Tramp (Hush Book 1)

by Mary Elizabeth

  He exhales a low sounding laugh and asks, “Do you have a pen?”

  I shave over my kneecap. “No, I’m in the bath.”

  Talent groans seductively. “Don’t talk to me like that or we’ll never get to the parts I don’t know about you yet.”

  Smiling despite myself, I ask what I need a pen for.

  “To write down my address. You’re coming over,” he says.

  The razor slips from my fingers and lands at the bottom of the tub, where my ability to speak might be hiding, too. He wants me to come to his place?

  “Don’t disappear on me again, baby,” he says. The sound of rustling transfers through the receiver. I hear the distinct jingle from a set of keys. “Never mind. Fuck it. I’ll come for you.”

  I drop my legs into the water and the remaining shaving cream clouds the water, sticking to the edges of the bathtub. “Talent, I—”

  “Lydia, I have one day off and I’m going to spend it with you. Are you going to come to me, or do I need to come to you?”

  Releasing my bottom lip from between my teeth, I say, “You didn’t ask if I have the day off today.”

  “You do,” he answers without hesitation. “And if I have anything to do with it, you’ll have every day off from now on.”

  An electric revival stirs inside of me, fire-like and licking in the bend of my elbows and knees, throbbing in my jaw, and poking at the corner of my lips. I rest my forehead on top of my knee and squeeze my eyes shut, fighting a smile. I’m afraid to feel excitement kick-start parts of me I thought nonexistent. Anticipation is for those who have something to look forward to, and when’s the last time I looked forward to anything significant?

  He said he has one day off.

  I can give him that and be back in time to mourn Cricket.

  “Can you text your address to the number I called you from?” I ask. I lose the battle of wills against my smile and my lips curve high.

  “Yeah, I’ll text it to you.” Talent’s voice is dreamy, and my smile widens farther. “You have an hour to get here or I show up on your doorstep.”

  My next phone call is to Inez. She doesn’t answer the first time. I call twice more.

  “Cara, I’ve missed your voice, stellina.” It’s odd that she’s called me Cara when she’s the one person in my life who insists on using Lydia, but I don’t put much thought into it. Fifty-seven minutes and counting until I see Talent again. “Tell me, how are you? How’s Camilla? We haven’t had a chance to speak much, I’m sorry.”

  “Good,” I say. I get out of the tub. Sheets of water fall from my body, soaking the cotton rug under my feet. “The gala was—”

  “We’ll come back to that later,” she says suddenly.

  I wrap myself in a towel and stand in my closet, unsure if I should wear something provocative or an outfit a normal girl would wear to see the person she has a crush on. I’ve never done this before. What do normal twenty-six-year-old women wear to see the person they have a crush on?

  I can Google it.

  “I called because I need to cancel my day.” As I’m pulling different clothes out of my drawers, nothing feels right. How would I dress if I weren’t a slut? I wore hand-me-downs and thrift store clothes growing up. Any accessories I had were from the lost and found at the club. Cricket and I had fun digging through the box, surprised by what people left behind when tits and ass distracted them. That didn’t change until Inez introduced me to a new clientele and I had to dress the part of a high-end escort.

  But what do I like?

  On my days off I wear pajamas. Unless I have to leave, and then I wear leggings.

  Welcome to your life, I think to myself. You don’t even know how to dress yourself.

  “Great,” Inez says. “We can reschedule for another time.”

  Taken aback by the unnatural zest in her tone, I drop the black lingerie set to the floor with the pile of sweats and miniskirts. I’ve messed with my schedule more times in thirty days than I have in the last eight years I’ve worked for Inez. She holds me on a pedestal separate from the others at Hush, but she has a business to run. If I don’t get paid, neither does she. I expected her to put up a fight, especially over someone as valuable as the district attorney. This is too easy.

  “Inez, what’s going on? You’re being weird.”

  “Actually, Cara,” she says. That’s twice now, and now I know for certain we have an issue. “There’s something I want to talk to you about, but we can’t do it over the phone.”

