Tramp (Hush Book 1)

by Mary Elizabeth

  I’m beside myself.

  Literally.

  I rub my eyes with the heel of my hand, hoping that drilling my eyes into my actual head will somehow correct the sudden double vision. This isn’t a head cold or the flu. I’ve come down with something worse, like Ebola or the plague. I’ll die alone in my apartment and no one will find me until Inez starts to wonder where her fifteen percent cut is.

  My mouth is as dry as the Sahara Desert, and I lick my lips to keep them from cracking. The taste of vanilla and oak brings back the night before in a rush of snapshots. It started with an old-fashioned and ended by tipping the last drops of whisky onto my tongue straight from the bottle. In the middle, there’s Talent Ridge asking me to dance, covering my mouth in the alleyway, and sitting on his lap until the band played their final song.

  The last thing I remember is when Talent asked for my address.

  “No.” Pulling my blanket up to my face, I groan at the memory of my carelessness.

  I must have given him the address to my apartment. Does he know which apartment is mine? Did I invite him in? How long did he stay?

  These are questions I don’t have the answer to because I was a drunk idiot.

  I am a drunk idiot.

  The bar closed at two, so there’s not a chance in hell I got home before three in the morning. My alarm is set to wake me up at the same time every morning, which means I slept four hours—maybe. I don’t have the plague. I’m wasted.

  My equilibrium forsakes me in my attempt to get out of bed, but I have to be across town later this afternoon for my appointment with Gary Brooker. An art dealer with obsessive-compulsive disorder, Gary’s particular about what time I arrive, what I look and smell like, and how we spend our time together. He’s the only one of my clients who supplied me with a checklist of dos and don’ts before our first appointment together.

  Don’t wear perfume of any kind.

  Leave your hair down and straight.

  Shave your entire body before your arrival.

  Don’t be late.

  And so on.

  I manage to drag my ass to the kitchen where I drink an entire bottle of water in one gulp. It sloshes around in my belly atop last night’s whisky like oil and vinegar. The only food I can stomach the idea of is a slice of bread, but I only manage to swallow half before tossing the rest into the trash.

  In a right state of mind, I’d reschedule my appointment with OCD Gary and sleep twelve-hundred-dollar alcohol off. But in my current state of mind, I convince myself that after a couple of ibuprofen and a long bath, I’ll be good as new.

  I’ve never been more wrong in my life.

  Whisky sweats from my pores.

  I soaked in a bath longer than normal, but all I smell is last night’s bad choices on my skin and hair. My makeup looks uneven and thick on my sickly skin, and my eyeliner smudges as my bloodshot eyes water every time I blink. Ibuprofen further upset my stomach and did nothing to remedy the ache in my head.

  By the time I truly consider rescheduling my appointment, my driver’s already waiting outside. Canceling on OCD Gary at all would be bad enough, but to cancel an hour before his scheduled time would be unforgivable. I’d lose a client, and someone as finicky as Gary would make sure my reputation takes a hit. Unlike most of my clients, Gary isn’t married, he doesn’t have children, and he’s too old to care if anyone finds out that he pays for sex from a younger woman once a month. He keeps our arrangement a secret because that’s the deal agreed upon in order to hire me.

  I follow his rituals, and he shuts the fuck up.

  Gripping the edge of the bathroom sink, I drop my head between my shoulders and close my eyes against the slight spin poise left behind when it ditched me.

  “You can suck it up for an hour, Lydia,” I tell myself. “You’ll be home before you know it.”

  Inhaling a deep breath, I push away from the sink and head out the front door to the car. With the largest pair of sunglasses I own over my eyes, I keep my purse tucked under my arm and watch every step I take from my door to the dark Suburban. My driver today doesn’t stare at me like the others do. He gives me a wide berth, like he can sense the sickness on me and is afraid I’m contagious.

