Harlot (Hush #2), page 1
Copyright © Mary Elizabeth Literature
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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
Epilogue
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)
Criminal (Hush, Volume 3) Coming Soon
For my mom.
You always did your best.
“Hello, I’m Megan Rice. I’d like to check-in for my two-fifteen appointment with Dr. Goodmen.”
The receptionist looks up from the computer screen long enough to put a face to my name, interrupting the tapping her acrylic nails make against the keyboard. The kind expression reserved for clients who don’t make her feel inferior disappears the moment she recognizes me, and the tapping ensues.
“Unless your contact information has changed since your last appointment, Miss Rice, sign your name on the clipboard and have a seat.”
I thought she might say that.
Sliding the clipboard across the counter until it’s directly in front of me, I scan the sheet for the last person to have signed in and say, “I hate to break it to you, but Mildred Depp stole your pen. Should I sign with the blood of my finger instead?”
The tapping stops again, and the receptionist exhales rudely.
“Is Mildred here?” I look back at the waiting room. “Are any of you named Mildred Depp? Did you take the pen? It’s the only one in this entire office—”
I’m new to the underground world of sex work, but I’ve been pretty my entire life. Depending on the sinner dishing judgment, I’m treated like a god amongst men or a snake in the grass.
“Miss Rice, please, don’t disturb the other patients.” The receptionist slaps a blue ink pen atop the sign-in sheet. She manages to hold eye contact with me for a split second before looking away, and I’d like to think it’s because she’s blinded by beauty.
But I know better than that.
She thinks of me as the slithering type.
I’m not a typical escort. You won’t find me on a street corner or by scrolling a website. No one will catch me selling myself in a casino or a private social club. Five days a week, I walk into doctor offices, high-end real estate offices, and big tech headquarters to meet clients who pass a background check that rivals a government employee, affords the steep price tag, and has a private office.
My rise to the top was fast.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned participating in the reinvention of the world’s oldest profession, it’s that serpents live amongst the righteous seamlessly. It’s hell on earth, and no one can tell who’s good or bad anymore. Worlds have collided, and the people in this waiting room with standing room only, have no idea I’m about to screw the brains out of the dentist while they wait for their bi-annual cavity check.
Receptionists might be the exception to the rule.
They’re my least favorite part of this arrangement because of their weird sixth sense about the guests in their waiting rooms. Dr. Goodmen’s receptionist is particularly rude to me. I’d love to fire back and give her a taste of her own medicine, but my ego can handle dirty looks and sharp tongues from the staff. I don’t think the receptionist could handle the truth about her place in this office, so I go easy on her.
“Thanks, Betty.” I scrawl my alias across the sign-in sheet and then wiggle the pen playfully toward the receptionist. “You did something different to your hair, didn’t you?”
Her reluctant glare softens.
The doctor told me Mrs. Goodmen took it upon herself to hire the receptionist because she isn’t pretty enough to distract him or threaten her.
Aside from her acrylic nails, I think the receptionist is lovely.
“Don’t tell me. I’ve figured it out. You didn’t have bangs the last time I was here,” I say and wink. “They look great. Perfect for the season.”
A family dental office is an unlikely rendezvous spot for a couple of lawbreakers, but aside from the self-important employees, Dr. Goodmen’s office is one of the few places I don’t worry about prying eyes. The patients have private insurance or they’re wealthy enough to pay out of pocket. No one’s on government assistance or a payment plan.
Moms come equipped with big bags of tricks, revealing a new electronic device whenever their child dares to look up or to speak out.
Here, baby, watch your show, play your game, melt your brain while we wait to see how many cavities you have this time.
And husbands aren’t brave enough to check me out with their wives so close. They steal glances at my ankles, at my knees, and if their better half is busy bribing their child with a handheld gaming system, they’ll live on the edge a little and take a peek at my chest.
Picking a random magazine from the table, I cross my legs and read the scandalous details of a Hollywood power couple’s divorce. Two paragraphs in, I’m bored by their definition of scandal. Some big shot actor was caught in bed with the nanny again, and his wife, the star of a hit television sitcom, is taking the kids and asking for privacy during this difficult time.
That’s not a scandal. That’s a millionaire who’s used to sticking his dick into anyone he wants, a nanny who thinks he’ll give her the life she’s only dreamed about, and a wife who was waiting for an excuse to file for divorce without looking like a bad guy in the media.