  “I can meet you at Hush tomorrow,” I say, sitting at my vanity. Water trickles from the ends of my hair.

  “Hush isn’t safe.”

  Inhaling a sharp breath, I grip the edge of my chair and say, “What the fuck do you mean, Hush isn’t safe. Inez, is everything okay? Where are you?”

  “Everything will be fine.” Her voice slides back to its normal confidence, but my mind races. “The anniversary of your mother’s death is tomorrow, am I right?”

  Raking my fingers through my wet hair, I find it impossible to focus on the wheel of issues spinning through my mind. The anniversary of Cricket’s death is tomorrow. Inez is being evasive, and I’m running out of time to get to Talent’s place.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Listen to me, sweet girl. Come to my house and I’ll make dinner. We can share stories of the dead over a bottle of wine.”

  “And you’ll tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “Yes, we’ll have a conversation.”

  Surrendering, I drop my shoulders and exhale. “I’ll be by tomorrow then.”

  “Don’t worry about your appointment today,” Inez says almost as an afterthought. “That’s off your schedule indefinitely. No need to rebook.”

  Our entire conversation has been a riddle, and I can’t crack the code. Why is Clay off my rotation? Does it have to do with the information Inez is clearly keeping from me? Corruption never ends well.

  “Did you call me on one of those silly phones you like to use?” Inez asks.

  “Of course,” I whisper.

  “Good,” she says in an even tone. “When we hang up, destroy it.”

  I run to the kitchen holding my towel together in one hand and clutching the phone in the other. I shuffle through the kitchen drawers until I find a sheet of paper and a pen that works. After scribbling Talent’s address down, I snap the burner phone closed and drop it to the counter like it’s red-hot.

  “What’s going on?” Camilla asks. She’s curled on the couch with Dog.

  Throwing the phone away or breaking it in half doesn’t feel sufficient enough. I open the cabinet under the sink for the small tool kit I keep for emergencies. The hammer’s heavy in my hand, but I realize too late that I’m not holding the grip correctly when I bring it down to smash the phone and hit the countertop instead.

  “Lydia, what the heck.” Camilla sits up, holding Dog close to her chest. He growls.

  “Dammit,” I seethe.

  I tighten the towel around my body and grasp the hammer with both hands. Pulling my bottom lip between my teeth, I squeeze my eyes closed and drive the face of the hammer into the target over and over and over. I don’t stop until the phone is reduced to a pile of broken plastic pieces, and then I hit it twice more.

  The silence in the apartment afterward is earsplitting.

  Camilla waits until I set the hammer down to ask, “Should we talk about this or no?”

  Wiping the sweat from my brow, I shake my head and say, “Never.”

  Shouldering my answer without another word, Camilla puts Dog down and grabs the broom to clean up the mess I’ve made. She sweeps around me, shooing me out of the kitchen. “Watch your feet. The glass will cut you.”

  I feel like I’m on the outside looking in on someone else’s life. I don’t recognize the brunette draped in a towel as myself. There’s light in her eyes like an eclipse, glowing around dark edges. She has the decency to be embarrassed as she watches the blonde sweep up her fit of despe
ration. The hammer was an overkill, but she has much to lose now.

  The placeholder mom. The stray dog. The girl who loves Moroccan tapestry and candles.

  The prince.

  Her prince, maybe.

  Could be?

  Perhaps.

  My mind links with my body and I can see through my eyes, feel embarrassment burn my cheeks, and taste anxiety on the back of my tongue.

  “I have to go,” I say.

  Camilla lifts the dustpan full of broken burner phone pieces and says, “You sure? Usually you’re more put together for your appointments. Not that you don’t look … clean, but maybe you can use a day off.”

  She doesn’t know that whores don’t get mental health days.

  “I’m going to Talent Ridge’s house,” I say. The words burst from my mouth like a confetti cannon. Each individual letter from my confession climbs up, up, up before sprinkling down upon me like tiny pieces of paper that we’ll find on the floor for a week.

  Burrowing her eyebrows in confusion, Camilla says, “Oh, I didn’t think he was a client.”

