“I’ll have an electronics expert over to check your devices—your phone, your laptop,” James says sharply, his eyes still holding a warning. “Anything that could be harboring tracking software, viruses, or worms. In the meantime, walk me through your usual routine. Let’s see if I can spot any obvious leaks.”

“Okay,” I say, relaxing a bit. “I already uploaded my post for the day though, so…”

He grins unexpectedly. “Shucks, I was hoping to catch you in action—trying out a new eyeshadow or telling me about the latest blockbuster. But today’s Friday, so I guess it’s a new recipe?”

“Wait, a minute. You actually watch my channel? Regularly?” How else would he know my themes?

He looks sort of sheepish, which is strange to witness.

He doesn’t quite wear it like other people, but it’s definitely there.

“First, I checked out the one that went viral, then I went ahead and watched a few more. It was a cool way to see what you were up to. It’s weirdly fascinating knowing a celebrity, by the way.”

“I’m not a celebrity,” I say quietly, still recovering from the discovery that he’s one of my viewers.

“Whatever, Lailah. Which reminds me—why Lailah?”

I shrug. “Better than Angel, isn’t it? Angel is way too corny, among other reasons.”

“I mean, how did you pick it?”

“To be honest, I just googled angel names and chose one that sounded cool but normal and that hadn’t been Disney-fied. Which is more than my mom did when she named me. According to her, she couldn’t think of a name, and since she kept saying shit like, ‘How’s my angel?’ ‘Hungry, angel?’ she just went with it.”

“Huh. Well, guess what’s actually on my birth certificate?”

“Um… James Basden the Third?”

“Saint James Basden. I wish I could say my mom was particularly religious or something, but pretty much everyone knows she’s a little…” He whistles cuckoo and makes a circular motion with his finger near his ear. “I mean, she’s actually in a mental institution. You know that. I’m probably lucky she went with Saint James and not King Rabbit Glorp or something.”

I laugh hard and he gives me a mock-offended look.

“Now you know I’m not laughing at your mom,” I clarify. “Anyway, I stockpile content so no matter what happens, I always have something ready to upload; I can post on time. Sometimes, I shoot several things in a day and just wait to post. I’m always at least a week ahead, stocked with about seven days of edited video. I don’t ever want to be caught with my pants down.”

“Are your videos stripped?”

“What do you mean?”

“The metadata—do you strip them before uploading? Same with photos? Some platforms do it automatically so the general public can’t access specific information, but you should do it anyway.”

“Oh, boy. Something tells me I’m in trouble since I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Details such as device info, date, and geographic locations can be attached to digital media. Let’s say you bought a new house and took a photo with your phone and shared it on a website. Anyone could download the image, and the default settings could mean you just gave everyone a way to pinpoint your latitude and longitude—they just need to check the photo properties. And then, let’s say you mention going on a trip to Tahiti for a week on social media. Acquaintances and strangers alike have all the info they need to rob you blind while you’re gone. I’ll show you more in a moment. What about your Lailah persona—is your personal email attached to any of her accounts?”

“Well, I deactivated my personal Twitter and just run Lailah’s twitter, which is attached to her own email. People can only tweet me their love, hate, or crazy for the most part since the one I made public for booking inquiries is different from the one I use for social media logins; only people with the email connected to my Twitter can PM me. My Instagram is set up to automatically post to Twitter, so the content isn’t largely original; only once in a while, I tweet something about current events. As for Facebook, I just use it for personal, and it’s just my first name with a bogus last name. Those who actually know me know what’s up, and they were on there before Lailah was born. I did set up a fan page for Lailah though. For the most part, folks can comment to their heart’s content, although my settings ban messages with certain words in them.”

We go over the remainder of my social media practices and then he makes me show him the creepy emails.

His manner changes once he lays eyes on the first one. It seems part of him has retreated—as if he has created distance between us with one of his emotional shields.

Beneath it, I sense anger, but nothing physically gives it away—I just feel it in the air, his emotions escaping him in ultraviolet waves.

“‘J,’ huh?” he says as if through gritted teeth. “Probably not actually one of their initials, but do you know any J’s it might be?”

Besides you?

“I had a couple of infatuated guys during my life, one of them with a J name. In fifth and sixth grade, this guy Jeremy used to tell me weird shit all the time. His crush was obvious to everyone, and no amount of avoiding him and rejecting his advances dulled it. We went to different schools for junior high, so that was that, but I picked up a new guy—non-J name—who wasn’t as creepy; he just kept telling me he wanted to marry me and that we’d be together someday. That he’d wait for me. Eventually, he got himself a girlfriend. Then there was this neighbor who used to stare at me intensely, but he never said anything. It was like his eyes got stuck on me once he saw me, and they never left me until I ducked out of sight. It could be any of them, I guess.”

“Anyone else you know who might be trying to get to you? Any jealous competitors? Frenemies?”

“I doubt it’s my friend Kiara—we’re not really in the same industry. I mean, I guess we are in a general sort of way since we’re both in entertainment, but she’s a singer, and I’m just...a personality.”

