Caught On The Conference Call

Eric clicks in on the video call with three of his crew—two guys on screen and Brooklyn in the top right corner. He starts rolling through quarterly numbers while she sits there looking half-dead, thumb wandering across her phone like the meeting's already over. A beat later her fingers drift to her blouse and pop the first button, then another, until she's got her phone propped against the keyboard and her hand sliding over the lace. Her face stays blank but her breathing shifts. Eric clears his throat, the other two stare straight ahead, and Brooklyn's fingers disappear beneath the waistband of her pants. Now it's obvious—she's finger-fucking herself to whatever's on that screen. Eric kills the share-screen, leans in. "Brooklyn. Camera's on." The other two break into grins, stifling laughs. Brooklyn's eyes widen like she just got smacked with ice water. "Shit—oh my God—I thought the cam was off, I swear—" "Log off," Eric snaps at the other two. They vanish, leaving just him and her. Her cheeks are burning; she's babbling sorrys and fumbling with the buttons. Eric’s tone flips, warmer now, almost friendly. "Relax. You're not fired… long as you keep the camera on for me."