Tramp (Hush Book 1)

by Mary Elizabeth

  Like some men, he doesn’t take no for an answer and starts scratching my bed until I sit up and groan. “Are you kidding me, dog? What do you want?”

  He runs in circles, chasing his tail.

  Kicking the blankets off my body, I check the time and side-eye the little intruder. Do dogs always wake up this early? Or is this one just an asshole? The clear asshole follows me down the short hallway, through the living room to the front door. It opens with a crack and a rush of cool air smacks me in the face.

  “Go.” I motion with my hand for him to go out. “Go back where you came from.”

  The dog just stares, wagging his ratted tail and waiting.

  “There’s no way I’m going out there with you.”

  I go outside with the dog.

  Our apartments don’t come with a yard, but there’s a large grass area where I see other tenants walking their animals when I’m coming and going. The sun isn’t up yet, but apparently a lot of dogs don’t give a shit about the untimely hour and I have company. The only difference is they’re prepared for their early morning call, and I’m barefoot with bed head.

  “What’s your puppy’s name?” a lady holding a tumbler with a Dog Mom sticker on the front asks. The scent of her coffee is offensive compared to coffee from the shop I sat at with Talent the night before.

  “Dog,” I answer, watching him run among his kind.

  Maybe he’ll go home with one of them, I ponder.

  She scoffs. “Your dog is named Dog?”

  “He’s not my dog.” I turn and walk away, uninterested in small talk with neighbors. The last thing I need is for them to think I want to be friends like the stray.

  Dog notices my retreat and follows me back to my apartment. I close the door in his face and hope he’ll get the point and find someone else to wake up an hour before their alarm goes off. My schedule doesn’t allow time to take care of something else. And the pet deposit on this place is astronomical. I’m not paying it.

  I’m not a dog person.

  I’ve never owned a pet, and I’m not about to take on that responsibility now.

  A small pang pricks my chest when he scratches on the door. It could be guilt or shame. But I need to be downtown in two hours, so I head to my room to get ready for my appointment with an investment banker who likes it when I tell him his cock is small.

  Wondering if I have time to swing by the coffee shop to grab one of those drinks I had last night, I run the bathwater and sit on the edge as the tub fills. I sprinkle in a handful of bath salts as my train of thought changes from caffeine to my personal accelerant, Talent.

  Goose bumps sweep down my arms, and I sigh as I sink into the warm water and lean back against the cool porcelain. Steam dampens my face, and my skin immediately pinks, as hot as it was when Talent kissed me. Remembering how soft his lips are makes my nipples hard … makes breathing hard.

  My chest rises and falls out of the water as I inhale through my nose and exhale out of my mouth. I rub my thighs together, sliding my hand down my stomach, lower, lower, and lower.

  Imagining Talent’s smoky eyes watching me, I slip two fingers between my folds and spread myself open, exposing my clit to the hot water. A violent bolt of yearning devastates my nervous system, sparking an electric fire in my veins. I involuntarily arch my back from the tub and splash water over the side. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and moan, closing my eyes to find Talent waiting behind my lids.

  It’s the night in his office and I pull his tie free from his neck like it’s happening all over again. His cock strains against his slacks, and my pussy calls him home.

  The memory becomes more and more vivid as I press against my sex, recreating the urgency I felt when Talent laid me across his desk and fucked me until I forgot who I was. Regret is not watching as his length thrust inside of me that night, but bliss is remembering what it felt like.

  Pleasure is using my fingers like Talent used his cock to make me come.

  Desire’s the wave of exhilaration that’s slow at first but grows with every crash.

  Ecstasy is when there’s nothing left to do but gladly drown.

  Every muscle in my body tightens and releases tension in the greatest relief I’ve ever felt. Sensation sails through me, sweeping away every burden, worry, and strain, leaving only blinding delight behind. It carries me up, up, and away, spreading me out and open. I trap my hand between my legs and roll my hips as ticklish weightlessness fills me all the way up. Only sounds of pleasure depart through my parted lips until even my lungs are full of euphoria.