Matrimony doesn’t change people like that.
A real scandal sits in this waiting room. Me, the whore seated next to the family of five, adamant to collect her entire fee despite the scheduled appointment slot running over. My time is as valuable as my body. When Dr. Goodmen’s hour with me is up, it’s up. Whether or not we spend that hour together is entirely up to him and inconsequential to me. I will be paid for every second I sit in this chair or on his lap.
Slipping my feet out of my six-inch heels, I curl my toes and circle my ankles for ease from the strain these shoes inflict upon me. Muscles and tendons stretch, and the ache in the heel of my foot melts away, pulling with it a sigh of relief from between my lips. The husband clears his throat and adjusts himself, pretending to correct his seating. His cheeks pink as he watches my ankle slowly rotate. I give him a show and wiggle my toes before sliding my feet back into their torture devices. I dramatically flip the page of the magazine and smile to myself, crossing my legs.
No free shows, buddy.
Twenty-three minutes into our appointment time, the door leading to the exam rooms opens and my name is called. I immediately go down my internal checklist:
Shoulders back.
Chin up.
Eyes ahead.
I’ve mastered the first two rules, but my eyes roam everywhere but forward. The boy who’s invited me back combs through my chart and determines that I don’t need X-rays. If he looked closer, he’d notice I’ve never needed X-rays. If he had more experience, he’d realize Megan Rice only visits for cosmetic consultations performed in Dr. Goodmen’s personal office. Luckily, the boy is a dental student and doesn’t know what the heck he’s doing.
“Sorry for the wait.” He slaps the chart closed. “We’ve been unusually busy today and didn’t have an available examination room. But we’re finally set up for your cleaning. You’ll be out of here in no time.”
Anchoring all six inches of my heels into the floor, I stop and say, “You have me mixed up with someone else. I’m not here for a cleaning.”
The casual smile on the student’s face melts away, and red-hot panic burns his cheeks. He reopens my paperwork and delves back in, using his pointer finger to underline the data inside. Dark eyes scan the chart, sweeping back and forth as he tries to figure out where he went wrong.
“You are Megan Rice, correct?” he asks.
“That’s me, but I’m only here for a consultation with Dr. Goodmen.”
Scratching the back of his neck, his expression mimics that of a person who’s bitten into a lemo
The theme of our appointments together is strictly used as a ruse to get me out of the general examination room and into the doctor’s private office. It changes before every visit to avoid suspicion from the staff and has worked flawlessly until now. I’d never be penciled in for something as routine as teeth cleaning.
“Whitening,” I say boldly, not to sound like a guess. “I drink a lot of coffee—”
“I don’t see anything about a whitening consult today.” Furrowing his eyebrows in deep concentration, the poor guy scans my chart and comes up empty. “But it looks like you had one twelve weeks ago, and six weeks ago, you were here for a veneer consultation. If there’s a scheduling mistake, I’ll need to run this by Betty.”
Hush doesn’t make mistakes, and I’d never be sent to a job blind. Every appointment, client, and escort is checked and double-checked in advance to guarantee a smooth transaction. My next move should be out the door, but I panic at the thought of Betty rummaging through my appointment file.
“Wait,” I say, stepping forward. “My mistake. Please, show me to the exam room.”
Dropping his shoulders in relief, the dental student smiles and leads me to the last examination room at the end of the hall. Nothing about the brightly lit, sterilized space feels safe. I sit in the long chair in the center of the room, where I’m lowered into a lying position. The paper bib secured around my neck feels like chains, and the halogen light feels like a laser stripping me of sight before it’s lowered to my mouth.
Heads will roll once this gets back to Hush.
All I can do is hope that my neck isn’t on the chopping block.
“All right, Megan, it’s smooth sailing from here. Sit back and relax. Someone will be in to start your cleaning shortly.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
As soon as the door clicks shut, I sit upright in a hurry and hit my head on the exam light.
“Son of a bitch.” Pressing the palm of my hand against the small bump forming at my hairline, I pull the bib from around my neck with my free hand and slide from the chair.
