose shade my little
readers would love to sit. There I staid two or three years.
Often did I walk out with the teachers, whom I loved, to
botanize, or ramble, with nimble step, over the beautiful hills
of that sweet place, and listen to the constant murmur of its
waterfalls, or gather the delicate flowers that grew so
plentifully there. But to my story. My teachers saw that I made
my own pens, and occasionally, when they were busy, would
bring me one to make for them. The students soon found it
out, and I had plenty of business. One day the principal of the
school came to me and offered to compensate me by giving
me my tuition one term, which was six dollars, if I would make
 and mend pens. I did not accept the money of course, though
I cheerfully and gladly performed the small service.
So you see, Peter Parley’s instruction has done me a great
deal of good, for how many persons there are who cannot
make a good pen, because they never learned how.
My little readers, I am now almost twenty years old, but I
still remember many other things which I read in Peter
Parley’s books when I was a little girl. Mr. Robert Merry talks
and writes just like him, almost, and I hope you will love to
read and study attentively Merry’s Museum, for it is a good
little work, and a pleasant one. Be assured, my young friends,
you can learn a great deal from it, if you read it carefully. I
should like to say much more to you, but I cannot now. I have
been sitting by the fire, in a rocking-chair, writing this on a
large book, with a pussy under it for a desk, but she has just
jumped from my lap, and refuses to be made a table of any
longer. So farewell.
Your young friend,
Laura.
Springfield, Jan. 6, 1842

Cookery Book.—“Has that cookery book any pictures?” said

Miss C. to a bookseller. “No, miss, none,” was the answer. “Why,”
exclaimed the witty young lady, “what is the use of telling us how to
make a good dinner, if they give us no plates?”