Tramp (Hush Book 1) Read online

  Tramp

  Copyright © Mary Elizabeth Literature

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews and pages where the publisher or author specifically grants permission.

  Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of the information contained within.

  Cover Design: Designs by Dana

  Editor: Ellie @ My Brother’s Editor

  Editor: Paige Maroney Smith

  First Edition

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Novels by the Author

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Innocents (Dusty, Volume 1)

  Delinquents (Dusty, Volume 2)

  True Love Way

  Low

  Poesy (A Low Novella)

  Closer (Closer, Volume 1)

  Sever (Closer, Volume 2)

  Extra Credit

  Tramp (Hush, Volume 1)

  Harlot (Hush, Volume 2) Coming Soon

  Criminal (Hush, Volume 3) Coming Soon

  For my girls.

  May you always know your worth.

  I learned at a young age that looks are everything.

  Nothing in this world is out of reach for the simple fact that I was born a woman, blessed with an attractive face. My childhood was spent studying how valuable the female body is, admiring its ability to drop men to their knees in worship by simply existing.

  Some of my very first memories are snapshots of my mom dancing for dollar bills in a smoky club. Lace accentuated the curve of her hips, and neon lights ignited the stage, like she was moving atop fire. Men watched and coveted her every motion, engulfed in flames.

  “We’re eating good tonight, baby,” she’d say once her set was over and she’d collected her earnings. The sharp scent of metal stuck to her fingers after her journey around the pole, and she didn’t bother to put a top back on.

  In the beginning, I thought she was a unicorn—tall, blonde, and majestic.

  When Cricket died a decade later, the magic was gone.

  But the lessons stayed.

  “This is Cara,” I say, answering my work cell. It’s a nondescript prepaid phone I’ll toss away after a month or so. New number, new phone, no paper trail.

  “We’ve worked together for how long? And you still answer your phone that way? A lesser woman would be offended.” Inez’s velvety tone greets me through the receiver.

  “Better safe than sorry,” I say.

  She doesn’t press the subject and asks, “Do you have your schedule for the week?”

  Sitting on the edge of my bathtub, I hold the phone between my shoulder and ear as I slip into a pair of black heels. “Yes. Any changes?”

  “Only one,” she says. “Your twelve o’clock appointment with Dr. Coston has moved to eleven-thirty.”

  After a quick glance at myself in the bathroom mirror, checking for imperfections in my winged eyeliner or bloodred lipstick, I hurry to the kitchen to grab my clutch from the counter. Inside is everything I need to pass as Cara Smith, a name as nondescript and disposable as my phone.

  “Inez,” I snap. “That’s in thirty minutes. How am I supposed to get across town in that time?”

  “Your driver’s parked in front of your building as we speak,” she says assuredly. “You’ll be there with time to spare, I promise.”

  My quickened heartbeat slows, and I say, “Thank you.”

  “That’s what I’m here for, sweetie,” she replies in a tone as smooth as silk. In my mind’s eye, I imagine her behind an oversized desk, twirling the telephone cord around her finger—like a boss. “Don’t forget to check in after the appointment.”

  “I never forget,” I say.

  A black Suburban’s parked curbside just like Inez said. The chauffeur, dressed in a suit and driving cap, waits at the back passenger door with his hands crossed in front of him. His kind smile widens as I approach.

  “And Lydia,” Inez says before we hang up. The enunciation of my real name, so rarely spoken, sparks a flame in my belly. “Stay safe.”

  I slip my phone into my clutch and slide into the back seat of the SUV. When I started working For Inez Ricci five years ago, the chauffeurs and hired cars made me feel exposed. Like a lot of things this lifestyle has afforded me, it’s something I’ve become accustomed to in the time since.

  Tucked snugly between San Francisco and Palo Alto, Grand Haven is home to some of the wealthiest residents in California. None of whom can be bothered to drive themselves from point A to B, despite their left-leaning fight to end global warming. And if I want to fit in, I need to act as they do.

  “Are we still headed to the east side, Miss Smith?” my driver asks. He watches me from the rearview mirror.

  “Yes…” I don’t remember his name. “Please.”

  Like most things in my life, drivers are temporary. I don’t share more than a destination with them. My goal is to be as vague and forgettable to everyone but my clients as possible. To achieve this, I keep my words to a minimum, treat people with common courtesy, and I give everything an expiration date.

  The sound of my voice, my touch, and my magic are saved exclusively for the gentlemen who pay up.

  I won’t make the same mistakes as my mother by giving it all away for chump change. In a city like Grand Haven, rich with real estate, startups, and old and new money, everything has a hefty price tag. Including me.

  “You got it.” My driver pulls away from my building, and I stare out the window to shut down any expectations of further conversation.

  Silence doesn’t bother me.

