Late Call (Call #1) by Emma Hart
1
This is taking forever.
It doesn’t matter how selective you are, how tight you squeeze, or how fast you go. There’s always one that’ll take longer to come than everyone else you know. It doesn’t happen often and they definitely don’t go on my regular client list. I get paid for this but I sure as shit don’t have the patience to bounce on some guy until he decides he wants to shoot his load.
He grunts and groans beneath me, his lazy thrusts no match for my desperate ones. Jesus f*cking Christ, will you come already?
I steal a look at the clock on the hotel nightstand. Five minutes left. Time to end this. I cringe and creep my hand around his thigh to his backside. God, I hate this part. I squeeze his cock at the same time I slip my finger in his a*shole—
“Oh god!”
And there it is.
I give him a saucy wink and get off of him. Finally. I’ve been on top of him so long my legs have forgotten how to work, but he paid for an hour so an hour is all he’s gonna get.
There are four golden rules in this business. Every escort I know abides by them. At all times. They’re non-negotiable. Ironclad. Set in friggin’ stone.
Get the money first.
Don’t go over the time.
Don’t fall for your client.
And no freaking sob stories.
Unfortunately for me, that last rule is one no one bothered to tell this guy. I’d barely tucked the envelope full of his money into my purse before he started telling me about his pregnant wife who isn’t up for sex.
Hey—don’t judge me. This is my job, and if a guy chooses to cheat on his wife with me, then that’s his deal. There’s a reason I don’t ask personal questions, and that’s it. Getting names and shit is what I pay my agent twenty percent for.
I button my coat and leave the hotel room as quickly as I entered it. There’s only one hotel I’ll work in in this city and that’s because I know the concierge. Connor is a darling, and despite my constant refusal to sleep with him, he always covers my back.
“Busy?” I sidle up to his counter and prop my chin up on my elbow.
His glittering blue eyes look down at me. “Busy keeping you off my boss’s radar.”
I grin and slip a fifty-dollar bill into his hand. “You’re a doll, Con.”
“You know you don’t have to do that every time.”
“Just keeping you sweet.”
“There are plenty of ways you can do that, Mia.”
“Oh, sweetie, you know where I stand there. I don’t do personal relationships. They just don’t work when you have my job.” I straighten and touch his arm. “When I stop to settle down with a white picket fence, a chocolate Lab, and two-point-five snotty kids, you’ll be the first person I call.”
“Better be. Until then, I’ll just stand here behind my little desk waiting for you to come to your senses and fall madly in love with my boyish charm.”
I laugh and peck his cheek. “I’m sure you will.”
He grins, that exact boyish charm glinting in his eyes. “Marc has your cab outside.”
“Thanks, hon. I’ll see you soon,” I say. I throw a casual wave over my shoulder as I step outside. Evening is falling across Seattle, the lights from the buildings illuminating the darkening sky and drowning out the stars.
“Ms. Lopez.” Marc tips his hat and opens the cab door for me.
“Marc.” I shoot a dazzling smile his way and get into the car, smoothly passing him a ten-dollar bill as I do so. He returns my smile as the cab pulls away, and I relax back in the chair, breathing deeply.
The ride home is when Mia Lopez becomes Dayton Black, when the call girl becomes the real girl.
Until my cell buzzes in my hand and my agent’s name flashes on the screen. I swallow my sigh.
“Monique.”
“You’re late, Dayton.”
F*ck.
“I had to wait for the cab,” I lie, mouthing, “Sorry,” when the driver glances at me in his mirror. “I’m on my way now.”
“Five minutes.” The line goes dead.
I let out that sigh and lean forward. “Hey, can we go to 2440 Cascade Way in Bellevue instead?”
“Sure thing, lady.”
“Thanks.”
I stare out the window and stay in my state of limbo between the two versions of me. How could I forget to go to Monique’s after Mr. Can’t Come? It’s a Friday, and she takes her share of our earnings every Friday. Her share. Shit. Do I even have that?
I rifle through my purse, barely breathing, until I feel the envelope hidden in the lining. At least I was thinking this morning… Discreetly, I count out her share from today’s earnings and tuck it into the envelope as we pull up outside. Thirty of my hard-earned dollars fall on the driver’s lap with a, “Keep the change,” and I run—as well as someone can run in four-inch heels—up the path to Monique’s idyllic suburban dream house.
You know, the kind usually reserved for families with two-point-five bubbly, screaming kids and a bouncing puppy. Not a woman with a hot tub and an escort agency who mothers a teen with a penchant for crashing his car.
