Tramp (Hush Book 1)

by Mary Elizabeth

  It’ll never work.

  “Take care of yourself,” I say, pushing the cart in the direction of the checkout stands.

  Wilder’s expression doesn’t falter as I pass by, but I’m not afraid of him. What I’m unsure of is if he knows who I am and what I do. I’m careful to keep a low profile, but word gets around. The Ridge brothers run in the same social circle as some of my clients. There’s a chance he knows exactly who I work for through word of mouth. Or maybe the intuitive bastard is just a good judge of character? Can tell right off the bat that I’m no good for his brother?

  If that’s the case, he has nothing to worry about. Talent and I are a nonissue.

  Back at the apartment, Yael carries the groceries to the door for us. I send Camilla straight to the shower, and I take a moment to sit on the couch with Dog and regroup before she comes out. Talent’s woodsy scent is glued to my clothes, and his face is the only thing I see behind my closed eyelids. I don’t know how he figured out when and where I shop for groceries, but nothing will convince me that we ran into each other coincidentally.

  I can’t decide if I’m annoyed or grateful.

  “So, who’s Lydia?” Camilla asks, fresh out of her shower. She lathers lotion into her skin and takes the seat between Dog and me on the couch. “Has anyone ever told you how hard this couch is?”

  Avoiding her first question, I say, “It’s only a prop. No one ever sits on it because no one ever comes over.”

  Camilla bounces up and down on the cement-like cushion. The color’s returned to her complexion, and her skin isn’t inflamed or waxy. She smells like chamomile and hot water, and it makes me want to sink into a bath myself.

  But I need to put the groceries away. Camilla doesn’t know where anything belongs, and I don’t have the energy to show her.

  “Talent called you Lydia.” Camilla’s voice follows me to the kitchen. “That was Talent and Wilder Ridge, right? They’re more gorgeous in person than on the cover of those fancy magazines. I used to snatch them from the reception area at Hush. Are they clients?”

  “No,” I answer sharply.

  We bought so much junk food, I need to assign all this shit its own shelf in the pantry. This is a far cry from the stacks of premade salads and cartons of ice cream I buy for myself. One might think there are more than two girls living here. And with all the fresh meat and vegetables Camilla wanted, the stove might actually get used.

  “Are you going to tell me who Lydia is?” Camilla asks again.

  I’m tempted to throw the jar of Nutella at her head to shut her the fuck up, but instead I admit, “I’m Lydia. My name is Lydia Montgomery.”

  Now three people in this city know my real name.

  “Wait, what?” Camilla turns and rests her arms along the top of the couch. “Then who’s Cara?”

  “I do business as Cara Smith.”

  “I’ve lived here for a week and didn’t know your real name.”

  “Talent and Inez are the only ones who insist on using it. But for all intents and purposes, my name is Cara. My entire life revolves around Hush, so it’s easier if I use the name full-time. What’s the point in correcting anyone?”

  Camilla falls back into the couch, but I can still see her face. She crosses her legs and guides Dog onto her lap. In a shy tone, she asks, “Should I come up with a name to do business with as well?”

  I close the refrigerator and stare at my distorted reflection in the stainless-steel finish. The word yes sits on my lips, but a pinprick in the center of my stomach steals my voice from me. I know from experience what will happen if I guide her down this road. Camilla’s a sweet girl—no doubt she has a dark past—but it’s not too late for her to change her mind and choose a different route. Had she not met Inez, would she choose to sell her body? Because sex work isn’t for sweet girls.

  “I want something sexy for my alter ego. Stacey, Violet, or Lexi. Do I need a last name, too?”

  “Camilla,” I say sincerely. Her gold stare slips away from me, and she hardens like she’s about to be condemned. “You can do anything. Why this?”

  “I can do it, Lydia,” she whispers. She scratches behind Dog’s ear, but there’s a faraway look in her eyes. Any trace of warmth in her complexion has cooled and she’s left frozen and dull. In an instant, the brave and blissful person I spent the day with is gone.