  I roll the window down as we drive toward the other side of the city. Ocean air is refreshing against my clammy face, and the early afternoon sun injects me with much-needed vitamin D. It seems brighter than it normally is, intensifying the throbbing behind my eyes. The drive across town isn’t as bad as I thought it would be, until we hit traffic halfway there and my driver’s heavy on the brakes.

  My stomach rolls as we lurch forward and jerk to a stop, moving a car length at a time. As my mouth fills with thick saliva, I hold the back of my fingers to my mouth and plan my escape route in case the contents of my stomach reappear. I’d have to sprint across the three-lane highway to get to the shoulder. Maybe a car will take me out and end this misery.

  “It looks like the traffic is going to clear up ahead, ma’am,” says the driver. He watches me from the rearview mirror. It would be a nightmare he’d have to clean up if I get sick in his vehicle. “Do you normally get car sick? I once heard that chewing cinnamon gum can help settle your stomach.”

  Squeezing my eyes closed, I shake my head sharply. We both know I’m not car sick, but I appreciate his willingness to spare me added embarrassment. Cinnamon flavored anything ties too closely with the liquor I drank too much of at the bar, and my stomach somersaults. I can count the number of times I’ve been hungover in my life on one hand. When I feel this badly, it’s hard not to wonder if this was how Cricket felt every single day. What I can’t imagine myself doing is picking up another bottle of whisky to postpone a hangover this bad.

  Cricket had a permanent stench of alcohol that followed her around. It was there after she showered and brushed her teeth, and it was present under whatever cheap body spray she poured on herself before she danced. The odor became stronger as the night got later, and to this day, the scent of vodka is a direct link to my mother’s affection. The stinging chemical smell reminds me of her sloppy kisses and broken promises.

  “This life isn’t for us, Lydia,” she’d lie at the end of a particularly hard day or after another night spent in the car. Cricket sat behind the steering wheel, drinking mini bottles of the liquor store’s cheapest vodka. “One day we’ll have a house with a little backyard. Maybe we can get a pet. Would you like that, baby? Would you like to have your own room?”

  While she told drunken stories about a life we’d never have together, I tried to sleep in the back, curled up in a ball. By the time I was too tall to stretch my legs out across the back seat, I was old enough to realize Cricket was full of shit. I didn’t have any friends because no one at school wanted to talk to the girl who only showed up some of the time, and a strip club is a terrible place for someone my age to meet anyone. I was the only underage girl in the dressing room because it’s not a place for kids. Cricket was a terrible mom. She loved me as much as she could, but she was horrible. She never tried.

  And then she had the audacity to die.

  Now I feel like I’ve embodied her, stepping directly into Cricket Montgomery’s footsteps—the rightful successor to the kingdom of low-down debauchery. No one who knew us back then would be surprised to see me hungover and on my way to fuck some old man for cash. I’d fit in with the sleaze.

  Pretenses can fuck off.

  Doubling over, I hide my face between my knees and squeeze my eyes shut, wrangling with the memory of my mom and the chance she never gave me for a life better than this.

  “Do you need me to pull over, Miss?” the driver asks.

  “No,” I say, sitting back up. I push my hair out of my face and practically stick my head out the window to escape the scent of alcoholism.

  I’ll never drink again.

  Talent Ridge can shove his charm up his ass. I’m tired of him trying to ruin my life.

  Instead of heading to Gary’s office once I a
rrive to the studio, I make a beeline for the women’s restroom and lock myself inside. He likes me to keep my hair down, but it’s sticking to the back of my neck and is more frizzy than straight after having the wind blown through it on the drive over. I find a hair tie in my purse and use my fingers to slick it back into a ponytail. It seconds as a facelift, tightening the circles under my eyes and reducing the puffiness in my lids. Red lipstick that usually looks seductive looks trashy and I wipe it off, applying a clear gloss over the pinkish stain the rouge left behind.

  Gary Brooker sells fine art to fine people, and the restrooms in his gallery cater to the rich. Thank God. Spinning off the top to the mouthwash, I pour it into my mouth and swish it around until the tip of my tongue feels like it’s on fire and my eyes water. He doesn’t like me to smell like anything artificial, but I squirt the body spray he’s supplied for his guests on myself and don’t bother to look at my reflection before getting this shit over with.

