Chapter 3

Saturday December 26

I tried reaching out to Becca by text.

Lexi: I hear that things aren’t going so great for you. I’d really like to listen, if you want to talk about it.

Becca: I’m doing fine. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re the one with issues.

Lexi: Becca, I know you’re hurting. I’m worried about you. If you don’t want to talk to me, please at least talk to someone. Let someone help.

Becca: I can’t be helped.

Becca: come pick me up?

It took a while to coax any information out of her. We were sitting in my car drinking smoothies, way far away from our part of town.

“I did some things, and they filmed it. And now they’re going to make me do some other things - horrible things - and if I don’t they’ll show everybody,” she said.

“Who? What things?” I asked. She just shook her head and sipped her smoothie.

“Becca, if someone is making you do something against your will, we need to talk to the police,” I said.

“NO!” She shouted. “I swear to god, if you tell anyone, I’ll...” She didn’t seem to have the nerve to finish her sentence.

“Okay, okay,” I said, not sure if I could live up to the promise. “But, can’t you tell me anything more? With a little more information, maybe I can help?”

“There’s nothing anyone can do,” she said.

We sat in silence for a little while, sipping our drinks, and then out of nowhere she started to cry. “I don’t want to be a deviant! I don’t want to be like my brother!” I pulled her into a hug and she cried on my shoulder for two full minutes.

I dropped Becca off near her house, at her request. She agreed to call me if she needed someone to talk to.

I only knew one other person who knew Becca, and that was Ken Hurst. Ken’s parents were part of the bridge club that I had investigated over the summer. They had secretly recorded Ken and some of his high school friends having sex with Becca on at least two occasions.

Maybe it wasn’t the smart thing to do, but I was angry and I wanted answers. I drove straight to Ken’s house and rang the doorbell. “We need to talk,” I said when Ken opened the door.

Ken took me to his bedroom. I can’t imagine what was going on in his head. He’s a couple years younger than I am, and last summer he had a crush on me. “Tell me everything you know about Becca Rivers,” I said impatiently

He shook his head, playing dumb. “I don’t know who that is,” he said.

“Do not fucking lie to me, Ken,” I said. I poked his chest hard.

“What are you talking about?” Ken asked with alarm. “Lexi, what’s going on?”

Just then Ken’s mom opened the door - probably drawn by Ken’s raised voice. She’s the gorgeous redhead with big boobs who can swallow cock like a python. Before she could say anything I shot her warning glare and said, “You stay out of this.”

The redhead was taken aback for a moment - I think she almost recognized me. Then she got defensive. “I beg your p...”

I interrupted her. “Let me put that another way: you should go call Mr. Demarco and ask him why you SHOULD NOT FUCK WITH ME.” Her mouth hung open for a moment, and then she turned around and left.

Ken’s face showed astonishment: a girl barely older than him had just sent his mom away with her tail between her legs in her own house.

I resumed a calm voice. “Are you still fucking Becca?” I asked.

“No, no,” Ken said, suddenly helpful. “That ended a few weeks ago.”

“Why did it end?”

“She said she got a boyfriend. I mean, she used to call all of us her boyfriends, but I guess this guy was different to her.”

“What’s his name? Is she still seeing him?”, I followed up.

“Caleb. Caleb Olstead,” Ken told me. “He’s a junior. I think they’re still together.”

I couldn’t think of any more questions, so I figured I was done. “Thank you, Ken,” I said. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. Please tell your mother I’m sorry too. Merry Christmas.”

Mr. Demarco sent me a text message as I was driving home.

Tim Demarco: You rattled some cages today. I could manage the situation better if you told me what’s going on.

The deal had been that I wouldn’t release my proof of the bridge club’s illegal teen porn activities if the parents stopped recording their kids. Mr. Demarco had a video of me breaking into his house, so all of us had plenty of reason to stay quiet. Until today, Mr. Demarco and his wife were the only bridge club members who knew that I was the one blackmailing them. I really shouldn’t have revealed myself to Mrs. Hurst, but I was upset and at the time it felt like every second counted.

I called Mr. Demarco and explained the situation. He seemed to accept the righteousness of my cause, and said he’d take care of the Hursts. “But Lexi,” he added at the end, “you really need to go to the police.”

I texted Becca in the evening - just a smiley-face emoji. She sent one back. I think that’s a good sign.

Sunday December 27

If Becca is Caleb Olstead’s girlfriend, Facebook doesn’t know about it. According to all of the social media I can find, he seems to be in an exclusive relationship with some girl named Catherine Whately, another high school student. I can’t find any contact between Becca and either of them in Becca’s accounts.

I needed some time to think about what to do about Becca next, so when Martin invited me over for a photo shoot, it seemed like a good diversion. I threw some spare clothes and sexy underwear in a bag and headed over.

Martin had his whole garage set up as a studio. There were backdrop sheets and photography lights, a really nice camera, and a computer with some image software standing by. His mom was home, but Martin said that she wouldn’t come into the studio.

I told myself - and Martin - that this was just an exercise to see what it would be like. I wasn’t actually going to post any of these pictures; it was just fun to pretend. Truthfully, though, the idea really excited me: competing with those other girls for +1’s, and reading all the perverted comments from anonymous men all over the world whom I would make hard.

I quizzed Martin about computer security to make sure he could be trusted with the files. “Really? You don’t mind if keep the originals?” Martin asked. “The ones where your face is showing?”

“Of course not!” I told him. “Martin, you already know it’s me,” I teased. “But they’re just for you and me - don’t post them or let them get stolen.”

We started off trying to take pictures where my face, and hopefully my hair, weren’t visible. But there are only so many ways to do that without looking like a headless mannequin.

“This isn’t working. Your smile is just too important,” Martin said after a dozen pictures.

“Huh. I suppose we can blur out half of my face in Photoshop...,” I suggested half-heartedly.

“No, absolutely not,” Martin said. I think offended his artistic vision. “Wait here,” he told me, and disappeared into the house. It’s funny, I hadn’t felt the least bit self-conscious about being naked until Martin left me alone. You know what it’s like when you’re naked at the doctor’s office and the doctor leaves the room, but you’re pretty sure she wants to examine you more? It was like that.

Martin came back with some ski goggles and a knitted winter hat. I put them on and tucked my hair up under the hat so that nobody could tell the length or texture, or hopefully even color. That felt a lot more natural - we could take all sorts of photos without worrying about how to hide my identity.

We took several pictures of what Martin assured me were classic nude poses. There was the one where I covered my boobs with one arm and my pussy with the other hand. (“That one goes back to the 15th century,” he said. “The Birth of Venus.”) And then there’s the looking-over-the-shoulder butt pose. And there’s one where I was sitting on the floor with my knees up in front of me covering my chest. Oh, and we took a couple where I was wearing his mom’s down vest to complete the naked ski girl look.

I was lying face-down, propped up on my elbows and smiling for the camera when I noticed - not for the first time - the bulge in Martin’s pants.

“Does it hurt when it’s like that?” I asked, pointing at his crotch when he seemed confused by the question. “When your penis is trying to get hard but it’s trapped and bent by your pants?”

“It does, but only a little,” he told me. “And it’s a good hurt - the kind that lets you know you’re alive.”

I rolled over onto my back so that Martin could get some good shots of my chest. I was feeling kind of flirty. “So what lucky girl ended up taking your virginity?” I asked. “Was it anyone I know?”

“Well, no one,” he said, embarrassed. “I’m still a virgin. Well, kind of. I’m not sure.”

“How can you not be sure?” I asked. “Were you really drunk or something?” I got on my hands and knees and did some cat stretches.