Page 3 of Come Find Me Tonight

My stomach growls, and I relent, putting my phone down to heat a proportioned frozen meal from a recent sponsorship. But as it heats, my phone is in my hand again, drawing me into Rook’s world like a magnet. As I eat the steamy, mediocre proportioned meal, I continue watching. This pattern has consumed at least three evenings a week for years.

Despite being part of his viewership for a few years now, I know nothing else about Rook or where he could be located. My guess is that he is in the same country as me, but I have no idea and will never know. He posts videos only from this one room with the blinds tightly shut, making it impossible to find his location. He never likes or responds to comments—just drops videos and logs out.

As much as it pains me, I bet it’s a ruse though; he must have a significant other and keeps his content so anonymous, so they don’t find out. Or to make it so their friends and family don’t. I’m guessing he’s younger based on his smooth skin, but something about the way he carries himself makes me think he’s not younger than me. He’s an experienced grown-ass man capable of making whoever is lucky enough to call him theirs come every time without fail.

I finally put my phone on the table and stand to throw out the thin tray from dinner. I settle on the couch again with my show on the TV to break up the silence and shift my focus to editing my GRWM video on my phone so I can schedule it to post tomorrow at my usual time. I have a video for the day after as it was a sponsored post, but I still needed to edit the try-on and get it posted with the active code. My phone is nearly dead from the endless scrolling, so that will have to wait.

I used to love editing and creating mini-movie magic, but Rook makes me feel like such an amateur. I had no idea how I’d replicate his lighting setup without buying a million lights until I got the right combo. How does he brighten the space while keeping his face so obscure? I shake my head, snapping out of it, and switch to scheduling the post with a few hashtags and a cutesy caption.

Noticing it’s nine p.m., I head upstairs to my room to change into my pajamas. I used to stay up much later when I first started riding the influencer wave, but it was awful for my mental health. I got to be nearly nocturnal, and it took a long time to fix my sleep habits. These days, I try to be in bed by ten at the latest, unless I have an event.

Standing in my en suite bathroom, I brush my teeth just as vigorously as I wiped my makeup off earlier, rough bristles scraping against my delicate gums.

What am I trying to do? Or feel?

I look in the mirror. My skin is dewy and clear, but all I want to do is exfoliate the hell out of it. I push that thought to the side and use a gentle foam cleanser followed by toner and my lush night cream. I pop two melatonin gummies, grimacing as the flavor collides with my freshly brushed teeth, and throw on my frilly pajamas with lettuce trim along the hemlines. I slip into my cool, high-thread-count cotton sheets and immediately swipe back to Rook’s profile on my phone. I allow myself a couple more views of the video. I study the way his abs have a sharp V-line leading to his jean-clad hips like a damn invitation. It doesn’t seem comfortable for him to have his jeans that low, and I’d give anything to see them fall off his hips. He must be making bank on these videos, if they’re monetized, from how many times people like me must rewatch them.

I plug my phone in and set it on my nightstand. I close my eyes. His half-naked body plays front and center in my mind, permanently ingrained there at this point. Abs, flexed biceps, long fingers. I would give everything to see his face, to kiss him, to discover the sensation of his hard body pressing against mine.

My fingers trail around my breasts, eagerly edging down my torso where heat pools between my thighs. I slip them under the cool, silky fabric of my pajama shorts where they meet the slickness accumulating there, and the waistband of my shorts gently snaps against my hand. I dip my finger inside and moan out. Surely Rook would be offended if I used just a single finger to represent him. He’d probably shamelessly fist me, not afraid to cause pain and pleasure simultaneously, and I’d beg him to do it again and again.

My eyes flare open, yet I see only the shadow of the ceiling fan and the faint triangular shape of its blades.

This cycle has to end.

Chapter Two

Robby

Every morning, my internal clock wakes me at six a.m. no matter how late I stayed up the night before. It’s been this way since that night. I rub my eyes and grab my phone off the nightstand, where a slew of notifications are waiting for me. Rook didn’t post last night, so it’s nothing too crazy. Mostly junk and work emails that I’ll get to at eight when I log in for the day.

I bite my lip as I tap to see if Appa has posted since last night, but the flutter of hope quickly deflates in my chest when the circle around her profile picture isn’t illuminated with anything new. She was quiet at night, especially on weeknights, but my days always seemed to start off better when there was something fresh for me to see from her. She used to post throughout the night, and I’d wake up periodically to check my phone. Thankfully, for both of our sleeping habits, she no longer posted like that.

I haven’t seen Appa since that night during my senior year of college, but I could never forget her. A barely legal teeny blonde standing alone in a crowded space.

My roommate had finally convinced me to go to a party near campus. I relented to get him to shut up with a concrete plan to bail after one drink.

“There’s gonna be freshman girls there,” he said, but his predatory words soured my stomach. I didn’t need to chase barely legal coeds, but apparently, he did.

The party was mid at best, with its attendees wrecked by the time we showed up, and I knew it wouldn’t be worth my time. The house already reeked of weed and was trashed with empty beer bottles, abandoned red Solo cups, and half-assed hung streamers. The music was obnoxious, playing rap with the bass turned up so high I thought the speakers would blow out at any beat drop.

Finishing my beer, I was just about to turn for the door when I saw her.

The only light at that party.

I was studying engineering and too focused on my classes to bother with girls. I could get laid if I wanted to, but anything more serious was out of the question. Or so I thought.

Until her.

She drew me in like a moth to a flame. She was short and thin but unmissable. I couldn’t recall what she wore then, but I’ll never forget the warm tones of her curled hair and huge blue eyes that still sparkled in the dimmed lights.

I finally found the courage to talk to her. “You know, I’ve been here an hour and can’t figure out why a girl like you is alone,” I said. It was an awkward pickup line, but twenty-one-year-old Robby did the best he could. I remember how I hated having to look down at her, but I was easily a foot taller and shifted my weight from foot to foot to distract from the height difference.

She raised her eyebrow at me inquisitively. “Well, you found me, so now what?” Her voice was like honey, warm like her curly locks, and a dead giveaway that she was from out-of-state. She would be from the South with the sass I’d expect from a girl who only stood five foot two, but I was hooked already after she had only said six words to me. But it wasn’t like me to have meaningless sex with a girl who didn’t know better. She felt special in her own way and kept eye contact with me like she wasn’t afraid, and to be honest, I was the only good guy at the party.

“Are you a freshman?” I asked.

“Yeah. I’m Appa.”