  Like with Cristian’s architectural models, I love to browse Gary’s art collection. He buys and sells them so often, the pieces are different every time I visit. The movements and styles of each painting are mostly as lost to me as the names of the artists who created them, but they’re beautiful to look at and I’ve learned a little in the time I’ve known Gary.

  “It’s just a white square on top of a black square,” I said to Gary once.

  He chuckled over my shoulder and explained, “That’s minimalism—oil on canvas—and I just sold this piece for one hundred thousand dollars yesterday morning.”

  Gary sends art to Hush since I won’t give him my home address. I have a closet at the apartment full of paintings collectors would love to own, mostly from up-and-coming artists. I’ve asked him many times to give the work to someone who’ll genuinely appreciate it. He insists they’re mine and if I want to get rid of the art, I’m to do it myself.

  When I’d see a new painting in Inez’s office with a letter from Gary explaining who the artist is with an art description, I thought he was doing it to culture his whore. Over time, I’ve come to accept that he’s a lonely gentleman without family and friends to share his love of art free and clear of motive. He gives paintings to me because I think they’re wonderful, not because I’m interested in stockpiling coveted pieces.

  “I thought you were going to be late,” Gary says when I emerge from the women’s restroom.

  He waits for me in front of a contemporary art piece that’s painful to look at, not only because I simply don’t understand the appeal, but because the colors cast across the canvas look how I feel inside: messy.

  Gary must have been gorgeous when he was younger, because he’s a good-looking older man with snow-white hair and gray eyebrows. There’s not a person on this planet with better posture than him, and every movement he makes and word he speaks is deliberate.

  He doesn’t expect a response from me, so I remain quiet until he instructs me where to go and what to do. We’re often alone during our appointments, so worrying about an employee watching too carefully isn’t a concern. Sporadically, a newly hired intern will look busy by making phone calls or following leads online. They never last long, unable to handle Gary’s general disinterest in people and his particular work ethic.

  Unless you’re here to suck his cock.

  “Wait in my office, please.” He presents a set of keys from his front pocket and goes to the gallery entrance to lock the door.

  Admiring art isn’t on the agenda today. The colors are vague, the patterns make my head spin, and the taste of whisky resurfaces on my tongue tinged with mint. Heaviness settles in my joints, and the tight ponytail isn’t enough to keep me from looking like the walking dead. When I see the black mat Gary likes me to kneel on in the center of his office and my stomach heaves, I know this was a mistake.

  My shoes pat on the marble floor as I cut across the space, dropping my purse in its designated spot before taking my place on the mat. My knees immediately protest, and I play with the idea of lying flat against the cold marble when Gary arrives.

  He walks in circles around me with his hands clasped behind his back. Just as cold as the floor, his facial expression doesn’t give a hint about his mood. Anticipation, disapproval, and indifference look the same on him. The only time I’ve seen him smile is when a piece of art catches my interest and we discuss his interpretation of it.

  Our time together never differs. I arrive, kneel on this mat in his office, and take him into my mouth before he fucks me doggy style. His routine is easy to respect given that before Talent, mine was just as stringent.

  “I like your hair down.”

  While Gary inspects my appearance, I wonder if Talent feels as badly as I do. Is he sitting in a meeting with regret for the previous night like I am? The universe does have a disgusting sense of humor. It wouldn’t shock me if he woke up after a few hours of sleep in tip-top shape, while actual liquor seeps from my pores.

  “Cara, if you’re sick, you should have rescheduled.” To my surprise, Gary’s tone is sympathetic, and this might be my last chance to talk my way out of our appointment without ruffling any feathers. No harm done if I allege food poisoning and return in a day or two when I’m back to myself.

