Tramp (Hush Book 1)

by Mary Elizabeth

  My legs have never been stronger.

  Judging by Talent’s reaction when I told him I was a paid escort, the idea of meeting him in public for our talk seemed out of the question. Dramatic scenarios of abandoned parking garages and pat downs for listening devices crossed my mind. What I definitely didn’t expect was a coffee shop in the middle of town. The concept is bizarre. I’ve never had coffee with a man in my entire life. I’ve never sat across a table from a man in this capacity—just to talk.

  I pause in front of the shop, inhaling the rich chocolaty scent of fresh brewed coffee. Ten or twelve people gather inside, some waiting in line to give their order, others at tables and on couches in conversation or buried in their laptops. The evening sky is the color of sherbet, deepening the warm light coming from inside through the large windows. The scene is utterly average, straight out of a movie or book, and entirely brand new to me.

  My public outings are limited to my weekly visits with my clients, Hush, and the grocery store. I’ve pulled my hair up, with a natural palette of makeup on my face, and left the heels at home not to stand out should I run into someone who pays me for sex. Which has never happened before because I don’t leave my apartment.

  “Welcome,” the young girl behind the register says when I enter.

  A few customers look up upon my arrival. Their eyes hang on for a moment before returning to their discussions and work. Little do they know the highest paid escort in the city just arrived.

  I’m twenty minutes early and Talent isn’t here yet, so I stand in line and scope the menu. Growing up on fast food and vending machine snacks, coffee, unless charred at the bottom of a pot that had been on all day, is another thing I don’t have much experience in. Everything looks amazing and smells even better, like cinnamon, vanilla, and warm bread.

  “What can I get you, hun?” the same girl who greeted me asks.

  “Something with caramel drizzle,” I say.

  She smiles and says, “You got it.”

  Releasing my bottom lip from between my teeth, I add, “And one of those cake pops.”

  My drink tastes like a dream topped in a mountain of whipped cream and river of salted caramel. It’s cold, velvety, and unlike any coffee drink I’ve had before. I feel like a kid in a candy shop, and it takes real effort to use the straw instead of gulping the entire thing down. Looking to make sure no one’s watching, I swipe the whipped cream with the tip of my finger and lick it off. Then I behave.

  I contemplate devouring the cake pop when the chime above the entrance door rings and my heartbeat wavers. I know it’s Talent without looking. It’s in the way the coffee shop shushes for a split second, and by the way my skin hums as it remembers his nearness. The entire place does not stand and applaud his arrival like I imagined—baddest lawyer in town, everyone. If you want to purchase a billion-dollar company for half its worth, Talent Ridge is your man.

  What I need to do is stop watching so many movies during my time off and get some real-world experience. This amazing coffee and my ignorance to normal human interaction are enough to convince me.

  “Good evening, Mr. Ridge,” the barista says with a beaming smile on her face. “It’s nice to see you again. Will you be having your normal order?”

  Talent pulls a brown leather wallet from his back pocket and nods. “Please.”

  Twinkling lights strung up around the perimeter of the shop grow brighter as the sun inches lower, reddening the exposed brick walls. Old bicycles hang on industrial pipe brackets next to black and white photography featuring must-see spots around Grand Haven. Ferns droop from the ceiling, their vines stretching toward the ground. And an indie rock band plays on the stereo, loud enough to drown out the customers typing on their keyboards, but quiet enough not to be distracting.

  Talent waits for his coffee with his hands in his pockets. I expected him to show up in a suit, as if that’s all he has to wear. Instead, he’s casual in black jeans and a dark green knit sweater rolled up mid-forearm. His hair is just as unruly as it was in the office, and his jaw is just as sharp.

  “Wish me luck,” I whisper to the potted succulent on the center of the table.

  When Talent turns toward the corner where I’m sitting like he knew I was here this entire time, I wish I had a laptop or smartphone to look preoccupied with. The full force of his metal stare meets my own, and there’s no pretending I wasn’t watching him.

