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  Becca Spence Dobias

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2021 Becca Spence Dobias

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Inkshares, Inc., Oakland, California

  www.inkshares.com

  Edited by Avalon Radys & Matt Harry

  Cover design by Lauren Harms

  Interior design by Kevin G. Summers

  ISBN: 9781950301256

  e-ISBN: 9781950301263

  LCCN: 2021935635

  First edition

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Jonas and Josie:

  This is how I give you West Virginia.

  Contents

  Cassidy

  Jane

  Cassidy

  Jane

  Cassidy

  Cassidy

  Jane

  Cassidy

  Paloma

  Jane

  Paloma

  Cassidy

  Jane

  Cassidy

  Jane

  Cassidy

  Cassidy

  Paloma

  Cassidy

  Jane

  Cassidy

  Jane

  Cassidy

  Jane

  Cassidy

  Paloma

  Cassidy

  Jane

  Cassidy

  Jane

  Cassidy

  Cassidy

  Jane

  Cassidy

  Paloma

  Cassidy

  Paloma

  Cassidy

  Jane

  Cassidy

  Paloma

  Cassidy

  Cassidy

  Paloma

  Cassidy

  Jane

  Cassidy

  Cassidy

  Jane

  Cassidy

  Paloma

  Cassidy

  Cassidy

  Paloma

  Cassidy

  Paloma

  Cassidy

  Jane

  Cassidy

  Jane

  Cassidy

  Paloma

  Cassidy

  Cassidy

  Acknowledgments

  Cassidy

  Mmmm, Cassidy typed, for the hundredth time that day. It took so little to turn men on, she thought as she took a sip of lime seltzer.

  Oh fuck, you like that? NaughtyGuy79 asked.

  Cassidy sent back a heart-eyes emoji—the bare minimum required to encourage someone set on having a hard-on—and switched tabs to her chat with Noeli. It was always a bit jarring going from work talk to real-life talk. Jarring, too, was how much more functional regular chat was. The cam site was constantly freezing or changing emojis into random combinations of symbols.

  “You working right now?” Noeli had asked.

  “Just chat. No video.” If she’d been on camera, Cassidy would have applied a bit of makeup, let her blond hair down to cover her undercut, and squeezed her bum into something sexy. Instead she was barefaced and broken out, with too-big cotton panties under her jeans, and a lopsided ponytail.

  “So you’re all turned on?”

  Cassidy laughed.

  “By all the sweet tips rolling in? Yes, very turned on,” Cassidy told Noeli, and took another gulp of fizzy water, silently cursing the Inland Empire for its lack of fall weather. Locals always talked about the superiority of dry heat, but in Cassidy’s opinion, any kind of ninety-degree weather in October was gross.

  “You said you actually get off in those videos though,” Noeli said.

  “Yeah, masturbating feels good. Plus I get paid for it.” She stared at the bare wall of her apartment and then out the window beyond to the smoggy peak of Mt. Baldy—brown and dusty in the distance. She didn’t miss much about West Virginia, but she did miss green. She’d hoped to live closer to the beach, but rent in LA was outrageous. Actually, she’d wanted to move to the Bay, with its foggy mornings and trolleyed streets, but rent there was even worse.

  She needed to decorate for her videos, she thought, remembering some of the cute setups other women had. One had an old-fashioned fainting couch that she lay on for her shows. Another had framed photos of her top tippers and a sign reading Love in pink neon. Cassidy was thinking shiplap. Or maybe one of those hanging swing chair things.

  “You know I’m not judging you morally,” Noeli said. “I just don’t get it.”

  “Still want to get tacos later?” Cassidy asked, and Noeli confirmed the time they were to meet. Back on her work tab, her notifications were going crazy.

  You there bb?

  Girl a selfie pls

  Hot and sexy pic just one please

  Can I send a pic of how hard you made me

  Cassidy smiled, slid lower into the maroon pleather desk chair she’d found by the dumpster, and propped her legs on the books beside her laptop before unbuttoning her jeans. One foot rested on the autobiography of Angela Davis; the other lay atop a guide to self-care for sex workers.

  Show me that thick cock, she typed.

  Cassidy was so absorbed in a chat with a regular who was promising to purchase several items from her wish list, that when Noeli pulled into the complex’s designated visitor spot in her ratty Honda Accord and honked the tired horn, the sound startled Cassidy, though Noeli was ten minutes late. Patting her back pocket to be sure she had her wallet and telling HelloBeautiful she had to run, Cassidy switched her brain back to normal-human-relation mode and skipped down the concrete steps to Noeli’s car, letting the door slam behind her. A cat had used the planter in front of the parking spot as a litter box and the smell permeated the windows. She should add some kind of deodorizing spray to her wish list, but she’d have to make it a sexy scent so it wouldn’t be weird.

  “So, who was he?” Noeli asked as Cassidy buckled her seat belt.

  “It’s the guy I was telling you about who never actually buys my panties, but gets off talking about how he wants to.”

