Tramp (Hush Book 1)

by Mary Elizabeth

  “When would you have time for all of this?” I ask, motioning toward the large table of scale models in every stage of development. They convey precisely how light will illuminate space, magnify textures and colors, and translate pride in the design before they’re built on a larger scale.

  Cristian presses his lips to the top of my shoulder. “My team wants to create our models on the computer, but I love building them with my hands. It’s more rewarding than watching my design 3D printed in plastic. The computer software makes it impersonal.”

  “If you did that, you’d have more time to build other things, like relationships,” I say with a small smile on my lips. “You could have a woman in your bed every night.”

  I like the idea of Cristian in his office at all hours, building tiny museums with clay, wire, and wood under a bright desk light. He’s the manic artist type. Not the socialite.

  “I only want you in my bed, Cara,” he says.

  Turning in his arms, I work to unbutton his shirt and say, “You’ve never had me in your bed. You’ve had me against the wall, on the floor, and over your model table, but never in a bed.”

  “You’re all I want.”

  I push his shirt over his shoulders, exposing his bare chest. “Surely, that can’t be true. You travel the world. I can’t be the only woman you’re sleeping with.”

  Cool air blows from the vents above us, helping a girl out and hardening my nipples. Cristian thinks it’s because of him, and his eyes darken with craving. He’s easy to look at, and I’m not repulsed when he touches me. Our conversations never stray from the current topic, and I know it’s the chase that he desires most. If one day I promised to give it all up for him, it wouldn’t take long for him to grow bored with me. An hour every four weeks is just enough to keep his interest—and keep me paid.

  I’m pleased when he bends me over the model table this time. As he gently kicks my ankles apart, I take the opportunity to inspect the tiny landscapes around his buildings. When he enters me, despite the moans and cries of pleasure I release, I’m solely focused on how detailed everything from the tree bark to each individual leaf is. I focus on everything but what’s happening to me.

  Then Talent’s face comes to mind.

  I squeeze my eyes closed, but he’s there, too.

  In an instant, tree bark and leaves are one-dimensional. Nothing but my memory of Talent’s dark hair and thick eyebrows hold light or texture. I can still hear the sound of his heavy breathing over the sighs coming from the stranger behind me and the fake noises I’m paid to make. Clenching my teeth, I fight back against the recollections of the fire Talent set inside me.

  I’m powerless against the flames.

  “Cara,” Cristian moans. He grabs my hips and ups his tempo.

  My skin crawls as self-control escapes the far, far corner of my mind where I go to feel nothing. Assaulted by revulsion, sadness, and the overwhelming need to get this man out of me, I push myself up on the palms of my hands and press my lips together to keep from crying out. My partner gets the wrong idea and brings himself closer to me, pressing against my back. His breath is warm on my neck, and his fingertips press into my skin too harshly.

  “Is that all you got?” I ask in an attempt to get him to hurry.

  He chuckles. “You’re feisty today.”

  Feisty.

  What a disgusting fucking word. What a gross way to be described. I want to chew the word—break it between my teeth and destroy it—wreck it for the rest of all time. I don’t want to be called feisty or sassy or spunky, or any other pet name these horny pricks think sound cute. I do what they want. My body is theirs to command. But I won’t be called … feisty.

  I turn around just to put my hand over Cristian’s mouth. “Shut up and fuck me.”

  Confusion drains from his expression, replaced with excitement. He lifts me from my feet and places me on the table, knocking the roof from one of his models. I keep my palm over his mouth to guarantee his silence. When he slides inside of me again, I close my eyes and tilt my head back until it’s over, clashing with images of Talent Ridge.

  When my time with Cristian is up, I make a trip home to shower and wash the repulsion from my skin. My next appointment is with a newspaper editor with a foot fetish, who’d rather kiss my toes for an hour than see me naked or penetrate me in any way. If I need to double up appointments in one day, I like to have him on my schedule because I know exactly what to expect.

