“Mr. West, this is a courtesy call to let you know we turned away a...Mr. Jonathan Linwood, who was attempting to reach you earlier tonight, as you requested. Would you like us to inform the police?”

I cradle the hotel phone between my shoulder and neck, sliding the pizza I ordered off my lap and stretching the cord all the way to the window. Down in the parking lot, there’s just a delivery van and some people packing their kids into car seats.

“No need to inform the police,” I tell her. “I mean, unless he seems violent.” That’s a laugh. When it comes to me, Jonathan is always violent.

“Do you know his vehicle? We can call the police if we see it outside.”

“I’m not sure. It’s, uh...it’s been a while since I’ve had contact with him, really.”

“Okay. Well, we’ll call you if he comes by again.”

“Thank you,” I blurt, embarrassed that I’ve got the hotel staff fighting my battles. Then I catch a glimpse of my face in the window as I step back and let the curtain fall into place, and I don’t feel quite as bad.

“No trouble at all, sir. Is there anyone else we should stop from contacting you?”

I debate adding Jennifer’s parents to the list, but decide this would be cowardly and petty. “No,” I tell her. “Just Jonathan Linwood. Thank you again.”

After I hang up, I’ve lost my appetite. I close up the pizza box and lie down with my cell in my hand, waiting for Breton’s call to come through.

“Are you gonna do it?”

I shush Colby as she asks, yet again, about my impending “fool around” video call with Teague. “My mom is going to hear you.”

We’re in the living room while Mom’s in her office, just off the kitchen, and Dad does dishes while Mateo dries. The television is already tuned to Christmas movies, my dad’s favorite.

The truth is, I know I’m going to do it. I knew it the minute he asked. I probably knew it before that, even; why else had I packed the toy he’d given me?

Still, to save face with Colby, I pretend the decision is impossible to make. “If I want to act like everything’s normal so we can try and dig up some information,” I add, “don’t you think I should do it?”

Colby sees right through me. “Whatever you have to tell yourself, Bret,” she says, smiling to herself.

It’s late when everyone finally straggles to bed. I help Mom clean up the guest room for Colby, who asks me how to say, “Thank you for having me” in French, even though I insist it isn’t necessary; my parents are fluent in English.

“I just think it’ll show her I really mean it,” she persists. “Come on—all I know is merci.”

I sigh and tell her. When she stutters it out later, just before we all say our goodnights, Mom is thrilled. Not for the first time, I’m glad I brought Colby along.

As the house settles into silence, just the hum of our heating unit in the floors and strains of Leno coming from my parents’ room at the end of the hall, I lock my door.

The toy is buried in my luggage, wrapped in my green cardigan. It’s been a while since we’ve used it, but it’s got half a charge.

He answers the video call right away. I can see more of his face now, the light brighter. “I’m on my laptop,” he explains, and holds up his phone with a wink. “I realized every time I use the app, I’d have to minimize the video call. And no way I’m missing the look on your face when I turn it up.”

No matter how hard I resist, I find myself sinking into this familiar place with Teague. Maybe I don’t want to fight it, after all. Not tonight.

I put my laptop at the foot of my bed and strip for him, the way he tells me to. He watches with his usual heavy-lidded look of pride. I’m being his good girl, doing as I’m told.

“You have the toy?”

I hold it up.

“Good. Keep it close.”

At first, I can’t ignore the purple and yellow marks around his eyes, the nose splint, or the gruesome split in his lip. When he talks, they’re all I can see.

Then, slowly, they start to fade. The sight of “Jennifer West” on that paper, all my doubts, and the ball of anxiety in my stomach get farther away the more he talks.

He tells me where to put my hands and how fast to go, the pressure to use. “Tell me how it feels,” he says, his voice low.

“Really good,” I sigh, careful to keep my volume in check. “It’s not as good as when you touch me, though. Not even close.”

Teague smiles, happy with my response, and says, “All right, now grab the toy for me.” I do. “Put it inside, baby.”

When the toy is in, one end against my G-spot and the other on my clit, I angle the computer so Teague has a full view of it all.

“Are you touching yourself?” I ask, realizing I can still only see his face. “I want to watch you.”

He grabs his phone, scrolling through to the toy’s app. “Not yet. I want to focus on you for a while.” He looks at me. “Ready?”

My heart flutters. “Yes.”

Teague turns the toy on. It’s a gentle vibration, one of the lowest settings. He quickly turns it up to mid-range and watches intently while I squirm.

“Guess what I did today,” I sigh, the sensations worming into my brain.

“What’s that?”

I’m embarrassed to tell him—mortified, actually—but I know he’ll love it, which makes it worth it. “I masturbated in a gas station bathroom, thinking about you.”

Teague’s smile stretches from ear to ear. “God, Breton,” he breathes, and sets his laptop down. I hear his pants unzip. “You don’t make it easy for a guy to hold out, you know that?”