  “That’s fucking weird.” Noeli navigated through the parking lot and around the tennis court, where a woman was rolling a ball under the net for her toddler to wobble after; by the empty clubhouse, sagging balloons and other remnants of a birthday party visible through the floor-to-ceiling window; and past the beige stucco residential buildings that looked like every other beige stucco building in this sorry excuse for a city.

  “He is far from the weirdest. I still think the dude with the wedgie fetish wins that one.” She smirked, but felt a small tinge of tenderness for MannyBoy27, the plastics engineer. He was always so enthusiastic and grateful, she remembered as she made a mental note to message him later and ask about his day.

  Heading south on Haven Avenue, Cassidy looked out at Rancho Cucamonga and its sad collection of strip malls and big-box stores. It was a suburb without a city, like a pronoun without an antecedent. It was middle-aged white women with bleached blond hair and fake boobs and bodybuilding bros with Ed Hardy tanks and backward ball caps.

  Once on the freeway, the stucco sped past—interrupted only by palm trees, cell phone towers made to resemble palm
trees, and the colorful symbols of capitalism splashed across billboards and boxy buildings. Cassidy felt the car jerk suddenly to the left.

  “Did you blow out a tire?” she asked, gripping the armrest.

  Noeli tightened her fingers around the peeling rubber of the steering wheel and tapped her nails, with their chipping black polish, against her palms. “The Santa Ana winds get stronger in Fontana.”

  “That’s wind?” Cassidy eyed the towering Amazon truck passing them, its load swaying precariously close to their lane.

  Noeli slowed to let the vehicle pass. “I told you we have seasons. Welcome to wind season,” she said.

  “How’s your mom?” Cassidy asked, reminded by the smiling arrow logo. “How’s the warehouse?”

  “The warehouse is still shit and my mom is still insane.”

  “I’m sorry.” Cassidy looked over at Noeli’s bouncy brown bob as they exited and drove south for several minutes in silence before pulling into a parking lot whose entrance featured a large statue of a horse on which three young children scrambled and climbed. Noeli slid into an open spot and pulled the key from the ignition. The Accord let out a sputtering sigh and Cassidy fumbled through her messenger bag for ChapStick before opening her door. She dug around, pushing aside gum wrappers and coffee shop receipts. Her phone buzzed and she fought the urge to check it, knowing it was probably one of her fans and that Noeli would be annoyed if she was distracted during dinner. What would HelloBeautiful end up buying her? She’d put an expensive camera on the list, hoping he might splurge, but she knew it would likely be a collection of smaller, sexier items—cheap lingerie, vibrators, maybe the vanilla fig body gel.

  Mariachi music emanated from the restaurant’s open patio and the women walked side by side toward the warm glow of the dining area, squinting against the wind. Dirt blew up from around their feet and stuck to Cassidy’s freshly balmed lips, which she wiped with the back of her hand. Noeli laughed. “You have things to learn about wind season.”

  Cassidy made a mental note to add lightweight, fast-dry lip gloss to her wish list.

  Inside, the other diners turned to look at the two women briefly, then turned back to their families and friends. Cassidy relaxed against a stucco wall lined with blue and orange tiles, and Noeli began to order in Spanish. The woman at the window looked up blankly from below her black visor until Noeli began again in English. Cassidy saw the cashier had an eyelash stuck to her cheek.

  “Make a wish,” Cassidy said to the woman as she handed a twenty-dollar bill over Noeli’s shoulder. Noeli passed it through the window, wherea few other women and a short dark man stood beside a large wheel, shaping tortillas, and Janelle Monae played from a small portable radio, competing with the sound system in the dining area. The cashier took the money without smiling and returned a handful of change.

  A man, squat and white, probably fifty-something, with a white button-down shirt and too much cologne, squeezed past and eyed Cassidy. She gave him a flirty smile, forgetting momentarily that she wasn’t on camera. Quickly, she looked away and snuck a glance at her phone. The buzzing earlier hadn’t been a fan message, but rather a call from her parents. Cassidy groaned, imagining calling them back. As she followed Noeli to a glass-topped table, she tried to think instead about the sloppy burrito—green sauce, hold the sour cream—awaiting her shortly.

  Jane

  Jane sat in the sterile maroon chair in her room at the old folks’ home she’d recently moved to, staring at the ugly blanket on her narrow bed. Her memory was failing, they told her. It was no longer safe for her to live alone. Perhaps they were right, she thought. She had been more forgetful than usual lately, names and words slipping from her grasp right as she tried to speak them, leaving her gaping and dumb.

  Most of her life, though, seemed clear as ever—clearer, maybe. These old memories came back to her in waves, reminding her how she’d gotten here, to this room where she was alone with her thoughts and the roaring air conditioner that left her cold no matter how many blankets she piled on her lap.

  Jane closed her eyes against the chill and let the memories roll over her.

  It was the war again and her brothers were off aiding the Allies, saving the world, while she was stuck at home trying her damnedest to do her part. Most days, doing her part felt an awful lot like keeping her trap shut.

