“Has anyone seen my mom?” I asked around after we arrived at the club.
A security guard, who’d later take my virginity, nodded toward a door at the back of the establishment. We had less than twenty minutes before the movie started, so I ran across the strip club and opened the door without knocking, assuming it was an office or a second restroom I didn’t know about.
It was a closet-sized room.
Cricket was inside fucking a man I recognized as a regular patron of the club. He didn’t bother to stop when he saw me, and Cricket only looked partway alarmed by my intrusion. At fourteen years old, I was well versed in what went on at a strip club as grimy as that one had been, but I never once considered that my own mother would partake in such a thing.
To find out I was wrong changed everything.
It’s a cost I still pay for today.
I smear an entire tube of lipstick back and forth across my vanity mirror until my reflection disappears behind a red veil and shove my chair back to leave my room and the memory of Cricket behind to fulfill her legacy.
When I return home at night, I sleep with a knife under my pillow and the dresser pushed in front of my door.
I hope Camilla knows what she’s getting herself into.
The next morning, I’m on the treadmill when Camilla appears from her bedroom. Holding my finger up, I watch my heart rate rise on my watch and power through the last few seconds of my run until I reach my target heart rate. I slam my hand over the stop button without a cool-down period and jump off the treadmill, reveled by a rush of dopamine I take straight to the head.
“What’s up?” I pull my earbud out, breathing in through my nose and out of my mouth. Heat radiates from my cheeks and sweat drips into my eyes.
“I didn’t mean to distu—”
Patting my face with a towel, I say, “Camilla, what is it?”
“Is it okay if I make a pot of coffee?”
Slowly lowering the towel from my face, I stare at her incredulously. “You don’t need my permission to make yourself a cup of coffee. You don’t need my permission for anything. I’m not your mother.”
Camilla’s eyes sink to the floor and her arms hang at her sides, like a child set to be reprimanded for bad behavior. It’s an intense level of self-consciousness that has me doubting Inez’s judgment. What part of this girl reminds Inez of me and what makes her think Camilla can follow in my footsteps? I’m not a person of many words, but I don’t have a shy bone in my body.
“Inez warned me not to touch your things,” she answers. “She gave me money to shop for essentials before … before I earn my own, but…”
Snapping my fingers in front of her face, I say, “Look me in the eyes when you’re talking to me, Camilla.”
Heat warms Camilla’s cheeks and magnifies the gold flakes in her eyes, sprinkled among irises a shadow between orange and brown. They remind me of autumn and melted chocolate, and the idea immediately ebbs my annoyance. As soon as we make eye contact, she unfurls to display forced confidence. She’s blurry around the edges, but it’s a good start.
“If you can’t look at someone when you’re talking to them, it’s not worth saying at all.” I drape my towel over my shoulder and walk to the kitchen to turn on the coffee maker. “I didn’t get the impression that you’re the shy type at Hush. What’s different?”
“You don’t want me here.”
Smirking, I don’t bother to disagree and search the cabinets for the coffee pods. Caffeine isn’t my drug of choice, but the coffee aisle at the grocery store always smells so good and comforting. I sometimes grab a box impulsively, but I’m the type to make a cup and never drink it.
This coffee smells stale compared to the freshly brewed coffee at the shop downtown where I met Talent.
Closing my eyes against the memory of Talent sitting across the table from me with his decorated cappuccino and the pang of longing I feel for him now, I hand Camilla her mug and watch as she inhales the aroma.
Her eyes meet mine and she says, “Thank you.”
“Inez means a great deal to me,” I admit. “Whether or not I want you here doesn’t matter because she does, and so here you are. You’re free to do whatever you want, Camilla, I’m not your keeper or your mother.”
She winces at the mention of her mother, and I wonder if I’m not the only one with mommy issues.
“Two things: don’t go in my room and stay out of my way on the days that I work. There’s a lot we have to go over before you take your first appointment, but my clients are my number one priority. Respect my space, and we’ll be fine. If you disobey my requests, I’ll make sure Inez sends you packing.”
I miss Talent the most in the dark.
It’s worse once I turn the lights off and lay my head down—when my body and mind slow and my eyelids grow heavy. I yearn for him when the only sounds to accompany me are of my rhythmic breathing and the drum of my heart. The lullaby of my tired body pulls me to the edge of consciousness, but the ache of his absence lingers in the blurry space before sleep.
None of it makes sense.
What is there to miss?
Talent and I were nothing more than a miscommunication, some one-sided texts, and a few conversations that circled around anything too deep. But a week has passed since he left my apartment and I miss him.
As Camilla makes herself comfortable in her room, she saturates the area with her own scents and sounds. She likes Moroccan tapestry, scented candles, and she laughs too loud at the television she watches alone in her room. Inez has kept her busy most of the week, giving her a rundown on what happens behind the scenes before she learns hands-on with me.
So far, we’ve lived parallel lives within the same space, on the same track and heading in the same direction, but it’s impersonal and separate. We only cross paths when we’re coming and going, swapping courteous hellos and goodbyes. Dog spends his days with Camilla and nights with me, splitting time between us like a product of divorced parents.
