Rogue Wave, Isabel Jolie [ink ebook reader .TXT] 📗

walked out onto her back porch, leaned over the railing, and looked to your far left, you could see the lighthouse that kept ships from running aground as they made their way to the mainland.

I slid my hand along the pine banister and stepped cautiously up the steps. The faint sound of music circulated as I climbed. When I reached the landing, bright white flashing lights forced me to protect my eyes. “Poppy?”

Her head appeared from behind the white sheet held up by a stainless steel contraption. “Hey? What time is it?”

“What are you doing?”

Her cheeks flaunted a full pink glaze. She stepped closer. Makeup caked her face, and heavy eyeliner and mascara decorated her large blue eyes. And she wore lacy white lingerie.

“What are you doing?” I repeated, my tone so high I risked sounding judgmental.

“Working. Give me a minute. I have a client I need to respond to, and then I’ll be down. Help yourself to whatever you want from the refrigerator. Or wine. Do you want wine? I want wine. Open a bottle and bring me a glass. I need wine. Do you mind?” She rattled on as I scurried down the stairs.

I found a bottle I recognized with a duck on the label, uncorked it, poured two glasses, then drank half of one. Poppy hadn’t really shared much about her career change. She’d been a master at changing the subject when asked. I’d more or less assumed she found a company doing something online, research or managing ads or doing something with spreadsheets. Nothing worth talking about. Never did it ever occur to me she’d find a revenue source that involved lingerie. And photos. Because that curtain and flashing lights, she had to be taking photos. There had been a couple of umbrella-looking things scattered around the room. I’d seen that kind of setup at photographers’ studios.

I refilled my glass and made my way back up the stairs.

“Here you go.”

She sat typing away on her laptop, clicking keys at a speed that showed she could be an award-winning typist if there were such a thing. A floral silk kimono hid her lingerie, and she’d removed the cat eyes. Without the caked-on makeup and the long, dark eyelashes, she looked more like my friend.

With a final loud click, she closed her laptop, lifted a wine glass from my hand, chugged it, and said, “Okay. So, now you know.”

“Know what?” You do video sexting?

“Do you think it’s awful?” she asked with a grimace.

“What exactly are you doing?” I could make assumptions, but…

“Have you heard of OnlyFans?”

“No.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, come downstairs.”

I followed her down the stairs and onto her porch.

“I share photos of this gorgeous body,” she waved her hand down her voluptuous frame, “and men who get off on seeing pics of fat chicks in lingerie pay me. Some of them I build relationships with, and yes, don’t judge me. Some of them I have sexy conversations with. Well, really emails. Messages. But I make a ton of money. Like, so much money. I can show you how. You can totally do it. And I bet with a skinny body like yours, you’d make even more money than me.”

“Ahem, wow.”

“Do you want me to show you how? You can use my photo studio.”

“Ah…that’s okay.”

“Oh, my god. You think I’m a perv. That I shouldn’t be doing this. That I’m an awful person. You are going to slut-shame me.” Her neck and face flamed pink.

“Slow down, there, girlfriend.” I reached for her hand. “Calm it down. No judgment here. I’m just wrapping my head around it, that’s all. Give me a minute.”

She swallowed her wine with her enormous eyes trained on me, like a convicted person awaiting the sentencing from the judge.

“Stop it,” I demanded, and she dropped her gaze to her lap. “If this is what you want to do, I’m for it. You know me, I go with the flow.” I glanced to my wrist, one with the sea. “But you’re not fat. You’re sexy. I can see how there’d be lots of men paying for… Do you enjoy it? I mean, that’s what matters.”

She sank back into the cushion and exhaled loudly. “You know, I do? It’s weird. It started on a whim one day when I was debating if I should pay rent or buy food. And at the right angle, these tatas look pretty good, right?”

“I’d imagine they look pretty good from almost any angle.” Poppy might think of herself as fat, but I never had. She was what I’d call bigger boned, curvy but well-proportioned. I knew her weight bothered her because she’d always made comments and put herself down. Out on the beach, she hesitated to take off her cover up. And she never walked on the beach without something wrapped around her waist. But the ‘tatas,’ as she’d called them, were attention-getters. Whether we were out surfing or walking the beach or meeting up with friends at a bar, guys always noticed Poppy. Or, rather, they always noticed the tatas.

She pulled her robe tighter over her chest. “Thanks. It started as cleavage shots. You post pics, and people like them and pay you for more shots. Private shots. I set my camera on auto and take pics. I delete most, but there are some good ones with the right light and angle. A little Photoshopping. And, I mean, it’s people I’ll never meet in real life.”

“If it makes you happy, who am I to judge?”

“Yeah. It makes me happy. I’m good at marketing. The first thing I do each day is check my numbers. I was never the pretty girl, you know? I’ve been the fun friend, the one everyone loved to hang around but didn’t want to date. Now, I have these men from around the world paying to see my photos. It’s sort of rocking.”

“How do you know they’re men?”

“Oh.” She blinked several times as my question registered. “Well, it’s the internet. I suppose it could be women too.