  I sip from my drink, but cold vanilla and caramel do nothing to turn down the heat smoldering inside of me. My entire body flushes as he comes closer with eyes only for me, like maybe he remembers what I look like without clothes, too.

  “I didn’t think you’d show up.” He takes the seat across from me, placing his drink down carefully. His cappuccino, with the frothy latte art on top in a matching mug and saucer, is ridiculous and I can’t help but crack a smile. So does Talent. “It’s the best in town, I promise.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it,” I answer.

  “Angie’s flowers have improved a lot.” He lifts the mug to his lips and blows the shape from the steamed flowers before taking a mouthful. “Angie’s the barista, by the way.”

  Butterflies are exhausting. Blushing is stupid. I don’t want to be the shy type. The ups and downs of not being an emotional mute aren’t the life for me.

  Retreating into myself, I drop the smile from my lips and fold my hands in my lap. Talent must be accustomed to women talking his ear off, fishing for compliments and doing everything they can to impress him. That’s not what this is. He studies my indifference, swallowing his cappuccino without a care in the world. Silence is never uncomfortable for me, and it looks like Talent can deal with it. But we’re here to talk.

  “You look different,” Talent observes.

  “Is that your way of saying that I don’t look like a whore?”

  His eyebrows shoot up, and he leans back in the chair to put more space between us. He laughs, but it’s a callous laugh—a who-does-this-person-think-she-is laugh. It’s the only indication that he’s taken aback by me, and it’s so brief, I could have made the entire thing up. The lawyer in him gives nothing else away.

  “I never thought you looked like a whore.” He doesn’t break eye contact, and it feels like a dare and the truth. “Obviously.”

  The sun sets amid our staring game, and the night sky somehow intensifies the scent of ground coffee beans in the air. The table shrinks under the dim artificial light from above, and the walls hold us tight. Outsiders see two people quietly enjoying the best cappuccino in the city, but Talent and I are still trying to navigate this conversation. We tiptoe, tiptoe around the elephant in the room.

  “Inez explained what happened. Why am I here?” I turn my straw in my cup, mixing the whipped cream with the rest of my drink. “When she said you wanted to see me again, I didn’t think it would be in this capacity.”

  A faraway look crosses his expression, and I know he’s remembering our night in his office. “I’m not sure inviting you to my office again was a good idea, Lydia. Or would you rather I call you Cara?”

  “You can call me whatever you’d like, Mr. Ridge.” I wink.

  “Do you have a last name?” he asks.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  Talent shifts in his seat to look around the shop. For a person who has his every move scrutinized, he looks at home here. A few people stare and stare again, and I catch the baristas talking among each other, stopping only to glimpse at Talent Ridge. But he isn’t being treated like he has one of the most recognizable faces in the community.

  “One of those chain coffee spots is literally across the street from our building,” he says, still enjoying his surroundings. “It would be so much easier to get coffee there than coming across town to this place. But this was my mom’s favorite shop. They’ve always made me feel comfortable here, so I hoped it would be the same for you.”

  “Do you drink a lot of coffee?” I ask.

  Talent faces m
e again. “Honestly, I fucking hate coffee. I get the cappuccino because I don’t know what else to order.”

  Pointing to my drink, I say, “I have no idea where this drink has been my whole life, but it’s delicious.”

  Talent holds his mug between his palms atop the table. He smirks and has the audacity to look shy. “I feel the exact same way about you.”

  Nothing. Void. My mind is blank. My face is blank. Vacant.

  He chuckles to himself and changes the subject, saying, “Phillip and I grew up together. He came clean as soon as I confronted him about you. The guy’s a dick with the best intentions. What he did was wrong, and it’ll never happen again. Not like that.”

  I want to ask, not like what?

  “Talent,” I say with an edge in my tone. “If you asked me here to explain your innocence, I know the story. I also know about Ridge & Sons and what your family’s reputation means in Grand Haven. You can rest assured, no one will ever know what happened in your office between us. This is my livelihood, too. Sex isn’t the only thing I get paid for. My silence is just as valuable.”