  “Anyone can do it, but have you asked yourself if you can live with yourself after you let a stranger fuck you? Is it something you’ve truly considered, Camilla? Because your clients won’t look like Talent and Wilder Ridge. Some of them will be revolting.”

  “Why are you saying this? I thought you’re supposed to help me?”

  I leave the kitchen to stand in front of her. Camilla’s hands are balled into fists, and she slouches. Dog jumps from her lap and sits at my feet. Exhaustion suddenly covers me like a heavy fog, and I’m sick of talking, but she has to know.

  “These men pay a lot of money to have their way with your body, but they won’t love you. No matter what they say. No matter what they do. They’ll throw around cash—more money than you’ll know what to do with. They’ll buy you lavish gifts and offer expensive trips. They’ll make you believe you’re important to them. It’s all a fucking lie. It’s a lonely existence, Camilla. You’ll spend your days with a stranger’s hands and mouth on your skin. They’ll stick their cocks wherever they please. You will be treated like a thing to be owned. And when it’s over, you’re alone. And you have to live with that.”

  Inhaling a shallow breath, Camilla says, “Good.”

  Taken aback, I stand straight and watch in amazement as she gathers the strength to look me in the eyes. And unlike the distorted reflection I saw on the refrigerator, I see myself clearly in her.

  “Pick a name,” I say. “You have a week before your first job.”

  Grand Haven elites love to host charity balls all year long, but none of them top the Grand Haven Carousel of Love Gala—where the rich raise money for the inner-city families they displaced by invading the area and driving up the cost of living. Gentrification isn’t something anyone will admit to. Instead, our elected officials and the lobbyists who stuff their pockets full of money pat themselves on the back for decreasing crime rates and increasing property value.

  In an effort to stay out of Hell when they die, these same politicians and lobbyists throw a huge party to fund low-income housing, supply textbooks to their shit schools, and offer food assistance—outside Grand Haven city limits, of course. The most powerful people in the state are invited, as is the media to document the do-gooding, and it’s the one night a year every single girl who works for Inez is under the same roof at once.

  Except one.

  Normally.

  This year, Cara Smith’s name is on the Carousel of Love VIP guest list with a plus one.

  “What do you think?” Camilla stands in my bedroom doorway. Her hair is in large rollers, her nails are freshly painted, and she’s dressed in a black floor-length sequined evening gown with a slit clear up her thigh. She runs her hands down her sides and smiles. “I’ve never worn anything so beautiful in my life.”

  Since our discussion about names went sour a week ago, I’ve kept my worries and opinions to myself. Camilla’s made her choice. In seven days, she’s taken huge strides to follow in my footsteps, including choosing a name to work under and watching me intently before and after my weekly appointments. We’ve gone over how to pick and choose clients, how my appointments work, and how to behave accordingly. She’s watched me apply makeup, tried on my clothes, and she’s learned to give space when I can’t find the courage to speak another word and lock myself in my room.

  “That’ll work,” I say. I don’t tell her the truth, that she’s breathtaking. Galas such as tonight’s won’t be in her normal job description. I don’t want her to think this is customary. “Change out of it so I can do your makeup.”

  The fresh-faced newcomer transforms into a goddess as I dab concealer un
der her gold eyes and deepen the color along her cheekbones with blush. I apply neutral eye shadow across her eyelids and lengthen her lashes with a heavy coat of mascara. She wants to try the shimmering highlighter down the bridge of her nose, and she chooses a deep cranberry-colored lipstick. We laugh when some smears across her front teeth, and she jokes about leaving it there all night.

  Camilla helps me pull the rollers from her hair, and we decide it’s too pretty to pin up and shape her curls into an elegant wave instead.

  “I don’t recognize myself,” she whispers, staring at her reflection in my vanity mirror.

  Over her shoulder, I say, “Get used to it.”