  I wear the tallest pair of heels I own and leather pants that expose my ankle. When the editor calls me back to his office, he stares at my feet in the shoes he can’t wait to rid me of. My pretty face comes second to my pretty toes.

  “Good afternoon, Cara,” he whispers as I walk by.

  He closes the door and locks it before pulling the blinds down around his office. There’s a chair in the corner of the room meant for me. Beside the seat is a small side table with a bowl of red grapes he likes me to eat during our time together.

  Everyone’s kink is different. I’m not here to judge.

  I settle into the chair, and he sits on the floor at my feet. He loves designer shoes and only has eyes for my Jimmy Choos, per his request.

  “Can I take them off of you?” he asks.

  He’s a decent guy. We’ve seen each other in this office four or five times. Nothing he does insults me. What he likes isn’t perverted or menacing. He’s polite, asks for consent, and is careful. But for some reason, I want to slam the heel of my thousand-dollar shoe into his eye.

  The sorry bastard might like it.

  I lift the bowl of fruit to my lap, ignoring his request as I pick a grape from the vine. Crossing my legs, I roll my ankle in front of his face as I pop the grape into my mouth and bite with a crunch. Sweet juice fills my mouth and I moan dramatically. He looks away from my foot long enough to watch me lick my lips.

  “Do you want to guess what color I painted my toes?” I ask. I press my toe to his crotch to feel his erection.

  “Yes,” he says softly.

  “We should make a wager. A bet.” I drag my shoe along his hard cock through his slacks.

  Heat spreads up his neck and across his cheeks, reddening his light skin. My appointment swallows hard, but he knows better than to touch me before I allow it.

  “Alright.”

  “If you guess right, you can fuck me with my ankles on your shoulders. If you guess wrong, I’ll let you play with my feet, but you won’t fuck me today. Deal?”

  It’s a bargain he accepts right away because either way he wins. Just looking at my feet arouses the newspaper editor, but he’s not so deep into his fetish that he needs feet to come. It’s just a plus. He’ll guess wrong, but he’ll still get to kiss, lick, and massage my feet. That’s enough to keep him hard, and right before his hour is up, I’ll jerk him off.

  “They’re red,” he guesses. Normally, he’d be correct. Red is such a sexy color. It provokes passion and increases blood pressure. Men are drawn to the color, associating it with sensuality and romance. I wear it on my lips, my nails, and my toes for these reasons.

  Last night I removed every trace of it from my hands and feet, and I wore a nude lipstick to today’s appointment.

  “You can take off my shoe and find out.”

  He cradles my foot as if it’s his most precious possession, careful not to scuff the shine on my shoe. Numbness that’s accompanied me since the day I followed my mom’s footsteps into sex work abandons me, and it’s a struggle not to scream stop. The word is stuck in my throat. I swallow, and swallow, and swallow again to keep it down.

  “Damn,” the editor moans when he sees my bare, paintless toes. His eyes find mine, and if he catches indecision in my expression, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he lifts my foot and asks, “May I?”

  I nod.

  My words can’t be trusted.

  He licks the arch of my foot, and I clutch the arms of the chair to keep from jumping up and running away. The bowl of grapes falls to the
floor.

  I’m broken.

  There’s no other explanation.

  I’m a psychopath, losing control of my mind.

  On the treadmill in the dining area where a dinner table should be, I’ve attempted to control my racing mind, running faster and farther than ever. My tan top’s drenched in sweat. Rebellious hair sticks across my forehead and neck. I’ve been home from my appointments with Cristian and the editor for hours. The sun is down, and I should be in bed, resting for another day of appointments. But the idea of letting tomorrow’s clients touch me is sickening, and I can’t outrun the feeling no matter how hard I try.

  When my lungs feel like they’re going to burst and I can’t keep the sweat out of my eyes, I slam my palm against the stop button and jump off. I double over with my hands on my knees, inhaling through my nose and out of my mouth as the muscles in my legs seize. My body might crumble until a rush of endorphins blankets me in dopamine and it feels as good as it did when I walked into Talent’s office and saw him sitting behind his desk.