Despite having a dog and a roommate, I am utterly alone.
Talent’s text messages may have been one-sided, but it was companionship I didn’t experience otherwise. Our conversation over coffee was tense, and I may have drunk too much at the bar and made a fool of myself, but it was human interaction outside of my normal routine. Talent was separate from Cara Smith and Hush—an indulgence of my own.
When he picked up his phone at the same time every night, it was my number he searched for. As he typed in the words meant for my eyes only, it was my face he imagined. And when I didn’t respond, he made the decision to try for my attention again the next night.
There’s not a single person in the world who knows what it’s like to sit across from me in a low-lit coffee shop besides Talent. He’s the only one who’s danced with me to live music. He knows my favorite Chinese food and wanted to share that meal with me.
On a grand scale, this might be trivial to someone with friends and family. But to a person who lives an existence as isolated as me—a girl who rarely hears my real name out loud, spends my time in solitude, and the only person I consider family sells my body for a profit—a single text message carries a lot of weight.
I miss him after a dreamless sleep, too.
When my mind rouses but my body needs to catch up, loneliness mopes in the paralyzed seconds before my eyes move behind my closed eyelids. Talent’s absence is tight between muscle and tendons until I point my toes and stretch my legs against my soft sheets. I miss Talent when I turn onto my back and blink against the dim light coming through my window as much as I miss him in the dark.
My first thoughts are of gray eyes, perfect lips, and the realization that I’ve sentenced myself to solitary confinement. Talent gave me a glimpse of life on the outside, and I turned him away, destined to live in this world alone.
But now I know what I’m missing.
I fuck five or six men a week, but I gravely underestimated the importance of genuine human interaction.
One person in this city knows my history.
Two know my real name.
Talent’s right. The only thing I need saving from is myself.
Thankfully, I’m able to turn the thundering loneliness inside of me down to a low hum during the day and carry on with my normal life.
“Camilla, can I come in?” I knock on her door twice and wait. “I need a quick word.”
A gust of botanical fragrance wafts from her bedroom, assaulting my senses as soon as she opens the door. I’m taken aback by the number of candles she has lit in such a small space. But she’s going to have more responsibility than she’s ever experienced soon. If I can’t trust her with some candles, I have no business helping her become a sex worker.
If she burns the apartment complex down, then we’ll have a problem.
Her eyes meet mine before she rushes toward the bed to grab the remote and turn the television off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how loud it was.”
“Our car will be here in less than an hour. Can you be ready?”
Her golden eyes expand, but she smooths her hair down and nods without dropping her stare to the floor. “Yes.”
“Relax, Camilla. We don’t fuck men for money on Sundays. I have a few errands to run, and since you live here now, we may as well do them together.”
“Great,” she replies. “I’ll get my shoes on.”
Our driver is someone I’ve used before. He’s proven himself to be the type who respects his passengers’ personal space and doesn’t look too closely without invitation. I requested him because I’d like to avoid the hassle of correcting a driver who can’t control himself in front of beautiful women. Today’s going to be grueling enough without the extra contact.
Yael, our driver, opens the door for me and offers only a nod as I step into the SUV. I expect Camilla to follow my example, but it’s clear she’s a verbal learner and everything will need to be said aloud.
“Thanks for picking us up,” she says to Yael with a charming smile. “I like your hat.”
He looks to me for direction on how to proceed, and I respond with a curt shake of my head. If there’s a single thing I’ve learned about Camilla in our short time together, it’s that she can put on a show. Authentic Camilla is the person who would not look at me when speaking a week ago, but she projects a false persona to outsiders such as the driver. This will eventually work in her favor, but she needs to perfect the craft and only give her energy to the right ones.
“First lesson,” I say. I’ve closed the partition between Yael and us. “Don’t talk to the drivers, Camilla,”
“I was just being polite.”
Her embarrassment is palpable. Unfortunately, because Camilla’s a verbal learner, it’s going to require sacrifice on my part to use my voice regularly. I’m not used to explaining or articulating what’s on my mind, and I find it difficult to speak without an edge to my tone. That’s not what I want. I don’t want her to be afraid of me.
As if the words are stuck in my throat, I dig them out one at a time and say, “We don’t talk to the help because we don’t want them to pay too close attention to us. Our chosen profession isn’t legal, Camilla. It’s crucial that you stay out of trouble, and the best way to do that is to fly under the radar and be forgettable to anyone who isn’t paying for your company. Otherwise, they get curious and stick their noses where they don’t belong. If the wrong people stare for too long, they’ll notice something we don’t want them to see.”
“Oh,” she whispers, but her eyes don’t waver from mine.
“We don’t work street corners. Men can’t hire us by calling a phone number on a moving billboard. We don’t hang out in bars for the chance to give some random a blow job under the table for a hundred dollars. If you decide to work with Inez, you’re high-end—you’re fucking gold. Don’t give any part of yourself away for free. Not even to the driver.”
We’re not priceless, but we’re expensive.
Camilla nods in understanding and turns away to process what she’s learned.
“Cara,” she says, clarifying, “it’s not if I decide to work with Inez. It’s when she lets me start. I’m doing this.”