  Quiet moments appreciating my city’s perfection is food for my soul. It’s an exact contrast to the environment I grew up in, and I pinch myself to make sure this isn’t a dream. I escaped trash-filled gutters and abandoned buildings for business districts and art galleries. The sidewalks are clean, the shopping is upscale, and the restaurants are all five-star eateries.

  I’m four miles from the ocean, ten miles from a national park, and a million miles away from the life I left behind.

  There’re times when that doesn’t seem far enough away. This is why when I feel the urge to ask my driver if he has a family or where he’s from, I swallow my words like a pill. Small talk almost always leads to heavier conversations, and I have no interest in getting personal with anyone. It’s a lonely existence, but my reputation with Inez and among my clients secures this stripper’s daughter a life that was never in my cards.

  The tradeoff is worth it.

  I’m a fleeting thought, a mirage to everyone ex
cept the men who pay for my undivided attention. In exchange for their loyalty, I promise to do my best not to be recognized or draw suspicion to our arrangement.

  I won’t be the tramp looked down upon in public because I fuck for money.

  I’d rather be invisible.

  There’s nothing to lose when no one knows who I really am.

  “You can stop here,” I say as we approach the four-story building where my first appointment of the day is. Sunlight gleams off the glass structure like the Emerald Castle in The Wizard of Oz, but I’m no damsel in distress looking for her way home.

  “Are you sure, Miss, I can pull to the front,” my driver asks.

  “Please, this is fine,” I say with a ring of finality in my voice.

  Avoiding eye contact, I pass him a twenty-dollar bill and exit the vehicle. This will be the last ride he gives me, and in a week, he won’t remember if my hair was blonde or brunette. He’ll be unable to pick out which condo on Bradford Street is mine or where he dropped me off.

  Today, I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever set eyes on. He’ll think about the length of my legs and the soft scent of my perfume for hours. But without anything concrete to hold on to, without solid facts about me to grasp, as his memory of the day fades, so will I.

  Spring in the Bay Area is crisp and blooming. The air smells like sea salt and the unfolding of brand-new leaves from trees lining the streets. Above the hum of traffic, birds chirp, and a vessel’s horn thunders as it arrives in port. Sun shines on the city today, and the sky is the bluest of blues.

  My red-bottom heels click on the sidewalk and then on the tile floor of the building’s lobby. Elevator doors open as if on command, and I hurry inside before another passenger joins me. I rehearse Cara’s smile in my reflection on the elevator walls as I soar twelve flights up, gluing it in place when I come to a stop.

  “Hi,” I say to the receptionist. “I’m here for my eleven-thirty appointment with Dr. Coston.”

  “Your name?” the mousy girl asks. The tips of her ears burn pink, and she straightens her posture.

  “Cara Smith,” I reply.

  She spies on me while I retrieve my fake ID from my purse. She sizes me up and must decide I’m prettier than she is, diverting her attention back to her computer screen as I pass my proof of identification over. The receptionist sucks in her stomach and pushes a curl of dark hair away from her forehead. As far as she’s concerned, I’m another one of Dr. Coston’s psych patients following up on a recent evaluation. But a woman’s intuition is a tricky thing, and I intimidate her.

  “Have a seat, Miss Smith. The doctor will be with you shortly,” she says, passing my ID back.

  Four minutes later, I’m officially on the clock.

  Michael Coston, a man in his mid-fifties, sits behind a massive mahogany bureau. He gives no indication that I’m anyone more than his next patient, greeting me with a generic smile as he stands from his chair.

  A far cry from the drunk, sweaty men my mother used to entertain, Dr. Coston’s bulky in the right places, dressed impeccably, and his hair—that array of gray and white hair—is tousled, clean-cut, and thick.

  This man may be God’s gift to humankind, but to me, he’s a transaction.

  “It’s nice to see you, Cara,” he says, slipping his hands into his pockets.

  The good doctor’s arousal presses against his wool trousers, giving me an exact idea about the shape of his cock. Not that I haven’t seen, held, and tasted it before. I find myself in this office for one hour every six weeks, like clockwork.

  “Hello, Doctor.” I pull the pin from my hair, letting the brown tresses fall over my shoulders and down my back just as he desires. “I’ve missed you.”

  I haven’t.

  I haven’t given Dr. Coston a second thought since our last session, but it’s important to make the client feel like he’s special. It’s one thing to be a whore, but completely different to act like one. The trick is to determine what they’re looking for from each experience with me. After hours of listening and diagnosing lovesick, head sick people, Michael wants a break from the chaos. For two-thousand dollars an hour, I give it to him.

  He twists the gold band on his ring finger until it’s off, and he hides it in a drawer for safekeeping. A hint of indecision darkens his eyes, but it’s not enough to keep him from laying the framed picture of his daughter facedown on his desk.

  “Come to me,” he orders in a husky tone.

  Dr. Coston gets off on feeling wanted. I’d wager a large percentage of his clients use him for their monthly bottle of prescription pills and nothing more, and I don’t know what kind of relationship he has with his wife. What I do know is I’ve been on his schedule for eight months now, and the man just wants me to want him. He’s thirsty for attention, and he gets what he pays for.

