Tramp (Hush Book 1)

by Mary Elizabeth

  “He has one hour with you, Camilla. Sixty minutes. When the hour’s up, leave. No exceptions.” I activated two more phones after I drowned the first in the bathtub. Handing one over to Camilla, I say, “Don’t call me unless it’s an emergency.”

  She’s a goddess in black leather pants and a satin tank top, but her hands tremble and her bottom lip quivers. “I’m nervous.”

  “Then don’t go,” I say strictly. “This won’t work if you’re not committed. Don’t waste your time or his.”

  Camilla takes the phone from me and slides it into her clutch. In the blink of an eye, she straightens her posture and adopts an indifferent attitude. “How many times do I have to tell you I can do this, Lydia?”

  “Then stop second-guessing yourself.”

  “I haven’t second-guessed myself once.” She turns toward the door to leave. The fragrant aroma of her perfume lingers in the air between us. “I was only being honest.”

  When she leaves, I note the time on the clock and calculate when to expect her home. I don’t have a relationship with other escorts at Hush because I don’t want to understand why they choose this life or to bond over our reasons. This isn’t a sisterhood. It’s a means to an end. Peddling myself to men across the city is one thing, but to send Camilla off to do it leaves me uneasy.

  Caring is uncomfortable and itchy, like tiny needles carving into my skin that I give a shit.

  I care about Camilla. I care about Inez and Hush. I care that Cricket stopped existing ten years ago.

  I suffer, because despite how incompetent she was, Cricket was mine and I was hers, and I miss her. I care that she didn’t do better, and I care that she’s not here so I can tell her that I understand and forgive her.

  But most of all, I care about Talent Ridge.

  Discounting how he’s changed my life in such a short amount of time did nothing to alter the inevitable, and I care about him.

  Maybe it’s more than caring. More complete. More immense.

  More than anything I can explain because it’s more than anything I’ve ever experienced.

  And utterly undoable.

  Waiting for Camilla’s hour to be up, I sit on the hard couch surrounded by her candles, plants, and the paintings she had no idea about and invite Dog onto my lap.

  I care about this motherfucker, too.

  But he still can’t stay.

  I’m going to make those posters.

  Trading sex for money is never without difficulty, but the first time is particularly harsh even for the worst of us. I grew up in an environment that lacked ethics and thrived in debauchery, but I felt it when I crossed the imaginary line over from good to morally deficient the first time I solicited myself. I felt permanently labeled, like anyone who ever looked at me again would know I was dishonorable.

  Camilla has a tight lid on where she comes from and what led her to Hush, but despite what she’s gone through, she’s managed to stay mostly good. This path was chosen for me, but Camilla is choosing this herself. It won’t be easy. Will she look different, smell different, or act differently? Should I have done more to stop her? Was that my place, or would it have made it harder for her?

  When she bursts through the door, I jump up from the couch to face her. We share a brief, breathless, voiceless second where we’re the only two women in the entire universe who understand what she’s given up.

  Just as quickly, she covers her mouth with her hands and lets out a cry only those of us who have crossed this particular moral-lacking line know.

  “I’m okay,” she says. She holds her hand out to stop me from coming closer. “I just need a second.”

  Let this be a lesson to her because I have no intention of getting nearer. If she expected me to welcome her home with open arms and reassurance, she’s wrong. Does she want to hear that everything will be okay, and it’ll get better with time? Because it won’t. It never gets easier; we just come up with better ways to numb it.

  “Why are you doing this to yourself, Camilla?” I cross my arms over my chest to keep from bleeding out. I care, but there’s not enough room inside of me to be her confidant. “Do you need the money? Because I’ll give you every cent I have if this isn’t what you want. You have options, Camilla. This life is not for the weak.”

  Mascara runs down her cheeks with tears, but she wipes them away. “I’m not weak.”

  “Stop crying,” I demand. “Hold it in until it feels like you’re going to rip at the seams, and then hold it tighter.”

