My Pretty Dirty Kitten

Gianna

My phone buzzes in my hand and I groan. Diane again.

Diane: What do you think about this?

I open the message and instantly roll my eyes. A photo of a half-naked catgirl outfit. Ears, tail, and absolutely nothing left to the imagination.

I swear, that woman's brain runs on desperation and bad decisions.

I get it - she wants my account to grow - but hell, this isn't part of my dream. I have a future to think about, and flashing skin online isn't in the plan.

But here I am.

On girlgonewild.com.

I'm desperate when I start the account. Still am. I overhear some girls at school bragging about how easy the money is and think, why not?

Can anyone blame me? I'm drowning in debt, barely keeping my head above water.

So I create kittenxo - the dumb, cute, nerdy blonde who cosplays for fun.

Just like that, one tiny trial turns into thirty, and I get pulled into a world of a hundred thousand subscribers. Despite my earnings being low, I still get assigned a manager.

Diane.

She's as sweet as they come, but when it comes to business, she becomes a real pain in the ass. Like now. She expects me to show more skin. Semi-naked.

Yeah. Not happening.

I stare at the photo again and slam my phone shut before my brain melts.

There is no way I'm wearing that.

If anyone from school finds out I'm kittenxo, I'm done. Goodbye law school. Goodbye reputation. Goodbye everything.

Maybe I end up like my parents - broke and too poor to even afford coke.

Yeah. The assholes die of an overdose, leaving my brother and me to settle all their impending debts.

I shake the memory away and stuff my things into my bag, ready to bolt out of class before my mind explodes from these fucking thoughts.

Before I can get to the door, a tall figure shifts in the corner of my vision.

Shit.

I shove my earbuds in, not even bothering to turn on music.

"Gianna, wait up!"

I ignore him and keep walking, headphones in, nodding to a playlist that isn't even playing.

Just a few more steps and-

His fingers brush my shoulder. I freeze, eyes rolling so hard it hurts.

"Oh, Kev. You nearly gave me a heart attack," I say, tugging an earbud free with a smile that doesn't reach my eyes.

He grins - boyish, stupidly sure of himself. "You walk so fast."

People at school call me a man-hater. I don't mind the nickname; it keeps the fuckboys away.

Well. All of them except one.

Kevin Greyheart.

He doesn't understand the word no. Personally, I think he enjoys being rejected.

Every single no I give him ends with him coming back more determined.

I mean, Kevin isn't bad on the eyes. If we're talking about types, he's fully mine - blue eyes, perfectly curled hair, chiseled jawline. And of course, the cherry on top: senator Greyheart's golden son.

I force a smile. "I'm sorry, I'm just in a hurry. You know... work?"

He chuckles, stepping closer until his fingers brush through a strand of my hair.

"Psych. I already told you - date me and you'd never have to work a day in your life again."

I scoff softly and pull my hair from his touch. Sure, the idea sounds nice—given my current trainwreck of a situation—but being someone's pretty little ornament?

Not happening.

"You know me, Kev," I say, flashing a sweet, practiced smile. "I like my life hard."

He grins—that cocky, all-American boy smile that probably makes every other girl melt.

"And that's why I can't seem to stop wanting you."

"Too bad you'll never get me," I say, slinging my bag higher on my shoulder.

Kevin smirks, unbothered as always. "Yeah, yeah. Still doesn't mean I'll stop trying. Anyway, I want to invite you to a party tonight - my place."

I groan under my breath. "You know how much I hate parties."

"It'll be fun. Music, food, drinks, me - what more could you possibly want?"

"Peace and quiet," I shoot back, already stepping away.

He chuckles, walking backward to keep up. "You'll show up. I can feel it."

"You feel wrong a lot."

"Then prove me right this once, Gianna."

"I can't-"

He presses a finger to his lips, shushing me. "Don't say no. If you want, I'll pay you for the shift you'll be missing."

I bite down on my lower lip. Am I seriously considering this?

The idea of getting paid to party doesn't sound half bad - but still.

"Just think about it, okay?"

By the time I get home, I'm already rehearsing the long speech I'm going to give the universe about leaving me the hell alone. I flip the switch on the wall, praying the lights come on like a miracle.

Nothing.

I thought Alec said he'd handle the light bill this month? Perfect.

I stand there in the dark, backpack sliding off my shoulder, staring at the dead lightbulb like it personally hates me. Maybe it does. Maybe everyone does. Maybe I hate myself too, because the first thought that crawls into my brain is the one I've been avoiding for months.

Explicit content.

Real explicit content.

Diane's words flood my mind as I stand hopelessly in the room. I'm already knee-deep in this shit - why not just go the whole ride?

From the pitch she gives, I could be earning real money. Not $500 per sub - thousands. Enough to handle the debts.

I drop my bag and rub my face. I don't want this. But fuck - there's absolutely nothing in here.

The fridge is practically empty. Working two shifts barely does anything.

Alec, on the other hand... God, I love him, but he's part of the problem now. He doesn't work unless it's a race, and I have to bail him out almost all the time.

I pull out my ring light and set it on my desk. At least it still works, powered by my laptop. The glow fills the room with a soft, artificial warmth. I almost pretend my life isn't falling apart.

I change into one of the kitten outfits Diane sends - the one with more coverage than the one from today.

Pink lace. A cute bow collar. My blonde wig.

And the only important piece of clothing.

My mask.

I stare at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the girl looking back.

I guess I'm doing this.

I hit Go Live.

The screen lights up. The chat explodes instantly.

Kitten's back.

She looks stressed.

Spin for us.

We missed you.

Is that a new suit?

I wave. They know the rules. No talking unless necessary. No asking for my mask to come off.

I take a breath and move slowly, fingers trailing up my arm, eyes half-lidded.

My mind screams at me to turn the stream off, but Nicholas Bonnin's Shut Up & Listen starts playing, and the song flows through my body.

I'm not stripping. Just teasing. Enough to make these paypigs actually pay.

I watch the viewer count spike the second I drop the little jacket layered over the outfit.

My hands glide over my chest, playing with the strings when a notification flashes across the screen - bold and bright.

A tip of $12,000 has been sent by kittentamer.

My heartbeat slams against my ribs.

Twelve. Fucking. Thousand. Dollars.

My hand drops to the chair, shaking as it grips the edge.

A private message follows.

End the stream. Now.