  Camilla returns to her room to finish getting ready, and I pull my dress out of the closet. Tonight I’ve chosen a paisley lace off-the-shoulder evening gown that accentuates my hourglass figure and emphasizes the length of my legs. Paired with a metallic ankle-strapped heel, I almost don’t recognize myself either.

  “Wow, Lydia.” Camilla beams when I join her in the living room. “You’re the loveliest person I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  We’re quite the duo—an angel and the devil.

  I should be the one dressed in black.

  Camilla follows my every step precisely, first by greeting our chauffeur with only a modest nod and then closing the partition between the front and back of the limo before I do. We share a glass of champagne on the drive to a recently renovated urban art gallery space that was once an abandoned warehouse that stored retired fishing vessels. The rich love to take things they consider to be trash and give it new purpose, almost always for the sole objective of jerking each other off. They wave around their wealth and compare who has the most. Each refurbishment is bigger and better than the last, complete with a ribbon-cutting ceremony and a reason to get drunk or high and fuck women who aren’t their wives.

  The Carousel of Love Gala is the crème de la crème of dick measuring.

  For Inez, tonight’s about making as much money as possible. Drunk rich people love willing and able escorts. They’ve come to expect Inez to let her girls loose at functions such as tonight’s gala, and they’ll battle over the limited stock of beautiful women until the highest bidder wins.

  Camilla and I won’t partake in the debauchery. Her job is to get a feel for the crowd and network, and I’m here to enjoy the view and supervise.

  “Are you ready?” I ask when we arrive.

  Camilla drinks the rest of her glass of champagne and whispers, “As ready as I’m going to be.”

  In and of itself, the warehouse has been transformed into a masterpiece. Colorful lights, massive sculptures, and floral art accentuate the space. The media’s roped off on either side of the massive red carpet leading toward the entrance. In order to drown out the sounds of their snapping cameras, a live string orchestra plays a soothing tune to guide the guests inside where the real show begins.

  We walk hand-in-hand up the red carpet, unbothered by the people behind the cameras. As far as they’re concerned, we’re nobodies and there are more interesting people and scandal to shoot.

  Little do they know…

  “Cara Smith and Megan Rice.” The person at the door checks our names off the list.

  Camilla changed her last name a hundred times, chomping on surnames such as King, Murphy, and Weaver. Megan Rice has a powerful ring to it without being so generic it’s blatantly fake. The idea is to blend in, not to stick out with a name that’s overtly exotic or ridiculously mundane.

  “Enjoy your evening.” The doorman opens the velvet ropes and allows us to pass.

  Bars are set up in every corner of the large building. The dance floor is in the center, framed by rows of round tables, topped with stunning floral centerpieces. Servers walk around with trays of hors d’oeuvres and tall glasses of champagne. The music is so loud, it vibrates through my bones, competing with the beat of my heart.

  Unlike the other girls at Hush, I don’t typically attend these functions and I’m overwhelmed by the amount of people in attendance. I’m guaranteed to run into men on my clientele list, but per our agreements, I’ll act as though I’ve never laid eyes on them before.

  “What now?” Camilla asks as we take in the scene.

  “Now we see what you’re made of,” I say, grabbing two glasses of champagne from a passing server. I give one to Camilla. “This is your chance to become anyone you want. Forget where you come from. Forget what brought you here. You own this city. There’s not a single person in this room more powerful than you. Bring them to their knees.”

  Her excitement is profound, and she embodies every part of the vixen she’s intent on becoming. Camilla’s beauty siphons energy from the room, and she’s a head-turner, growing brighter while the rest of the gala lacks luster. Her dress twinkles like a starry night sky, and her perfectly curled hair sweeps along her lower back. She walks on water—a god among us. Men and women can’t pull their eyes away from her, and I sip my champagne at a job well done.

  My duty tonight is not to interfere but to keep an eye on Inez’s newest recruit. She walks down the center of the room, and I keep to the left. If Camilla is the brightest star in the sky, I’m the moon in cloud cover. My face, my dress, my overall aura draws people in, but I keep the charm to a minimum and make it clear I don’t want to be approached.