  Drawing in a breath that rocks her entire frame, Camilla levels her shoulders and lifts her chin in defiance. Sadness, discontent, or frustration fall steadily from her eyes, smearing her makeup, but she proves to be stronger than I give her credit for and meets me head-on.

  “It’s not too late to end it here, Camilla. If any part of you is unsure, even after tonight, this is your last chance before it changes you for the rest of your life,” I warn her.

  Camilla’s golden eyes catch fire, and she says, “And this is the last time you doubt me, Lydia.”

  She kicks off her heels and doesn’t bother to pick them up as she walks past me, hanging on to the edge of composure by the very tips of her fingers. I have no doubt she lets go as soon as she’s on the other side of the door, and I don’t blame her. She’ll be happy later that she didn’t show me how conflicted she really is.

  Now that Camilla’s home, I return to my own bedroom, where for the first time today, I focus solely on the source of my aching heart. In the top drawer of my nightstand, just like it was ten years ago, is the folder with my birth certificate and social security card. And on top of that, is the note Cricket left for me.

  Have a good time, baby.

  Love,

  Mom.

  The blue lines on the ripped notebook paper have faded to mint green, and the edges are fragile and soft. Besides myself, this seven-word note is the only proof Cricket Montgomery existed. It’s endured the last decade shoved in my back pocket or crumpled at the bottom of a bag, but unlike the person who wrote it or the forty dollars it came with, I still have it.

  I put the note back in its spot before dialing Talent’s phone number in my prepaid cell phone. He picks up after the first ring, and instead of saying hello or I miss you or why can’t you stay the fuck away, I say, “My mom died ten years ago today, and all I have left is a stupid note she left me because I was a bitch to her.”

  Instead of replying that it’s going to be okay, or that we can get through this tough time together, or that death is the fucking worst, he says, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  He knocks on the front door sixteen minutes later.

  Talent traded the shorts and T-shirt for a navy-blue suit and black tie. His jacket is unbuttoned, and his shoes shine under the yellow-orange porch light. With one hand in his pocket and the other in his hair, Talent is poise personified.

  He doesn’t wait to be invited inside when I answer. Talent pushes the door completely open and closes it without taking his eyes away from me. His eyes rarely leave me when we’re together, constantly like he’s afraid to miss something. Right now, I’m stoic and unmoving, stuck somewhere between grief and relief that he came back. Blinking, breathing, or speaking is listless, like punching in a dream, and I don’t have the energy to say anything but a simple hello.

  “Hey, come here.” Talent takes my hand and pulls me forward. “Why didn’t you say anything, Lydia? I wouldn’t have left you.”

  That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you, I think to myself. But somewhere along the way, I decided I didn’t want to go through this alone anymore.

  Grief won’t let me stray too far, but looking into Talent’s somber expression, I find comfort in his nearness. He ebbs the rampant sorrow this day brings with it, but Talent also makes it impossible to ignore how chronically lonely I am.

  I didn’t know what I was missing until he filled the void, and I don’t think I can go back to a life he’s not a part of.

&n
bsp; Talent runs his hands up my arms, leaning forward to kiss my forehead. I close my eyes to savor the sensation of human contact with someone I care about when he draws me in and binds his arms around my body. Like a cornered animal, my first instinct is to fight back and free myself. How dare he fucking trap me.

  Instead, I let my hands rest at my sides and become very still as he presses his entire body against mine and wraps his arms so tightly around me, I can hear my heartbeat echoing in my ears. Talent’s taller and larger than I am, but I fit against him like a precious jewel returning to its velvety case. Warm acceptance pours over me from the top of my head, slowly coating my shoulders before spreading down the rest of my body.

  Talent isn’t trapping me. He’s hugging me.

  I’m so emotionally broken, I couldn’t tell the difference.

  Turning my face into his neck, I inhale his sweet smell and let my eyes fall closed once again. I’m slow to reciprocate this unfamiliar show of affection, but I start by relaxing into his embrace. Once I feel his heart beating against my own, I rest my hands on his sides and carefully slide them to his lower back.