I knock twice and let myself in. I’ve been in this house more times than I can count in the last five years. It’s comfortable here—from the white walls with an accent wall in each room to the endless photographs wherever you walk. The pictures are all of Monique with her girls in various cities around the country, from Vegas to Miami to New York.
“You’re late,” Monique repeats her earlier words, and I sit in the only empty seat around the table. “If you tell me you went over the time, shit’s gonna hit the f*cking fan, Dayton.”
“I haven’t gone over the time since you took me on, Mon, and I’m not starting now. The cab was late. I’m here now. Can we get on with this?”
My agent cocks her head to the side, her lips quirked. “Hot date tonight?”
“If you can call my slippers, ice cream, and Liv a hot date, then yeah. Smokin’.”
“Funny. All right, girls. Show me what you got.” She makes a ‘gimme’ motion with her hands, and one by one, brown envelopes rustle out of purses and onto the table.
“One and a half.”
“Seven hundred.”
“Seven f*cking hundred? You on your period?” Monique snaps at Lori. “Get a damn implant. I don’t have the time for you to have a week off. Robyn, you better have better than that shit.”
“Three.” Robyn smiles, dropping the envelope on the table.
Monique nods.
“Two.”
“Eighteen hundred.”
“Twenty-six hundred.”
“Another three.”
Monique nods after each amount, finally turning to me. “Dayton?”
I place my fat envelope on the table and look her in the eye. “Six thousand, four hundred fifty.” I slide it along the table to her.
“Four hundred fifty? Where the f*ck did the fifty come from?”
“You shack me up in a hotel with a guy who takes longer to come than a porn star on Viagra, you pay the concierge to keep it quiet.”
“It’s a good f*cking thing I like you, Dayton. If you were anyone else, you’d be on your own with the shit you pull.” Monique opens the envelope and leafs through the amount. “As it is, you just got my kid a new car.”
“Good. Tell him not to crash it this time. I’m not buying him a fourth.” I stand.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Home. I have a hot date, remember?”
“Ooooooh,” my best friend, Liv, coos. “Six gees?”
“Don’t forget the four fifty.”
“Fifty? Oh, concierge.”
It really says something when my best friend gets it and my agent doesn’t.
“What do you do with all the money? If that’s twenty percent, then you took home like thirty thousand f*cking dollars this week.”
“Twenty-five. I pay off this place, expand my shoe collection, buy out Agent Provocateur and occasionally La Perla, and save the rest for a rainy day. Oh, and taxes. They kill me.” I stab my spoon into my tub of Phish Food. “And if you remember, I take cheapskates like you on vacation now and then. But this doesn’t happen every week.” I lick the spoon clean. “A couple extra clients dropped in, so voilà”
Liv grins. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m in the wrong industry. Shit, I show my tits all the time and I don’t make half as much as you.”
“That’s ‘cause your tits are for the camera. Mine are for touching.”
“Point made and taken.”
“Anyway, you know we’re selective on my clients. Not selective enough sometimes, but they’re all big payers. What I earn in a month takes most of the other girls a year.”
“You get all the big jobs? Don’t the others get pissed?”
“Probably, but it’s some money or no money. It’s not like I haven’t worked for them. I’m the best in the f*cking city at my job and they all know it.”
And it’s the truth. I have the most clients, and they just happen to be the ones who pay the most. F*ck well, get paid well. That’s how my life works.
“Yeah? F*ck anyone lately who can get the girls a good job?” Liv pats her natural double D’s. “Because my agent is shooting more blanks job-wise than he is dick-wise.”
“No, but I have a client in two days who might be willing to have a free hour of my time for a double page spread of you. And cover.”
“And cover?”
“Liv, my hourly rate is more than most people’s daily wage. Yes, the f*cking cover too. And to sweeten…” I jump up and tug Liv upstairs and into my lingerie room. What else am I gonna do with a three-bedroom house? I’m a call girl. I live and breathe lingerie.
I grab the dark pink bodice with black lace detail that I ordered last week and show it to her.
“Oh!” She takes the hanger and gives it a once-over. “Yep. This is cover-winning lingerie, Day. Every time.”
“I know.” I smirk. “He has a thing for these, and a nice new one will do the trick.”
“Mm… Is he coming here?”
“Yep.”
She shivers as we head back down. “I don’t know how you can do that in your house.”
“It’s no different than someone who works from home on their computer or something. I just have a bedroom instead of an office. It’s not like it happens in my room. I built the extension for a reason.”
I built it two years ago after buying this place when my client load got too big for constant hotel jumping. It’s an extra two rooms—one’s a normal bedroom while the other carries the kinkier stuff. I’m prepared for every situation.
