Page 90 of Trailer Trash

It clicks.

I could cam her. Yes! I could set up a camera and stream whenever she’s home. Then I would know.

So I do it. I buy a handful of small cameras. They’re tiny. No lights, cords, or anything else. They have to be charged, but I can do that when she’s at school.

I set one on the ceiling light above her bed. Another in her kitchen and living room. The last by her front door. As I check my phone to ensure the cameras are streaming, an elderly neighbor strolls by, walking his dog. I wave, being friendly. He smiles and returns the greeting.

Perfect. He doesn’t suspect shit.

Now I can watch every move she makes.

I hurry home and I bring up my apps — car tracker, cloned phone and laptop, account logins, and of course, the cameras. From that moment on, I’m hooked.

It’s reasonable. She lives alone. I’m helping her.

I always want to know where she’s at. After she leaves the mansion, I make sure she gets home okay. Same with school. I probably don’t need to monitor her banking, but her balance gets low — a lot. She never tells me how low. Since I’m a good friend, I stuff twenty-dollars in her wallet when she isn’t looking. I would put more, but Harlow doesn’t carry around a lot of cash and would notice. I just want to give her enough to feel a little better.

After week one, I know when Harlow eats and sleeps, but I still don’t know when she gets off.

By week three, this is my favorite thing to do.

The Monday drug screens keep coming. Somehow, I keep passing. Harlow looks proud every time, and I let her.

When she finishes her shift, I stream her cams on my phone, checking on her before bed.

Right now, she does her ritual, but forgets a step.

“Lock the front door,” I scold, growling at my phone screen.

As if she can hear me, she spins on her heel and backtracks, twisting the deadbolt.

Good girl.

“And the porch light,” I murmur.

She turns it on.

Very good girl.

I switch cams, and when she walks into the bedroom, she climbs under the comforter and drifts to sleep.

A simple, sexless, lonely existence.

As much peace as it gives me to know she isn’t getting it from somewhere else, I can’t help but be annoyed.

I’m right here.

Able to make her feel so good.

Before I get too mad, I text the only person who can calm me.

Me: Why would a girl resist being friends with benefits?

Me: I got her off multiple times

Asher: She could have faked it

I never thought of that.