  Then I circle my arms around him and exhale, hugging him back.

  Talent cradles my face between his hands and asks, “Are we staying here or going back to my place tonight?”

  As much as I wouldn’t mind sleeping between his sheets again, I don’t want to leave Camilla alone in the apartment.

  “I need to stay.”

  Talent nods, laces his fingers between mine, and guides me toward the bedroom. I sit on the bed while he removes his jacket and toes off his shoes. He untucks his button-up shirt and rolls the sleeves to his forearms. And I still can’t wrap my mind around Grand Haven’s very own Talent Ridge in my bedroom, let alone crawling across my mattress and lying on the side of the bed that’s never touched.

  Turning off the lamp, I immediately find ease in the dark and rest my head on my pillow. Two large hands find and pull me over to tuck me snuggly against his side. And once again, I find myself experiencing another first with Talent. There’s never been a time in my life when I’ve shared a bed with a man for the sole purpose of sleep, but I can tell by the way he settles into the mattress and rests his arm over his head while the other is secure around me, that’s what’s happening.

  And it’s exactly what I need.

  Talent asks, “Do you want to talk about her?”

  “I don’t know how to talk about her,” I admit instead of saying no like I normally would.

  Clearing his throat, Talent crosses his ankles and sweeps the tips of his fingers up and down my arm. “Start at the beginning. Or at the end. Just start talking.”

  “Talent,” I whisper. “I can’t.”

  He turns his body toward mine and pushes a lock of hair away from my eyes. “What’s her name?”

  “Cricket Anne Montgomery,” I answer, saying her name aloud for the first time in an exceptionally long time. The impact the enunciation of her name has on me is powerful, and I hold on to the sounds of her name like I held on to Talent by the front door.

  Talking about her after that is easy. I start at the beginning and spend the next few hours telling Talent every detail I remember about my life with a mother as engrossing, reckless, and devout as mine was. He’s careful not to react too strongly, laughing quietly and smiling in the dark at stories of an irresponsible teenage mother and her loyal, dirty-faced daughter. But he tenses and holds me tightly when I get to the parts of misuse and neglect. He needs to know that I’m the same girl who slept in the back of a Buick while her mom danced in a smoky strip club, and I don’t let anyone too close because the only person I’ve ever loved abandoned me by dying.

  “I miss her,” I admit, resting my head on Talent’s chest. “Despite it all, I miss my mom.”

  I miss her.

  And then I release her.

  When I wake up the next morning, Talent’s standing at the end of my bed brushing his teeth with my toothbrush. Last night feels like a dream, but judging by the scratchy feeling in my throat, it was real. And judging by the way Talent smiles around my sudsy toothbrush, he still wants me.

  Until he hears the rest of the story.

  “I have an extra toothbrush under the sink.” I pull the sheet to my chin.

  Talent nods, walking back to the bathroom to rinse his mouth in the sink. “I saw them, but I wanted to use yours.”

  “That’s gross.”

  He winks in the mirror back at me.

  Talent slips his feet back into his shoes and slides his arms through his jacket before straightening his tie. “We have an important meeting with some high-profile clients today at the office, and I can’t get out of it this time. I have to swing by my place to shower and change first, or I’d take you to breakfast.”

  “I understand,” I say. It’s sweet that he wants to feed me before he starts his day.

  Talent’s eyes darken and his jaw tenses when he asks, “Do you work this afternoon?”

  “Not today.”

  Clearly reassured, the right side of Talent’s mouth curves into a slight smile and he comes forward to kiss my forehead. “Come downtown for lunch. I’ll send a car to pick you up.”

  Stocked with an arsenal of reasons why I shouldn’t step foot in the Ridge & Sons building again, I push them aside and nod hesitantly. Talent stayed up all night and listened to stories about my grueling upbringing, and he’s still here. The least I can do is show up for lunch if it makes him happy. Now that my schedule is clear while Inez sorts out Hush, I don’t have anything else to do with my time.