I don’t have the energy to speak again, and we ride in silence the rest of the way.
Our first stop is the hair salon. I’ve never felt the need to change my hair color—it’s exotic and seductive naturally, but I do have it trimmed by the same stylist every eight weeks like clockwork. I don’t get the impression that Camilla’s had her hair cut from anywhere but at a discount chain salon in her entire life. She’s a natural beauty, but she’ll be irresistible once her mousy hair is brightened and reshaped.
“Welcome to Salon V,” the receptionist greets us upon entry. Once she realizes it’s me, she smiles warmly. “Welcome, Miss Smith, I’ll get you checked in.”
“The appointment is for two,” I remind her. Inez called last week and booked Camilla an appointment during the same time as mine.
“Cara,” Camilla whispers after we’ve taken a seat in the reception area. “I can’t afford to get my hair done here.”
This doesn’t permit a reaction. Anything Camilla needs between now and when she starts taking appointments is on Inez’s dime. Our boss writes it off as an investment, and Camilla will pay her back a hundredfold. She’s going to make Inez Ricci more money than she can imagine, and once she does, she’ll be accustomed to luxuries such as getting a three-hundred-dollar haircut in a salon that’ll give her the best blowout of her life while she sips expensive champagne.
Once upon a time, I sat next to Inez in this exact same salon and felt as insignificant as Camilla does right now. She’s much more put together than I was back then. I haven’t figured out what kind of home Camilla comes from yet, but I didn’t come from a home at all. I lived on the streets when Inez found me, and it showed in more ways than just the condition of my hair.
“I wish I would have dressed better,” Camilla complains. She tugs at the end of her tattered shorts and straightens the tongue of her Converse shoes. “When you said we had errands to run, I guessed you had a trip to the grocery store planned, not that we were coming to the uber-rich side of town. I feel attacked.”
A small smile curves my lips. “We’re going to the grocery store after this.”
“I would have worn better shoes,” she grumbles. “You look exceptional, of course.”
We’re called back together, and I follow Camilla and the receptionist to a station on the opposite side of the room from where I’ll get my hair trimmed. My protégé digs down deep for confidence, strolling through the salon as if she’s dressed in a thousand-dollar outfit and not a pair of cut-off shorts and scuffed shoes. She greets her stylists with a terse smile and sits in the white leather chair.
“My name is Calla,” the stylist introduces herself, draping a cape around Camilla’s shoulders. “I don’t believe I’ve had the privilege of your company in my chair before, but please tell me I get to play with your hair today.”
Calla tousles Camilla’s hair, but Camilla follows the directions I gave her on the drive over and doesn’t waver. She’s not rude, but indifferent.
“Brighten the color around her face with a natural blonde—nothing too light. Take three inches off the length, long layers around the sides and back, and face-framing in the front,” I direct. “Can you please show her how to use the round brush, and add any products you recommend for upkeep to my tab.”
My hairdresser Flora knows what to expect from me and responds appropriately, skipping the small talk and offering a simple hello before leading me toward the shampoo bowls. She lathers vanilla and clover scented shampoo through my hair and my eyes fall closed, revealing an image of Talent behind my eyelids.
As it turns out, I miss him when I relax, too.
My heart feels heavier back at the chair, and I wonder how long this can go on. What is it about Talent that’s left such an impact on my life when I hardly know him, and why can’t I
shake the feeling that I messed up by letting him go? Surely he couldn’t want more than sex from me. When did I become so desperate that sex without a contract became acceptable?
“Are you doing okay today, Cara?” Flora asks. She combs the tangles from my hair.
Pressing my lips together, I nod and smile at her reflection in the mirror in front of us. “Just tired.”
We don’t share another word as she trims exactly one half-inch from my ends like she has during every appointment we’ve shared since the first, when she hacked my hair off to my shoulders—not only ridding me of broken and split hair, but helping to alleviate the weight of the last few years I’d spent on the streets.
I hope Calla is doing the same for Camilla.
Calla, unlike Flora, forces small talk on Camilla, eventually softening her up. I eavesdrop on their conversation to keep from obsessing over Talent, but I still wonder if I should just call him. I may have snapped the burner phone with his personal number programmed in half, but I memorized it after reading his nightly text messages over and over. And I can always call his office at Ridge & Sons.
Camilla suddenly laughs out loud, and I look over to see her with a head full of foils and a glass of champagne in her hand. She covers her mouth to hide her laugh but drops it to speak animatedly with Calla. I’m envious of the ease in which she talks to other people. The contrast between her true personality and the person treating her stylist like she’s the only other person on the planet is impressive. Unlike myself, who’s totally embodied Cara and lost Lydia somewhere along the way. If Camilla’s going to bend the rules, I hope she never loses the ability to keep the two sides of herself separate.
“Is she your sister?” Flora asks. “You look alike.”
“No,” I answer and don’t elaborate further.
My haircut finishes well before Camilla’s makeover. I wait in the reception area and flip through a magazine I don’t read. The only thing on my mind is Talent Ridge, and the longer this goes on, the more frustrated I become with myself. If I did build the courage to call him, what would I say?
Tramp (Hush Book 1) Page 14