  He doesn’t look ashamed or put off by my honesty. He simply replies, “I didn’t pay you.”

  This doesn’t warrant a response. If it’s my character he’s questioning, nothing I say or do will set his mind at ease. I’ll always be the prostitute who has one over on him. Secrets like these have the tendency to resurface at the worst times for men like Talent. Or maybe he likes the drama. Maybe it adds spice to his mundane, privileged life.

  It’s not every day he’s able to treat a whore like a plaything.

  No, he doesn’t seem like the drama-seeking type. I don’t even think he’s concerned with the idea of me storming through some church entrance one day, should he ever get married, to expose the truth about the night he fucked a hooker on his desk. The Ridge family is too powerful to be concerned about someone like me. No doubt they have a team of people on standby should a Ridge get themselves mixed up in scandal.

  Try as I might to retreat from this situation and embody Cara Smith, it’s impossible in his presence. I’m shoved out of the recesses of my mind by curiosity and straight-up infatuation. Have I ever been this attracted to another human being before? I’m commissioned to have sex with so many different types of men, but I’m not particularly attracted to any of them as I am their wallets. They’re one-dimensional and vague.

  There’s the person who I lost my virginity to when I was fourteen. But that was a direct result of being raised in a sexualized environment and my eagerness to know what sex felt like.

  “I can’t stop thinking about you,” Talent admits.

  “Two thousand an hour,” I reply without skipping a beat.

  Talent doesn’t insult me by looking shocked. “Is that the going rate these days?”

  “Three thousand because you’re a smartass.” Regaining an illusion of confidence is effortless when talking about the price of my body. Unlike the coffee shop and human interaction, discussing money isn’t foreign to me. “Of course, you’ll first need to pass a background check.”

  “Wow.” Talent lifts his mug to his lips. “That could get interesting.”

  “And a credit check,” I add.

  Negotiating with clients is something I haven’t done in a very long time. Not since the days when I gave twenty-dollar blow jobs to buy something to eat. But this is a conversation I know my way around, and our surroundings melt away as I take control over the mood of our date.

  “I didn’t do any of that before.” Talent’s entertained. He sits back in his chair with a small smile on his lips and his gaze fixed on me.

  Lifting an eyebrow, I say, “That was a favor for a friend.”

  Talent’s head falls back, and he laughs out loud. Not in a demeaning way, but in a feel-good, enjoying his company way.

  “You’re not friends with Phillip Vogel, are you? Because I was under the impression he was the only one dishing out favors to friends.”

  “No,” I say. “I’m not friends with Phillip Vogel. I should recommend you find better company, though.”

  He runs his hand through his hair and chuckles. We make eye contact yet again, but this time neither one of us can look away. Our surroundings not only melt away, they completely evaporate. We’re two people sitting at a table, floating in deep outer space, drifting farther and farther away from comfort. Talent punctures me with his gray stare, trespassing over the defensive wall I’ve built a million miles high, to find me exposed and vulnerable on the other side.

  In this vast nothingness where only the two of us exist, he comes closer and closer, little by little, holding his hand out. My heart can’t handle hope. It doesn’t know the concept. It rages and thrashes inside of my chest as alarms go off in my head, creating panic out of promise.

  Too close, Lydia Montgomery. He’s too damn close.

  I look away first, shoving Talent through the other side of my wall where he belongs. My eyes burn and my heart continues its lashing, but my lungs lend me a helping hand. “Four thousand an hour.”

  “Baby, I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

  What did I expect him to say? That he wants to make an honest woman out of me? He wants to rescue me from this life and from myself? That he likes me, too?

  Not at all.

  But why does he disappoint me?

  Time is money, and I’ve given enough of it away for free. This charade ends the moment I stand to my feet and walk away. It’s not dramatic. It doesn’t catch the attention of the other customers. No one watches me leave. The baristas call out their generic have a nice night, as I pass through the door, but my exit is as seamless as my unhappiness.