  For a fraction of a second that feels like forever, it’s absolutely silent. I have no past, present, or future. No voice. No vision. Nothing but ease and contentment.

  It’s just that good.

  The dive back to my truth is a gentle journey.

  My knees quiver, and my fingers and toes tingle. My lips are numb, and my back rests against the bathtub. Blinking slowly, snapshots of my surroundings come into focus. First, my body under the cooling water. Second, my hand clutching the side of the tub. Third, the blush that stains every inch of my skin.

  “Fuck,” I whisper.

  The act I put on for my clients is a sad performance compared to what it’s like when I do climax. Those fools don’t deserve the privilege to be between a woman’s legs if they can’t tell the difference between real pleasure and a show to stroke their egos. I don’t know who to feel sorrier for, them or their partners who put up with bad sex for free.

  When I stand to my feet, my legs tremble but carry me to the door where my robe hangs. Plush cotton soaks up the water from my tender skin, still sensitive to the slightest touch. I lean against the sink with my back to the mirror to brush my teeth. Giddiness flutters in my stomach, and I’m nervous to see the look in my own eyes.

  What twenty-six-year-old woman is nervous about getting herself off?

  The one who fantasized about a particularly good-looking lawyer who has the softest lips you’ve ever kissed, I think to myself.

  Spitting suds into the sink, I rinse my mouth out and stand straight to see my reflection. I study my mouth first, swollen from pressing my lips together and pulling my bottom lip between my teeth. My cheeks have almost returned to their normal hue. More green than blue, my eyes are bright and aware. My internal dialogue tells me that touching myself to a handsome guy is totally normal and nothing to dwell on, but the soul that shines through my eyes reveals a different story: deliverance.

  My swollen lips curve into a smile so big, my back teeth show. And my almost-normal complexion burns twice as red.

  I have a tiny crush on Talent Ridge.

  Nothing more can come from it, but it’ll make taking a bath a lot more interesting from now on.

  An hour later, Cara Smith looks back at me in my reflection. My eyes are flat, with a distant look that lacks passion. Instead of my lips, my heart is now numb, and the silly smile is gone from my face. I move around my bedroom on autopilot, gearing up for an appointment with a man who likes to be humiliated. Conjuring up the energy for it seems impossible today.

  Making a mental note to spread out the appointments between these kinky fuckers, I check my eyeliner one last time and walk away.

  I’m at the front door when I remember to grab a phone. A car’s been arranged for my transport to the appointment and back, and Inez knows where I’ll be today, but I like to keep one on me in case of an emergency.

  The cell phone I’m using this month is on the kitchen counter beside the one I dropped in Talent’s office. I pick that one up to throw it into the trash, stepping on the lever to lift the trash lid, but stop short of dropping it in. Flipping the screen open, dim blue light illuminates the small square screen. The battery icon blinks in the corner. I scroll through the recent call log to find the number from where Talent called Inez as the last activity on the phone. They spoke for eleven minutes and fifty-eight seconds. There’s no other activity.

  The problem with these flip phones
is the technology is dated and the home screen isn’t password protected. If I weren’t so careful, he could have seen everything. I still don’t know how I feel about Talent having Inez’s number.

  Jumping out of my skin when there’s a knock on the door, I let the trash lid fall shut and snap the phone closed. The car service is instructed never to come to the door, so unless someone’s died or we’re under attack, it better not be the driver if he wants to keep his job. Panic from the sudden fright mobs in my chest, and I toss the cell phone back to the counter and reach the door as the intruder knocks a second time.

  “What is it?” I ask, expecting to see someone in a black driving cap.

  The woman from the park, still holding the same tumbler as a prop, takes a step back and blinks offensively. When I was barefaced and barefoot she might have considered me her equal, but in full makeup and tall in stilettos, she’s intimidated. Getting this same reaction from people over and over gets boring after a while.