  Just weeks earlier, she had walked across the stage, hair pinned neatly, gown rippling like Lady Liberty, to receive her diploma, another moment that had not gone at all how she’d imagined. She had pictured her real life waiting on the other side—college, books, and then a handsome husband. What she’d found instead was a quick embrace from her parents, a newly expanded chore list, and more time than anyone needed to think about the unpleasant state of world affairs.

  The war. It was all anyone talked about, wrote about, thought about.

  Jane watered the pigs and then stopped for a moment by her favorite tree to give it a quick pat, enjoying the familiar roughness of its bark. That was one thing she could look forward to this fall. This tree’s apples were always buttery sweet, their yellow skin snapping under her teeth with a satisfying pop. She could almost taste it now.

  Back inside, Arzella was buzzing around the house, fussing as usual over her African violets. The small pot by the door had gotten a new post on the windowsill. The soldier who’d been stationed at the window received his marching orders—it was off to the table with him, and there would be no back talk. Arzella touched her fingertips to the soil, testing the pot’s moisture, and caressed the emerald leaves with knotty-knuckled fingers.

  “Pigs are good.” Jane sat at the table beside her father, Philip, who was worrying over the paper.

  He put it down and looked at her. “Thanks, love.” Sweat speckled his creased forehead, furrows tilled deeper by the past year. Jane rolled the fabric of her skirt between her fingers. She wanted to ask him to take her into town, but she knew her mother would hassle her, reminding her of the work still to be done on the farm, all the absent brothers who weren’t there to do it.

  Arzella sat beside them and the three looked at one another, each waiting for someone else to speak first. The war hung between them, heavy as the Hindenburg. How queer it was, Jane thought, that something could envelop the whole world and yet be so personal, so intimate, such a familiar part of their little home that it seemed to sit right at the middle of their cherrywood table.

  No one spoke, and one by one, they looked away: Philip back to his paper, Arzella at her plant, and Jane at the dirt floor. Her brothers’ voices seemed to echo in these silences. At moments like this, Jane could hardly stand their absence.

  A breeze rustled the short curtains over the sink, bringing the humid summer a step further into the farmhouse. Philip ripped the front page from the paper, then folded it accordion-style, waving it in front of Jane’s face and then his own. Jane giggled. “Will you take me into town?” she asked.

  “I was planning on makin’ the trip anyway. I reckon you could tag along.”

  Jane smiled at her father gratefully.

  “Let’s go get the eggs, then,” Arzella said, standing. “If you’re gonna leave me to make supper on my own, at least help me with that.”

  Philip winked at Jane from behind the fan. From the accordioned page, a stony-faced housewife glared at Jane, an advertisement she was more than familiar with: What can I do to help win the war? Jane puffed up her chest, winked back at Philip, and followed Arzella out to the coop.

  That was the beginning of the decision that had changed her life, Jane thought now in the maroon chair—the last hour on the farm before her world expanded.

  Cassidy

  Back at her apartment, Cassidy threw her bag onto the floor and flopped into her desk chair, surprised HelloBeautiful had left her alone the entire time she was with Noeli. It was MannyBoy27 she was more concerned with. It had been almost a whole day si
nce she’d talked to him, when normally by now he’d have sent her several YouTube links to watch and respond to, bugged her to edit his running Google Doc about the things they would do when they got together, and cajoled her into sending at least a few selfies. She looked at his profile—the picture of him in a plaid button-down, a goofy grin on his bearded face, his bio stating his love for “the courageous and confident ladies who grace us all with the gift of their beautiful bodies,” the various thank-you messages from other girls, which had stopped once he and Cassidy had started talking regularly. Cassidy loved that he’d dropped everyone else and become her biggest fan—the one that egged the other tippers on with his large tips and gathered other users for her shows. She loved how he asked her to arrange his weird list in the order she wanted to do them. She always left give C a wedgie on top, since she knew how much he liked it, but she’d move the other items around each day, sometimes adding her own items—massage or take C shopping and help her in the dressing room. Had he moved on to a new girl? Cassidy glanced at the electricity bill that lay half open beside the Angela Davis book. Or what if he had died? Or been in some kind of accident? How would she know?

  She scrolled through her chat at the names of her other usual fans—the ones who messaged her when she wasn’t on camera. It was quiet. Normal for a Friday night, but still, Cassidy felt restless. She clicked on each name—Timmy, TheDuck, Metallica77—as if opening their conversations might summon them, but no one was around. She considered sending a hi, but quickly decided against it. Fans messaged her. They craved her attention. They needed her, not the other way around.

  She could do a show. It wasn’t her usual time, but she might attract some new people. Cassidy sat up straighter and began to arrange her mic and ring light, the selection of sex toys next to her chair. She went to the bathroom and brushed her hair out from its bun, put on primer and foundation, contoured her jaw and cheekbones. She eyed the plastic case of magnetic eyelashes on the counter but decided not to bother. This was more for exposure than money. In her bedroom, she laid several sets of lingerie on her unmade bed, looking for something she hadn’t worn in a while, and finally selected a purple bodysuit. There was a hole in the lace under one boob but she could angle herself so it wasn’t as visible on camera.