THAT BITCH DID something. She made her big dramatic speech, the one that took Marcus’s cock to a whole new level of flaccidity, then clicked something. Something that ended their chat. He waited for her to return, waited for her face to pop back up among the other girls, but she didn’t appear. Ten minutes later, his computer wouldn’t even bring up the site. A message, one that said FUCK YOU in three short sentences, is the only thing that came up when he refreshed the screen:
YOUR PROFILE HAS BEEN REMOVED FROM THIS SITE. ANY OUTSTANDING CHARGES WILL BE MADE TO THE CREDIT CARD ON FILE. THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATRONAGE.
He gets on the phone and calls the customer service line, a phone call that takes thirty minutes to initiate, seeing that he can’t pull up the company’s website. The rep he gets is American, the first surprise he encounters. The second is in how he is treated. As if he is in the wrong. As if there is nothing they will do, as if he is a criminal and kicked out of their stupid, exclusive club. He asks for a supervisor and is refused. According to the Midwestern idiot, he is no longer a customer of Cams.com and therefore isn’t afforded the basic decencies a normal client receives.
He hangs up.
Tries again to visit the website. Blocked.
Tries to remember the girl’s name. Jess something. Riley.
An Internet search of “Jess Riley camgirl” brings up a hundred thousand results. The first ten sites he clicks on won’t open, a similar message stating his inability to access the site. Bullshit.
He slams the laptop shut, swinging an arm out and taking his lamp off of the edge. A satisfying crash of breakage, the room instantly dark. He breathes hard in the empty office, his pants still unzipped, his fury mounting in the quiet hush of scorn.
This is not over.
Around his naked ankle, the red blink of his monitor flashes an incessant pattern—one that screams through the dark room—its beacon never as infuriating as in that moment of lost control.
This is not over. He’ll have her if it is the last thing he ever does.