Eden sat in front of her vanity mirror, clamping a curler to her lashes. As always, she was surprised when she unclenched the silver tool and they hadn’t been snipped in half. She was wearing suspender stockings and a new Dita Von Teese lingerie set, bright pink with a sparkly belt around her middle. She’d noticed Willow seemed to particularly like Jenna in pink. The girlier, the better.

She misted her face with setting spray, the final step in her make up routine. She’d done it a million times since she started performing, but this felt different. She wasn’t pretending to be Bunny Descent, she was pretending to be Jenna Glass, nude model and cam-girl, object of lonely men’s obsessions. She’d used a lighter touch than she usually did for gigs, pale pink eyeshadow and only one set of false lashes.

The work was in her lips—layers of frosted lipstick and shiny gloss. The ombre effect made her mouth look huge and kind of slutty. ‘Josh’ by Peach PRC came through the speakers, making her smile. She was nervous to have Willow in her apartment, but excited too. It had been years since she brought a guy back to hers. She still had an hour to clean up—or at least shove most of her garbage into the empty pantry.

She picked up her water glass and sipped carefully through a straw. It was bland, but like it or not, Willow had gotten in her head. She hadn’t bought energy drinks for a week and aside from a lunch cocktail with Francis, she hadn’t drunk, either. Sobriety felt strange and kind of boring, but she was sleeping a lot better.

“You’re growing up,” she told her reflection.

Mirror Eden smiled, then her forehead creased. Was Willow really angry about her seeing Francis? Or was he just putting on a show for Instagram? She should have told him she was meeting him, but she hadn’t wanted to stress Willow out before his game. And she hadn’t expected Francis to post a photo. He barely posted anything non-music-related, and lunch was hardly a big event. They’d spent the entire meal bitching about club promoters.

Considering the years she’d spent lusting after him, it was funny how asexual their meal ended up being. She’d thought she’d fangirl, at least a little. But up close, Francis was pedantic, borderline whiny. All meal, she’d had to hustle to keep the conversation going and he hadn’t asked her anything about herself. He also didn’t have a massive chest or rough hands and she was sure he couldn’t do a Scottish accent or convincingly tie her to a chair then penetrate her under the guise of medical care. She’d built Francis Buchanan up in her mind as some kind of musical sex god when really he was just some fucking guy.