  In another life, I might’ve sat on his couch as a patient to confess the trauma I’ve survived. But in this life, I sit on his face and lie about how good he makes me feel. Little does he know, there’s nothing to feel at all. I’ve mastered tuning out revulsion and sensation like I assume mothers learn to tune out their crying child. A script rolls through my head like credits at the end of a movie, keywords and phrases to boost his ego. They’re automatic, tailored to fit each client accordingly.

  “No one eats my pussy like you do,” I lie.

  They’re all the same.

  “No one makes me come like this,” I say.

  Another lie.

  I don’t come.

  I can’t remember the last time a client pleasured me to climax.

  I can’t remember the last time I had sex simply because I wanted to.

  “I woke up wet for you,” I moan, gently circling my hips. I tilt my head back and rake my fingers through my hair. “Oh, my God, Michael. I’m going to scream, baby. The entire office will hear.”

  In the end, his performance is forgettable; I didn’t come, and I didn’t scream. But my show was on point, and as far as Dr. Coston is concerned, he righted all of my wrongs with the slip of his tongue.

  “You’re still hard,” I say. I pull my hair up and pin it back into place to look as it did when I arrived forty-five minutes ago. “We have some time left on the clock. Do you want me to take care of you?”

  He shies away and steps behind me to button the top of my dress.

  “Not this time, Cara,” he says quietly. “My wife and I are going out tonight, and…”

  And he’ll need to keep up appearances and fuck her.

  “Lucky lady,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at the red-faced man. “You’ll have to make it up to me next time.”

  I use the last few minutes of our appointment to retouch my makeup, straighten my dress, and collect what’s owed to me for services rendered. A flat fee of two grand per hour is the agreed upon rate for my company—no exception, cash only. Inez and Hush get their fifteen percent at the end of the week. It’s a steep cut when I do the dirty work, but well worth the headache I avoid week after week.

  Most of the girls at Hush work at the mercy of the client, at their beck and call during all hours of the day and night. I work by referral only, and not even a good word guarantees an appointment with me. I don’t fuck with actors or politicians, despite how much money they offer.

  And I definitely don’t get involved with the mafia. In a city as rich as this one, organized crime has their hand in it all.

  Except for Hush.

  Inez runs background checks and credit reports on all potential Johns, to ensure my bodily and financial safety. The customer must agree to my terms of no flash photography, no videography, and absolutely no contact outside of our scheduled time together. I won’t work in private homes, vacation homes, hotels, planes, or yachts.

  The only way to get to me is through Hush. Inez makes my appointments, she arranges transportation, and ensures our security and anonymity.

  There are a lot of hoops a client has to go through if they want me.

  But
who runs the world?

  Girls.

  From an outsider’s perspective, Hush is nothing more than a luxury spa. Its extravagance is perfect for the kept women of the men we fuck, even if it didn’t start out that way. While Mr. Cock-in-Hand schedules a date with the girl of his dreams, he can simultaneously make a massage appointment for Mrs. Cock-in-Hand, like a babysitting service for adults wrapped in lavish attire.

  The wives and girlfriends are so happy with their spa services, they come again and again—just like their men. It’s overpriced and over-excessive, but the champagne is fantastic, and they love the pale pink décor and soft robes. There’s nothing they enjoy more than spending their husband’s money, and Inez enjoys taking it twice.

  By the end of the day, husband and wife are both worked out, and Hush thrives.

  Inez sells bath bombs, lotions, oils, and blow jobs from the same space, although, the latter is prohibited within Hush’s vicinity. For all intents and purposes, Hush is legitimate, complete with licensed massage therapists and estheticians collecting an actual paycheck—who, like the clients, have no inclination that a prostitution ring is run out of the owner’s office.

  Hush exists strictly for the purpose of laundering money. Nothing’s foolproof but paying business taxes and creating a paper trail for prying eyes lessens the chance of anyone going to prison. The secret is not to get too greedy.

  “Cara,” Naomi says in greeting. She steps ahead of me on the sidewalk outside Hush and opens the large glass door, allowing me to pass first. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  Offering nothing more than a small smile, I stride past the reception desk, giving a slight nod to the girl behind the computer—Camilla. I’ve never exchanged a single word with the receptionist, but she somehow still knows not to ask me any questions.

  Naomi, on the other hand, has more than one set of loose lips. “Camilla, let Inez know we’re here.”

  Naomi’s worked with Inez longer than me, but she’s yet to earn her trust like I have. For a good reason. The tall, olive-skinned brunette is the most beautiful girl on staff, but she’s impulsive. Her craving for attention outweighs her need for discretion. She’s drawn toward showy gifts and vacations with powerful men—the type of men I refuse to work with. Naomi risks it all to be remembered. It’s behavior hard to respect.