“Not just a personality; you’re pretty good at applying makeup and it sure looks like you can cook.”

I give him a reprimanding look.

“Guess I’ll find out soon if all that pretty food you make is just for show,” he says with a half-grin that disappears quickly. “Did Kiara know about the blue dress?” he asks sternly, leaving me wondering where the fairly warm personality went all of a sudden.

“Well, yeah, but...” I stop, thinking about what he’s implying.

Nah, I decide. No way it’s her—I can’t think of why it would be.

Kiara and I met at an audition for a small role in a film.

We just clicked when we ran into each other there, and we both wanted to stay in touch after. And we have. Our friendship is the best thing to come out of that audition—neither of us got the part.

Kiara and I were only there because we both had raised profiles as a result of our pursuits, and sometimes, that’s enough to get you a part—name and/or face recognition.

Kiara is far more uncomfortable with the whole fame thing than I am. She loves being able to share her beautiful voice with so many, but she absolutely hates what comes with the sudden exposure. She actually confided to me that she’d been terrified of the audition and didn’t want to do it, but her manager insisted that she should go.

I’d been interested in the part, however, and totally would have done it, but the role ultimately went to an actual actress.

“It’s not her,” I say firmly.

“Anyone else you can think of?” James says.

I shrug. “It really could be anyone. I don’t have enemies per se, but haters gon’ hate. Sometimes your closest family members and friends hate to see you succeed; not many people like to see you leave them behind.”

He nods, saying nothing for a few more moments, still scrolling through my shit.

Then he suddenly turns to me. “So how does it work exactly? How do you make money?”

“Views, baby. Get enough eyeballs on content, and enough interesting content to keep eyeballs coming, and the ads served line my pockets. I’m still ‘small potatoes’—there are people who make millions with their channels. Do you know some make money with just videos of them eating? Opening presents? Gamers, makeup artists, comedians—all kinds of folks pull in megabucks for their image and/or skills. I guess I got lucky I appealed to many.”

“Not luck,” he says sort of quietly, then louder, “When people want to send you products, how do you check that they’re legit, and what address do you give?” He shakes his head at my answer. “You’re lucky you brought me in when you did. We can start cleaning up your business life without too much interruption.”

I’m sort of glad when James switches to serious mode—it cuts off started engines—but I’m almost getting whiplash from the back-and-forth.

It’s a good reminder to keep my own guard up; he and I aren’t actually friends—just acquaintances who get along really well.

I always got the impression that we could have been good friends had things been different—had we met earlier, lived in the same neighborhood, gone to the same school. Our personalities just gel.

He seems to understand a lot about me without me having to go through my whole life story, and I always feel like I ‘get’ him.

But we need to keep things professional now; our friendliness shouldn’t go past a superficial level.

I’ve found that when he interacts with me in a genuinely warm way, my thighs keep wanting to part for him and let him inside me, and I really don’t need to be offering up the goods at this time—not to him.

James and I need to temper our familiarity, keep a safe and proper distance.

It’s not just about our new relationship as he looks out for me now—our connection to Leonard could reflect badly on both of us if we were to cross a line.  Friendship code, as I know it, says that one must not pursue a friend’s ex, so if James knows what’s good for him, he better not give an impression that something else is going on here—mutual friends between him and Leonard might crucify him. 

Although I guess a guy like James doesn’t really have to care what others think about him.

“Do you have any errands to run today?” he asks flatly, still solidly in business mode.

“Well, I was gonna meet up with Kiara for lunch...”

“I’ll get a table near you. Make sure to let the server know you’re picking up my tab because I’m so incredibly hot...” I shove him playfully, but he keeps going, “…and I look forward to dinner tonight.”

“You know, you have some nerve...”

“Not to charge you what I’m worth? You know damned well this arrangement is a steal.”

“Which is why I’m wondering why you sold yourself to me so cheaply. Seriously, what’s in it for you besides home-cooked meals and lessons in spices?”

He shrugs. “I was bored. I’ve got time to kill before the next chapter of my career. Meanwhile, most people I know have a regular job, family. No one can really hang out with me like that, and it’s tough to fill so much free time. And honestly, I like your company. So there you go—I get to hang out with you and you’re feeding me! This is way better than hiring an escort to tell me I look pretty.”

I shove him lightly again.

“You know, if you were the type,” he continues, “you could probably charge the same as what my daily rate would be as a high-end escort. Just like I have to keep my eyes open for you, you’d be making some old bald guy feel like you just have eyes for him.” He blinks his eyelids fast ridiculously and fakes a dreamy look.

“You’re really asking for it,” I say playfully. “Keep talking like that and who’ll protect you from these?”

I hold up my small fists and he laughs, the sound and image striking me.

I’ve never really seen him crack up like that, and he’s even more striking when his chiseled face lights up.

I decide playtime is over—no more teasing and acting like we’re actually friends.

I definitely understand his sharp switches even more.