  The cannon reloads, spitting out a second fountain of words. “He’s not. He’s something else.”

  Her brows shoot up and a grin spreads across her face. She dumps the heap of rubble into the trash can and in a totally different tone, she purrs, “Oh.”

  And because this moment can’t get any more mortifying anyway, I ask, “Do you know what I’m supposed to wear? I’ve never done this before. I’ve never—”

  Camilla purses her lips and then shakes her head. “Honestly, Lydia. Neither have I. Maybe jeans?”

  She and I share a look and contemplate how ridiculous our ignorance is before we erupt in laughter. The melody is so brand new and consoling, I gladly let it float around with confetti letters until I realize I have twenty-four minutes to get dressed and across town.

  Camilla and Dog follow me to my bedroom. I rush to my closet where I drop my towel and step into a cotton pair of underwear I never wear around clients and a black lace bra that I do. Camilla tugs an olive-green shirt over my head, while I shimmy into black leggings usually reserved for grocery shopping days. While I sit at my vanity and tie my shoes, Camilla runs a brush through my gone-frizzy hair.

  “Wear the dark red lipstick. He won’t look at your hair if he can’t pull his eyes away from your lips.” She taps her temple like she’s Albert-fucking-Einstein, full of brilliant ideas.

  I wear the dark red lipstick.

  Yael is waiting outside for me when I emerge from the apartment in my Sunday leggings and air-dried frizzy hair on my head. My left shoe comes untied as I speed walk toward the black SUV, and I forgot to grab a new phone. I won’t have a way to get ahold of Inez if something comes up, and I won’t have the option to call Talent and give him two thousand reasons why this is a bad idea.

  I’m a fallen woman.

  He means something to people.

  I only shaved one leg.

  And so on.

  “Change of plans,” I say to my chauffeur. I hand him the sheet of paper with Talent’s address written across it in red ballpoint pen. “Please, take me here.”

  Yael’s dark brown eyes bore down on me like he doesn’t know the answer to the test and is afraid to guess the wrong answer.

  “I always appreciate your discretion,” I say, climbing into the back of the Suburban. I don’t close the partition between us, even when his dark irises reflect back at me from the rearview mirror.

  Talent lives in a skyrise luxury apartment building that sits at the very top of the city like a castle before its people. The eminent structure stretches for the sky, offers panoramic views of the Pacific Ocean, and comes with a full staff.

  “Welcome to Grand Opal, ma’am.” A valet attendant opens my door and offers me a hand.

  It’s uncomfortable to break my own rules, but I meet the attendant’s eyes and thank him for his help out of the vehicle. He smiles kindly and steps away, allowing me space to stand on the pavement without crowding my personal space.

  “Do you have any bags?” he asks. He stands with his feet shoulder-width apart and his hands crossed behind his back.

  “No,” I answer solemnly. “I’m here to visit a friend.”

  He closes the car door and pats it twice, signaling to Yael that he’s free to go. The valet attendant chaperones me toward the building entrance and points to the reception area where I need to check-in. Unless you’re a resident in the building, no one is allowed past the lobby.

  Dog Mom would love this shit.

  “Name, please,” the receptionist asks. Her eyes sweep over me to take in my hair and the lipstick that doesn’t follow my lip line exactly, and she looks away. I appreciate the monotony of our encounter.

  “Cara Smith,” I say out of habit.

  She underlines every single name on the guest list with the tip of her finger. A creeping sensation tiptoes up my spine, and I start to second-guess my reasons for being here.

  “I don’t see your name on the list,” she says politely.

  I rub the back of my neck and search for the exit door in case I decide to make a run for it. “Can you check for Lydia Montgomery?”

  She smiles and rechecks her list, starting at the top. Her finger suddenly stops and draws an imaginary circle around my name written beside Talent’s. She stands, suddenly treating me like an especially important guest and not a stray who accidentally found her way in her lobby.

  “I’m sorry for the initial confusion, Miss Montgomery. Mr. Ridge is waiting for you.” She gestures toward the wall of elevators. “You’re going to the penthouse on the fourteenth floor. One of our attendants will take you up.”