  The glimmer of hope his sympathy offered vanishes when Gary stands in front of me, feet shoulder-width apart. His dick is hard, pressed against the inside of his slacks. Talk is so cheap, even from a sixty-something-year-old art dealer with a serious personality disorder. I shouldn’t be disappointed.

  “I’m fine,” I lie and unzip his pants.

  Strange how Gary prefers me to feel, look, and smell a certain way during our time together, but the anticipation of a blow job is enough to excuse the fact that my hair is windblown and I smell like chemical roses. Sex will make the strongest person weak. Maybe if his interns start blowing him themselves, they’ll have a better work experience.

  His eyes darken as I pull his slacks down and hold his dick in my hand. “Don’t disobey me again, Cara.”

  “You got it,” I say, swallowing a mouthful of saliva.

  The last thing I want to do is put him in my mouth, and that’s not only because I overdrank. Consciousness and remorse have crept up on me since Talent entered my life, and despite how hard I fight back against the realization that I’m unhappy, it’s not going anywhere until I face my new reality. Returning to a place where I feel nothing at all doesn’t seem possible, but I can’t continue to live in this purgatory.

  Gary’s an innocent bystander, and I don’t fault him for wanting to be with a beautiful woman, but I’m not doing this.

  And I don’t have to.

  My stomach involuntary contracts once my body seems to make up its mind, and I don’t have time to crawl to the small trash can beside the desk before I throw up all over the beautiful marble floor. Instantly relieved, I fall on my bottom and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

  Gary’s speechless, left standing with his pants around his ankles and his dick hard.

  He must take Viagra.

  I keep a bottle of vodka in my freezer to feel closer to Cricket.

  At the end of my work week or if I wake up in the middle of the night lonely, I’ll crack open the bottle because the bitter liquor sparks a memory of her. It’s fucked-up that the scent of vodka reminds me of my childhood and a time when I wasn’t entirely alone on this planet. But it’s all I have to hold on to. I don’t even have a picture of her.

  Bringing the neck of the bottle to my nose, I inhale and close my eyes as familiarity washes over me. My memory of her is fading, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. While I see small parts of Cricket in myself, I can’t remember what her hands looked like or how tall she was. She had blonde hair, but it’s a generic description. There’s no depth or undertone, and I don’t particularly remember a time before she bleached it.

  My most vivid memories of my mother are of her leaning close to the mirror, pressing her lips together after applying red lipstick. She’
d scrub excess rouge from her teeth with the tip of her finger and then pucker her lips at her reflection. But the clearest memories of all were the occasions when we had a steady place to stay and we’d lie in bed together. She’d whisper to me with breath that smelled like eighty proof, brushing my hair out of my face.

  “You’re all that matters, baby girl,” she’d say. “I can’t believe I made you. I can’t believe I made someone so beautiful.”

  I pour the contents down the kitchen sink and drop the glass bottle into the trash.

  After I disgraced Gary’s office this afternoon, I didn’t offer an explanation. I did try to clean up after myself, but Gary sent me away with a flick of his wrist and I couldn’t get home and back in the bathtub fast enough. When I woke up from a six-hour nap, the room wasn’t spinning anymore but fatigue loitered. Thoughts of my mother still haunted me, and that’s when I decided enough is enough. I’ve allowed too many distractions into my life lately—booze, coffee, Dog, Talent Ridge—and I’m suffering. The dog can stay, but everything else has to go in order to get back on track.

  Pouring the vodka down the drain was only the first step. Now I need to get rid of the phone with Talent’s number and the messages he sends me every night. Without it, he won’t be able to get ahold of me, and I won’t be sidetracked by waiting for attention I don’t need from a man I’ll never have and a life that’ll never be mine.

  I’m a whore, and to pretend anything different is absurd.

  Dog is on my heels as I head back to the bedroom to find the phone plugged into the charger beside my bed. My stomach plummets to my feet when I see there’s a missed call and text from Talent, and I hesitate before pulling the phone free from the cord. Without checking the message, I delete the text thread and his contact information. My plan is to snap the phone in two when there’s a knock on my door.