  If all women recognized their worth, this world would be a very, very different place.

  Even you, Dog Mom.

  Dog Mom runs her hand through her naturally curly hair and straightens her cotton sweater. It’s not much of an improvement, but she’s brave enough to look me in the eyes. I’ll give her some credit. It’s more than most have the courage to do.

  “It looks like you’re on your way out. I’m glad I caught you in time,” she says.

  I don’t say a word.

  She throws her hand up and says, “These things happen, but you left your dog outside. Or he got outside. Or maybe you thought he was inside, but he’s not. Small dogs can be hard to keep track of. I’d hate for him to get lost or eaten by a coyote.”

  Sure enough, Dog emerges from behind her legs and walks past me inside like he’s the king of the castle.

  Even male dogs have egos the size of the Titanic.

  Dog, meet iceberg.

  “See, he knows where to go,” Dog Mom says with admiration. “Getting lost can be traumatic for the little guys.”

  “Actually,” I reply. “He’s not my dog. You can have him if you’re that concerned.”

  She laughs out loud, slapping her palm atop her thigh in a dramatic attempt to be included in the joke. This isn’t small talk.

  “That’s hilarious. I always tell Spencer—” She points over her shoulder with her thumb “—my basset hound who you probably saw this morning, that if he doesn’t behave himself, I’m going to send him to the pound. Of course, I don’t mean it, but he tests me sometimes. I’d be lying if I said the thought hasn’t crossed my mind once or twice.”

  I close the door in her face and find Dog curled up on his bed in the kitchen. Unlike Dog Mom, I won’t bully the stray by threatening the animal shelter if he’s not on his best behavior. As someone who’s lived on the streets, I empathize with the mutt because I ran away after Cricket died and was homeless for two years. Life on the run was hard, but I preferred it over being at the mercy of the foster care system.

  From one street kid to another, I know Dog would rather take his chances with the coyotes than face the confines of the shelter.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter to the matted pooch. I grab my cell phone from the counter. “I haven’t spoken to a single soul the entire time I’ve lived here. You overstay your welcome for one night, and now that lady won’t shut the hell up.”

  With Dog Mom lurking around, nominating herself as the apartment complex’s animal control officer, I can’t kick him out again. He’ll end up right back here when she finds him, and she’ll trap me into another conversation.

  “Don’t get too comfortable, Dog. This arrangement ends as soon as I get home.”

  Which would have been the logical thing to do.

  You’re lucky there’s room for two on this headboard, Jack.

  Instead, after my appointment with the banker, I ask my driver to swing by the pet supply store to get a small bag of food. He takes this as an invitation to make conversation. My contribution to his rapid-fire questioning is to close the glass partition between the front and back seats. Tomorrow, I’ll make sure Inez knows never to send him to me again.

  “How many drivers do you think this city has, Lydia?” she’ll say in an irritated tone like she does every time I request a new one.

  My heels tap on the cheap tile floor as I push a blue shopping cart up and down each aisle. I toss a brush, dog wash, and treats into the basket before I make it to the dog food section. There’re so many options, I’m stuck reading ingredient labels and wondering if I were Dog, would I want chicken and potatoes for every meal of the day or steak and carrots?

  Unable to decide, I purchase both flavors.

  Not because he gets to stay. But if he’s going back on the streets to fend for himself, he should have a good dinner and hearty breakfast before he goes.

  Dog is enthusiastic when I get home, leaping at my feet and yapping. We take a quick trip to the grassy area, where I let Dog run ahead so I can hide among some trees. The last thing I want is for another tenant like Dog Mom to take my presence as an invitation to socialize. I’m not here to bond with strangers over our pets.

  I don’t have a pet.

  Dog isn’t staying.

  He sits well as I attempt to brush his fur after we’re back in the apartment. Some spots are so tangled and ratted, I take the kitchen scissors to them and consider it a win.