  The night is young, so I sip the same glass of champagne for an hour to keep the offers to buy me a drink at bay. I sit alone with my back to the bar, and my eyes on the row of tables closest to me. Camilla found our assigned seats, and she’s enjoying the two-thousand-dollar meal purchased with our ticket. How Inez managed to score her a seat at the same table as the mayor and his cronies probably has everything to do with the fact that the mayor likes his whores to fuck him with a strap-on.

  Or so I hear.

  She babysits the same glass of champagne I gave her upon arrival, and she charms the entire table with her laughter and wonder.

  “Stroke their egos,” I told her last night. “They like that more than having their cocks touched.”

  A life lived as lonely as mine doesn’t normally leave opportunity to people watch. Human nature is inherently interesting. A thousand different people with a thousand different backgrounds, personalities, and secrets mingle among each other like we all don’t have something to hide. Some speak animatedly, moving their hands and showcasing an array of facial expressions. Others speak with their eyes. Others don’t speak at all.

  Body language will tell you a lot about a person.

  I’ve yet to meet every single one of Inez’s escorts, but they’re easy to pick out of the crowd. They’re the ones who laugh too loud, touch who they’re talking to, and continuously gesture around the room like they’re the lucky ones to be here.

  The Carousel of Love Gala doesn’t lack in narcissists. Narcissists, with their shiny shoes and perfectly cropped hair, are the flashiest ones among their groups. They tend to flock together and gloat in the endless supply of people to make them feel good about themselves.

  It’s easy to spot who’s anxious by the women who cling to their purses and fidget, and men who can’t look away from their phones rather than taking in the party around them. They’re constantly looking for the exits, and shy away from small talk. They tend to be the ones who accidentally overdrink, avoiding conversation with the bottom of their glasses.

  Extroverts wear their personalities—literally. They’re in bright dresses or colored suits. They work the crowd, making eye contact and shaking hands with everyone they come in contact with.

  The help is anyone opening doors, serving drinks and food, and hovering in the corners where the light doesn’t hit. They’re better not seen or heard, but they’re easy to spot if you look hard enough. Dressed in black slacks and white long-sleeved button-ups, they huddle together and complain about the rich bastards they’re here to serve.

  “Business or pleasure?” a male voice I recognize right away asks. Gary Brooker approaches my left side with a f
resh flute of bubbly. He plucks the now warm glass from my fingers and gives it to the bartender. “I’ve had my eye on you for a while. This champagne is fantastic. It’s an abomination you allowed it to go flat. I take it you’re feeling better since the last time I saw you?”

  The last time I was with Gary, I sullied his precious marble floor.

  “Inez wasn’t happy with me after you called,” I say in an amused tone. I sip my glass of fresh champagne.

  Gary brushes his finger down the length of my arm and says, “It took a week to get the smell out of my office. I had the walls repainted.”

  I laugh out loud. “You’re crazy.”

  We clink glasses and Gary asks, “So? What brings you to the gala? I’ve never seen you at an event before.”

  Gary Brooker is the only one of my clients who would ever talk to me in a public setting, and I knew he’d be here. His name was on the list of contributors. Much of the art on display is on loan from his gallery, and some of it is up for auction. Unlike the rest of my clientele, Gary has nothing to hide and zero shame. He’d proudly show me off if I’d allow it. As far as he’s concerned, I’m the most beautiful thing he owns. And the mongrels love to show off their riches.

  “Pleasure,” I say.

  “Great. Please, join me.” Gary holds his hand out in invitation.

  Camilla’s accepted a gentlemen’s invitation to dance, so I slide my hand into Gary’s and let him lead me toward the art exhibits. He tucks my arm under his possessively, and I allow it because it gives the impression that I’m not alone. This’ll be helpful as this crowd gets drunk on alcohol and egos, and hopefully they’ll leave me alone if they’re under the impression I’m with the charity art dealer.

  “I chose some of these pieces with you in mind,” Gary says.