  There’s not a taxi in sight, and I’m ready to jump on the damn city bus when Talent calls my name.

  “Lydia, stop,” he says.

  My ponytail swings behind me as I up my pace, taking long strides to escape frustration. My wedges tap on the concrete sidewalk in quick succession, carrying me farther from the coffee shop and closer to anywhere but here. There aren’t many people on the street, but the few who join me on my night walk make a path like I’m crossing the damn Red Sea.

  “Lydia, please,” Talent calls out again. “I’m sorry.”

  Unlike people, dogs aren’t intimidated by my untouchable aura and eagerness to get the fuck out of here. A small stray must smell whipped cream on my fingers and cake pop on my skin. It stands in my path, jumping at my ankles when I outmaneuver it and barking when I turn the full force of my unamused expression on its pitiful display.

  “Get the hell out of here, dog,” I grumble.

  The damn dog slows me down and Talent catches up. He clutches my arm and says, “Will you stop for one fucking minute, please?”

  The same as when Naomi grabbed my elbow, I stop and stare at the contact in shock. But unlike with Naomi, I don’t push him against the wall and threaten his very life.

  Turning my gaze to him, my lips part and I exhale. He stops time.

  But time ceases to exist at all when his mouth crashes on mine.

  This is my first kiss.

  Not technically. But I’ve never been kissed like this in my life.

  Talent keeps a tight grip on my arm, but his mouth is gentle and caressing. He doesn’t hurry the kiss like we’re on the clock but slows it down to make it infinite. Warmth from his body tempts me in, and then his arms are around me, shutting out any open spaces between us. The bitter then sweet taste of cappuccino lingers on his lips, but it’s stronger on his tongue.

  Hesitant at first, I give in and let the connection envelop me. Heat spreads through my veins, thawing the edges of my frozen heart. I inhale deeply when I feel it beat like I did when we were in his office. This time there’s no role to play and I slide my hand up his chest and over his shoulder, where I hold on as life pumps through me.

  Talent rests his free hand on the side of my face and tilts my head back to deepen the kiss. His lips are a paradise I’ve never visited before, a
nd I step into him to explore the destination. He presses his lips to mine, softly, steadily, and then all the way back in when I clutch his shirt in my fingers, sparking an explosion of sensation that blasts sheets of ice from my awakening heart.

  “Excuse me,” a man apologizes after brushing against us as he walks by.

  Crashing back to the real world is harsh and the refreezing of my heart hurts like hell. I pull my arm free from Talent’s control and look over his shoulder in time to see a taxi coasting down the street. I step past Talent and wave it down.

  “Why do you keep running away from me?” Talent asks with a hint of humor in his tone. “And is this your dog?”

  Glancing down at the animal with its overgrown hair and eagerness to be played with, I say, “No.”

  The taxi stops along the curb, and I can’t get in fast enough. My address doesn’t leave my lips before Talent opens the door and leans in to look at me. The ratted dog sits at his feet.

  He reaches into his pocket and presents the phone I dropped in his office. “Do you want this back?”

  “Not necessary, Talent,” I say, stretching for the door handle.

  “Take it.” He tosses the phone to my lap, and the dog follows it in like it’s a toy.

  “Wait—” I start, but Talent closes the door and steps back onto the curb. He waves as the taxi pulls away and watches until we turn the corner.

  “Where to, Miss?” the driver asks.

  “Is there an animal shelter open this late?” I ask. The dog sits on the seat beside me, panting with his little tongue sticking out of his mouth. He’s in dire need of a bath.

  The driver chuckles. His shoulders shake. “No, there’s not.”

  After reciting my home address, I whisper to the dog, “You can stay for one night.”

  I make the dog a makeshift bed in the kitchen with a throw pillow and blanket, but when I wake up the next morning, I smell him in my bedroom before I open my eyes and see him sitting beside my bed. He whines when he notices I’m awake and barks when I reclose my eyes, hoping to trick the thing into thinking I’m asleep. Or dead.