  All elevator music sounds the same: classical with slow strings and rhythm that never picks up. Its purpose is to distract passengers from dwelling on the fact that they’re trapped in a pulley-controlled box. Calm your nerves, don’t think about motion sickness, snapping cables, or imminent death—focus on the soothing sounds of the waltz.

  Elevator music doesn’t help calm the blooming anxiety that escalates as I ascend closer to the penthouse. If the pulley cable broke and I plummeted fourteen stories to my death, would it be worse than knocking on Talent’s door? I’m starting to wonder.

  We come to a stop on the ninth floor. A professional-looking man who happened to accompany me this far on my journey to the top of the sky steps closer to the double doors before they part. Close to home, he loosens his tie and exhales a lungful of air. It’s as good as watching his burden drop from his shoulders, and I can imagine the way he’ll drop his briefcase and kick off his shoes once he’s inside his apartment. Maybe he has a partner waiting for him. Or an animal.

  I think about following him out, but I sink farther inside until the sunlight in the hallway can’t touch me. As terrified as I am—not of a plunging elevator car, but of how quickly my life has changed and how it circles back to Talent Ridge—I can’t help but feel like the fourteenth-floor penthouse is where I’ll uncover the next part of my life.

  Closing my eyes once the double doors seal me in again, I inhale slowly through my nose and out through my parted lips. The elevator jolts to life and my stomach is slow to catch up to the speed of the car. I don’t watch the number increase as we sail to the top floor. Instead, I escape to the memory of Talent on the fire escape last night. His lips. The warmth of his liquor-laced breath. The shadows across his face that was within kissing distance.

  My heart pounds in an acoustic drum pattern—no percussion, just beat—increasing louder and louder until my bones feel like they’ll fracture from the vibration. The noise in my head is nearly unbearable, and then the elevator comes to a slow stop and it ends. I open my eyes to find the elevator attendant smiling at me.

  “We’ve arrived to the penthouse floor, Miss Montgomery,” he says.

  The ninth floor opened to a hallway of multiple doors.

  There’s only one door on the fourteenth floor.

  “Thank you,”
I say. I reach into my purse for a cash tip, but the elevator attendant waves me off.

  “No need, ma’am,” he says kindly. “Mr. Ridge took care of it before you arrived.”

  This hits different, and I find myself irrationally emotional because Talent approached the elevator attendant before my arrival and paid him to ensure my journey from the lobby to the top floor of Grand Opal was a good one.

  The attendant is polite and doesn’t look to be frightened of the unstable woman in his elevator. He says, “Have a good day.”

  He doesn’t wait for me to reach the large set of doors at the end of the hallway before departing. If I changed my mind and opted to leave, I’d have to wait for the elevator to arrive at the lobby and for it to come back up. Or tackle fourteen flights of stairs. Not happening.

  Smoothing my hair down, I whisper to myself, “Don’t be a coward, Lydia.”

  Why didn’t I wear better clothes?

  I should have styled my hair.

  Mascara would have been better than nothing.

  When did I become so fucking unsure of myself?

  Faking glory, I knock on the door twice with the back of my hand. Anxiety eats me up and there’s nothing I can do to curb its appetite. Did I knock hard enough? Is it too soon to try again in case he didn’t hear me the first time? What if he only paid the elevator attendant for his discretion? He may be the most influential man in the building, but surely he isn’t the only person of influence who lives here. Of course he wouldn’t want the staff gossiping about the whore on the penthouse floor.

  I’ve worked myself into a panic when Talent opens the door.

  He’s gorgeous, of course. Black jeans. Black shoes. White T-shirt. Talent has blueish veins that show beneath his skin from the inside of his wrist to the bend of his elbow. Dimples show at the corner of his smile. And he cared enough to make sure his hair wasn’t a mess like mine.

  I can’t breathe with these worries on my tongue.

  “Lydia, wait,” Talent calls after me when I turn around and dash toward the elevator.