  I forgo the vodka in my freezer for water, guzzling half the bottle in one icy drink. I’m wiping it from my chin when someone knocks on my door.

  Inez holds her cell phone up for me to see when I open the door, knowing it only could have been her. She’s the only person who knows where I live. Yet, in all the years we’ve known each other, she’s never stopped by unannounced. I don’t know what to expect.

  “Did you leave your phone with Talent Ridge?” she asks right away, shaking hers at me.

  Swiping sweat from my eyebrow on the back of my hand, I groan. “I dropped it before I left and forgot to take it with me. I haven’t activated another burner…”

  “He called, and I thought it was you. He said my number was the only contact saved.”

  My heart nosedives past my shredded lungs, through my shaky legs, to my feet. “What did he want?”

  “You.”

  “Are you training for a marathon or something? What’s wrong with you?” Inez asks, letting herself in. She hurries past me, careful not to touch my sweaty body.

  “After two days of chaos and binge drinking, I thought working out was a healthier way to deal with my problems,” I answer, toeing my shoes off. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

  “Jesus, Lydia.” Inez looks around, scoping out the bare walls and lack of furniture apart from the couch and treadmill. “How long have you lived here? Would it kill you to decorate? Where’s your television?”

  “In the bedroom.” What’s the point of decorating when I might have to leave without notice one of these days? “Can I get you anything?”

  Inez shakes her head. “No, thank you. Once I realized Talent had your phone and I didn’t have a way to contact you, I headed over to make sure everything is square. It’s not like you to make a mistake like that.”

  Embarrassment warms my cheeks, concealed by the redness in my skin from the workout. “Looks like Ridge & Sons threw us off our games.”

  Snapping her head in my direction, Inez’s short haircut sweeps along her jawline as it swings from the sudden movement. For a split second, she stares at me with the same dark dissatisfaction she shared with Naomi yesterday. I am, after all, an employee who performed with unsatisfactory results. But unlike Naomi, Inez won’t let me go so easily.

  She sits on the center of the couch, bouncing up and down and scoffing. “Do you ever sit here?”

  “No. Not often,” I admit.

  The couch was purchased because coming home to an empty living room every day was depressing. It was a constant reminder that I have no roots—a shoddy history. I didn’t have parents to pass down their old furniture to me when I rented my first apartment or heirlooms to inherit. There are no awkward school pictures or family photos to hang up, and I don’t have any friends. No one takes pictures of me or with me, so there’s nothing to put in frames.

  I bought the sofa online because it looked cozy.

  It’s not.

  The material is itchy and it’s hard. But it’s something to come home to.

  I’ve considered ordering canvas portraits of inanimate objects, but the truth is, nothing interests me. There’s not anything I consider particularly beautiful.

  Except Talent.

  My only hobby is getting paid, and I can’t very well put my line of work all over the walls. The exception to my indifference about making my house a home is my bedroom. I lived on this planet for eighteen years without a bed to call my own, so I don’t take it for granted. My room is everything I wanted as a kid—without the band posters and lava lamps.

  “This couch won’t do.” Inez sits back, draping her arm over the back of it. “I’ll get you a new one.”

  I finish the rest of my water, unamused with her rant about my living situation. “I’m always glad for your company, but you didn’t come all this way to criticize my furniture. Talent didn’t call you to return my phone, did he?”

  “No, sweetheart, he didn’t.” She looks at her shoes and exhales audibly. “And I should tell you that I answered the call by your real name.”

  Caught off guard, my normal passiveness and self-control nearly abandon me with my ability to clear my mind during appointments. It’s a total out-of-body experience, and I don’t recognize who I’ve become in forty-eight hours. Who’s this girl who’s allowed her strict routine to come unraveled, because it certainly isn’t me.

  “You called me Lydia,” I state. “Did you call me Lydia Montgomery? Or just Lydia?”

  “Have I ever answered your telephone calls with Lydia Montgomery? You’re Lydia. You’re the only one who’s ever called me from one of Lydia’s numbers.”

