Take the picture

She turns back to her room, her eyes landing on her own cell phone. She picks it up, checking the settings with practiced ease. She doesn't hide. She angles herself in the shadows of her curtains and zooms in.

Click.

She captures it: Mike, the "heroic" neighbor, hunched over his hedge clippers, his phone clearly angled toward the hot tub. It is a masterpiece of potential **** and raw human truth.

He wants them. He wants the 'story' of us. And honestly? I don't blame him. If I were him, I’d be watching too. But if he’s going to watch, he should see the whole show. He needs a better angle than what he can get from those bushes. I’ll give him something worth recording.

Kenzie sets her camera down on her bed, her heart thrumming. The sight of Mike’s obsession has stripped away the last of her "little girl" hesitation. She kicks off her jeans and pulls her oversized shirt over her head. She digs through her drawer, bypassing her sensible athletic suits for the skimpy, pink bikini she bought on a whim and never had the courage to wear.

She slides into it, the fabric barely covering the essentials. She looks at your portrait on the desk—those dark, demanding eyes—and feels a surge of exhibitionist power.