  “The bald spots will grow back,” I mumble, lifting him into the kitchen sink for a bath.

  The amount of dirt and grime that washes away as I scrub Dog’s fur softens my bitterness toward the little creature. Homelessness is filthy. Exposed to the elements, constantly on the move, and never sure if I’d have a bed to sleep in at night, cleanliness was sometimes washing myself in public restrooms or talking a trucker into letting me use his shower pass at truck stops. But who the hell is going to give a stray dog a bath?

  I wash Dog twice for good measure and am surprised to discover that once he’s clean, his fur isn’t gray but white. He looks like some sort of terrier mix who can’t weigh more than ten pounds. The missing spots of fur don’t seem to bother him, and I think they add to his charm. There’s no way to know if he’s ever lived in a home before, but he’s well behaved and mostly listens. He had to have belonged to someone at one point.

  As the day ends, Dog stays close to my side without being intrusive. He follows me from room to room, and then he sits beside the treadmill and watches me run. I serve him a bowl of each flavor of dog food so he can decide which one he likes more and he seems to prefer the chicken and potatoes.

  “Is there someone out there who misses you?” Dog and I sit side by side on the hard living room couch. I scratch behind his ear, grateful when he doesn’t ask for more than I’m willing to give. He just waits patiently for my next move. “Here’s the deal, Dog. You can stay until we find your owners. Don’t get too comfortable and make me regret this, but you’re okay here for now.”

  Before bed, curiosity gets the best of me and I bring the phone Talent returned to me into my room and plug it in. I sit on the edge of my bed and scroll to the number he called Inez from and press call. My heart leaps into my throat once it starts to ring, but anxiety melts away once an automated message for Ridge & Sons answers, prompting me to enter a three-digit extension.

  I flip the phone closed, shaking my head. What would I have said had Talent answered?

  Hey, I’m the one who came into your office uninvited and seduced you, and then we met for coffee. Do you remember me? Want to talk? How was your day?

  Of course, he didn’t call from a private number. He wouldn’t want a prostitute to have his personal phone number.

  Deleting the call log, I click to the contact list to delete Inez’s information before I get rid of the phone for good when I discover more than one contact saved.

  Talent Ridge

  The number is different than the Ridge & Sons’ office number, and there’s only one
way this contact was added: Talent programmed it himself. Why would he do such a thing? To bypass Inez to get on my schedule? We discussed my hourly rate at the coffee shop, so that has to be it. Inez knew I’d land the Ridge account, and that’s why she sent me instead of another girl. She was right. Inez is always right.

  I tell myself I’m calling Talent to inform him that I don’t book my clients directly and that if he wants to see me again, he needs to go through the appropriate steps with Inez. But when his sleepy voice answers after the second ring, I hang up and toss the phone to the center of my bed.

  The rectangular screen on the front lights up neon blue before it rings. Talent’s calling back. Heat warms my face, and I cover my mouth with my hand like if I keep quiet, he won’t know I’m here.

  Once it stops ringing, I retrieve the phone to turn it off when a text message pops up.

  You can’t stop thinking about me either?

  The right thing to do would be to get rid of the phone. That would eliminate the distraction and indecision about having Talent’s personal number. I haven’t attempted to call him again, but every night for a week, he sends me a text at the same time.

  How long are you going to avoid me?

  Don’t make this out to be nothing.

  Have dinner with me.

  You’re driving me crazy, Lydia.

  Why can’t I get you out of my head?

  I haven’t answered once, but I can’t deny the exhilaration I feel when his name illuminates on the screen as I settle into bed after a long day. The small change in routine gives me something to look forward to. Though they’re only one-sentence messages, I read them over and over and over, imagining the words coming straight from his lips.

  It can’t go on forever. He’ll eventually grow bored with me and the excitement of chasing someone he can’t have will wear off, replaced by other women he can have.

  “Good morning,” a dark-haired girl I’ve never seen before greets when I arrive at Hush. “Do you have an appointment with us today?”