  Rubbing the back of my neck, I close my eyes and wish this away. Please, please let this be a bad dream.

  Alas, when I open up, Inez is still sitting on my uncomfortable sofa, and Talent Ridge knows my real name.

  Wishes don’t typically come true for me.

  I take the seat next to Inez and let her hold my hand. Settling back into the cushions, I stare at the ceiling and say, “I can’t be the only person named Lydia in this godforsaken city.”

  “Doubtful. Lydia is a name so beautiful, plenty of people share it with you,” Inez agrees.

  Turning my gaze toward her, I ask, “What did he say?”

  Inez sits straight and lifts her eyebrows in excitement. Her eyes light up, and she squeezes my hand. “I took the opportunity to apologize for the miscommunication that resulted in this disaster. He was upset, of course, and he now knows it was Phillip Vogel and a woman who no longer works with us who set him up on a date he never asked for.”

  “Naomi won’t be back?”

  “Letting girls go can be tricky, but she’ll never work for me or anyone I know again. I’ve had a bad feeling about her for a long time,” Inez says, diverting her eyes away from me. “He took our account into consideration and seemed to understand. Talent Ridge has a bit of a temper, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

  Talent’s temperament remains at the forefront of my mind, but how angry he was when I told him his time with me was purchased wasn’t what chased me out of his office.

  Embarrassment isn’t an emotion I’m used to experiencing, but I became immersed in it after his rejection. Something inside of me changed when I stepped foot in his presence, and I let it carry me away like a ship on the sea. For the short time we were together, it didn’t feel like a transaction. I stupidly succumbed to wishful thinking, as if he’d ever be interested in me like the other rich girls he dates. His anger makes sense now that I know the truth. We were both blindsided, but that doesn’t make the humiliation hurt any less.

  “He wants to see you again.”

  My heart simultaneously swells and stops beating. I laugh, surprised by how foreign it sounds in this space. The muscles in my face aren’t used to flexing in such a way, and I cover my mouth with my free hand to touch what it feels like. My lips stretch into a curve, dotted by shallow dimples and creases. Laught
er’s warm and soothing, lowering my stress level from excruciating to less than excruciating.

  Inez rolls her eyes, but the grimace on her lips isn’t genuine. She squeezes my hand gently, rubbing her thumb back and forth over my fingers until the unfamiliar melody slows. My laugh is more hysterical than joyous, but it feels okay. I don’t hate it.

  “Why would he want to see me again, Inez? Does he want another go at crushing me?”

  “Maybe he wants to apologize.”

  “He doesn’t owe me anything.”

  Inez clenches my hand once more before standing. “Or maybe we didn’t blow Ridge & Sons like we thought we had. I sent you for a reason. You’re the best, and you always deliver.”

  “That’s me. Employee of the month.”

  She scoffs, waving me away as she makes her way toward the door to leave. It’s her way of saying, you mean more to me than that and you know it. “I’d like you to see him again, Lydia, if only to correct Naomi’s mistake. Hush doesn’t need this stain on our reputation. Clean up this mess so we can move on or move forward. I’ll figure out another way.”

  Figure out another way for what? I ask myself.

  She doesn’t leave room for argument, so I don’t bother with theatrics and internalize my protest—the most me thing I’ve done in days. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to see Talent again, anyway. Confrontation is better left avoided, but a face-to-face conversation might be what it takes to get him out of my head.

  Boy trouble—if a psychotic one-sided fascination is considered boy trouble—is something I’ve never experienced. How did a quick fuck amount to this? I don’t know, but I want my damn life back.

  I was taken by surprise when Inez sent the address to the location where I’m to meet Talent. Nearly a week has passed since she showed up at my apartment unannounced with the news that he wants to see me again. I started to believe it wouldn’t happen and this distracted version of myself is my new normal, until yesterday when she asked if I was free to meet Talent this evening. The only plans I had were the half marathon I now run each night before bed.