  Although, I’m positive I’d cancel my entire schedule to spend lunch with him even if I were booked.

  “Great,” he says. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  Talent leaves my room and I pull the sheet completely over my head, wound up with eagerness and bubbling excitement. I’m no better than a pubescent teenager with her first crush, kicking and thrashing for some relief from the flood of endorphins having its way with my nervous system.

  No, this isn’t just a crush.

  This is everything I’ve never felt before all at once.

  “Lydia.” Talent’s voice scares me from my revelry, and I push the sheet back, utterly embarrassed because I don’t know how much of my kicking and squealing he saw and heard. Judging by the smirk on his face, all of it. “Your dog was scratching on the door this morning, so I already took him out.”

  My cheeks burn red, and I say, “Thank you.”

  Jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, he chuckles and says, “Your neighbor with the basset hound and the good coffee talked my ear off for fifteen minutes about the neighborhood watch program she’s trying to organize. She wanted to know if I’d be staying with you for a while because she thinks I have what it takes to recruit members. I told her you were in for sure, and we’d work on everyone else later.”

  “I hate you.” I throw my pillow across the room, but he closes the door before it makes contact with his face.

  “No, you don’t,” he says as he steps away from the door and leaves my apartment.

  Without my scheduled appointments with clients, my routine’s going to look different for the foreseeable future. This kind of change would normally give me massive amounts of anxiety, because I’m nothing if not a creature of habit. My life hasn’t varied at all in eight years, but like a domino effect, one by one, everything collapsed after I stepped into Talent’s office for the very first time only two months ago.

  With my hair tied up and my running shoes double-knotted, I emerge from my room with the intention of running on the treadmill like I do every day. But outside, spring is bouncing into summer and the sun shines high in the sky.

  I look down at Dog and ask, “Do you want to go for a run with me?”

  Camilla hasn’t come out of her room, but the television is on and the glow from her candles seep from under the door. She’ll come out when she’s ready or before she dies from smoke inhalation from all her
candles, and I’ll be here to toughen her up. The more she does it, the easier it’ll get. I’m just not sure I can sit back and watch her lose her spark like I did.

  Clipping the leash to Dog’s collar, I walk him out the front door and squint against the hot summer sun before lightly jogging out of the apartment complex onto the cross street. The air smells like sea salt, fresh cut grass, and sprinkler water. Pollen causes my eyes to water, and I sneeze from forgotten allergies.

  When was the last time I spent any amount of time outside? I enjoy it from the back of an SUV, coming and going from my appointments. I occasionally visit the grassy area with Dog in the early morning. But when was the last time I let the sun soak into my skin and felt the pavement under my shoes?

  After my arrival, Inez insisted I crash with her until I was established in Grand Haven and found my own place. She dragged me to the beach with her a couple of times. We’d take a cooler with ice cold drinks and small snacks, tanning on the sand until our skin turned red. I only agreed to go with her because she gave me shelter and I didn’t want to be rude, but I refused once I was on my own. And after a couple of years, I forgot it was something I enjoyed.

  Breathing in the open air, it’s clear that I don’t know what I enjoy at all.

  Dog trots at my feet, panting with his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth. The occasional pedestrian smiles as we cross paths on the sidewalk, but I keep my eyes forward, enjoying the neighborhood. Entire flocks of birds fly over my head, everyone’s flower gardens have bloomed in bright reds, yellows, and greens, and the breeze off the ocean cools the sweat around my hairline.

  We don’t get far before Dog’s legs tire and he decides he’s had enough, stopping without warning.

  “You little dick,” I say, tripping over his leash.

  He finds a shady spot under a tree, parks his ass, and refuses to budge while staring me directly in the eyes. I pull on his leash, speak in a cutesy voice so other joggers don’t think I’m an animal abusing monster, and as a last-ditch effort to get him back on four legs, I beg.