“Okay. You know, we’ve been friends for eight years and I still don’t think I get why you do what you do.”
I smile wistfully. “Yeah, I never imagined I’d drop out of college for the thing I did to get me through it in the first place.”
“Hello?”
“I have a job for you.”
I let my groan out and lift my legs out of the water. “It’s my day off.”
“I don’t give a f*cking shit if it’s your day off.” Tell me how you really feel, Monique. “This is an easy one. Rate and a half.”
“Tell me more.”
“He’s taking over his father’s company and he has a function tonight. His father is expecting him to show with a date. This is where you come in. He’s paying extra for short notice.”
“Okay.” I wrap a towel around me and walk into my room. “So who is it?”
“He’s requested to stay anonymous until you arrive and he’ll introduce himself then. His profile is too high to deal with the stigma of hiring an escort.” The bitterness filters through her tone, and I feel it. Judgmental douche. “So you have to agree to keep that private.”
“Right.” I draw the word out. “Because talking about my clients is something I do every day. What do I wear?”
“Something classy. It’s a multimillion-dollar company, so something f*cking expensive. Something that makes everyone look at both of you. Tonight is about him and stroking his ego.”
“Got it.” I pull out a brown-grey knee-length dress with a pencil cut and lay it out on my bed. “And sex?”
“Not required. Date only.”
“Huh. That doesn’t happen often.”
“I’ll text you the details. Don’t f*ck up.”
“Never do.”
I toss my phone on the bed and peruse my collection of lingerie, looking for the perfect set to wear under my dress. Sex may not be on the cards, but that doesn’t mean I can’t wear nice underwear.
Give a girl a matching bra and panties and just the knowledge of its existence on her body will add a level of confidence she didn’t know she had.
Fortunately for me, I have more than enough confidence. At least Mia Lopez does.
Southfall Hotel. 7pm to meet, function at 7:30. Money on arrival. Receptionist Rachel is expecting you.
I nod once and throw my cell back on my bed to get ready. I know the Southfall well. I’ve been there several times before as a paid date. The functions are held in the largest room, and you have to be somebody to get in there. It’s one of the most exclusive hotels in the city.
I fix my dark hair to the side, letting curls fall over my shoulder, and slip my feet into some brown heels. Diamond earrings glitter in my lobes, and after a coat of lipstick, I tuck it into my purse.
I climb into the waiting cab and stretch out my legs. A lick of nervousness flares inside me. Not knowing the client’s name before a date is always unnerving—especially when they’re a last-minute hire. Usually I have time to research them, even if it’s only basic details. Tonight, I have thirty minutes to know everything about my client and the company he’s taking over.
That alone is worth my rate and a half.
I pay the driver and step into the Seattle evening. The Southfall is right on Elliot Bay, and the gentle breeze from the water wraps around me, bathing me in comfort. I pause in my steps to glance at the boats lined up, remembering a time when my father’s bobbed along there.
I shake my head. There’s no time to be Dayton tonight. If I’m being paid, I’m Mia. Dayton has no place in this high-class world of deception and pleasure. She’s too pajamas-and-ice-cream for this shit.
The doorman opens the door for me. My heels click on the marble floor as I approach the reception desk.
“Can I help you?” The receptionist looks up, and I glance at her nametag. Rachel. Perfect.
“Yes. I’m here for the function this evening.”
“It’s on the second floor, ma’am. The South ballroom.”
I place my hands on the counter, twenty dollars poking out from beneath my pinky finger. Her eyes find it.
“I’m here for the function.”
“Ah, yes. Of course. Excuse me, Ms. Lopez.” She picks up the phone. “Ms. Lopez has arrived. Please take her to the reserved private booth in the bar.”
Two seconds later, a boy no older than nineteen steps next to me. “If you’d follow me, Ms. Lopez.”
“Thank you, Rachel.” I shake her hand, mine coming away empty, and follow the young boy.
Money gets you everywhere in this world, and for me, it’s almost like my calling card. I show you green, you know who I am and why I’m here. I show you green, you shut the f*ck up and be discreet.
“Ms. Lopez.” He pulls a curtain to the side slightly.
“Thank you.” I pass him a ten as he leaves and turn into the booth.
I pull the curtains shut behind me, and just like that, Mia gives way to Dayton, because I look into a pair of eyes I haven’t seen for seven years. Disbelief and shock ricochet through my body.
It can’t be. It’s not possible.
But my gaze follows the shapely, stubbled jaw and pink lips of the man I fell in love with one beautiful summer in Paris seven years ago. Before everything went wrong.
“Aaron?”