This was a mistake. I should have trusted my instinct and left when the appointment veered from routine. My job is to show up at the predetermined time, service the client, and collect payment. It’s not my responsibility to stick around and find out why the dentist in training thought I was here for a cleaning or to keep the bitchy receptionist away from my chart.
I’m digging through my small purse for my cell phone when the door swings open and Dr. Goodmen scampers inside, quickly locking the door behind him. He takes in my angry expression and general unease and approaches me cautiously, like one approaches a frightened animal.
“Don’t be mad,” he says in a tone that doesn’t match his disheveled appearance. “My office is out of commission today. I wanted to tell you myself, but time got away from me.”
Checking the time on my phone, I say, “You’re right. We’re down to our last ten minutes.”
Dr. Goodmen slips his hand into his back pocket to retrieve a fat stack of hundred-dollar bills. He’s a handsome man in his late forties with the straightest teeth I’ve ever seen, a haircut meant to look unintentionally messy, and a set of brown eyes too soft to trust. I don’t hate my appointments with him like I do with others, but the shape of his crude smirk is wicked. He’s a rotten man with a pleasant exterior.
“It’s enough time.” He repockets the money. “Trust me.”
“No, I didn’t agree to this,” I say. “Someone will be in touch to reschedule.”
The illusion of charm disappears with his patience, and he blocks my path to the door. “Come on, Megan, don’t make me beg.”
The sound of the unfastening of his belt buckle takes me back to the last time I was trapped in a room with a man who had no intention of setting me free until he got what he wanted first. Despite the heavy dread in the pit of my stomach, I’m not the same naïve girl I was then. Hush doesn’t send me to appointments blind, and Hush doesn’t send me to appointments defenseless.
I’m protected this time, and it makes all the difference in the world.
Forcing my lips into a playful smile, I slip my phone back into my purse and shove it under my arm. I yank Dr. Goodmen’s belt free from his slacks in a swift pull and drop it to the floor after deciding not to tie it around his throat for being a creep. His charisma makes a reappearance as I lower my hand down the front of his pants and wrap my fingers around his cock.
“Good girl,” he whispers. His smile is as lazy as his grit, and his teeth aren’t as straight as I thought they were.
Dr. Goodmen’s posture thaws as his dick hardens.
He’s exactly where I want him: at my mercy.
“Now that I have your attention, listen to me carefully.” I tighten my grip until his knees buckle, but I don’t twist hard enough to incapacitate him. The good doctor needs to remember every word I have to say. “The next time a woman says no, even if you’re paying for it, believe her.”
Groaning through clenched teeth, he nods. “God, Megan. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not your god, but she’ll be in touch.”
The reality of this promise clouds Dr. Goodmen’s eyes like a thunderstorm. He doesn’t get the opportunity to beg me to change my mind before we’re both caught off guard. The door unlocks and opens, and a woman with a short, angled haircut and the temper of a raging bull enters the room. She takes one look at my hand down Dr. Goodmen’s pants and pounces, crowding the small exam room with fury.
“I fucking knew it, you cheating bastard,” she shrieks, colliding with the dentist like a linebacker. He stumbles into the tray connected to the examination chair, hurling sharp implements across the room. The woman picks up the metal toothpick that’s fallen at her feet and wields it like a weapon. “This is the last time, Eric.”
“Baby, it’s not what you think.” Holding his hands up in surrender, Dr. Goodmen stares down at the sharp point of the toothpick. “Susie, let’s go to my office and talk about this before someone gets hurt.”
She jabs the toothpick toward his face and says, “I’ve been waiting in your office for fifteen minutes. You said you’d be right back.”
Dr. Goodmen looks past the woman I assume to be his wife and meets my gaze. He nods subtly toward the exit, but not-so-subtle that his wife doesn’t pick up the gesture. She turns on me with the toothpick, wild-eyed and shaking. “He doesn’t love you, just like he didn’t love the woman before you or the woman before her. Did he tell you he’d leave me?”
“No,” I say.
Nothing about sex work is commonplace, but sleeping with the same kind of man, in the same kind of office, week after week becomes mindless. Meeting clients in their place of business lessens the chance of conflict, such as run-ins with their significant others, but it’s not unheard of.
This is a first for me, and the adrenaline pumping through my veins is electrifying.
“What’s with the commotion?” The receptionist, Betty, arrives at the scene just as the dental student leads the family of five from the waiting area to the exam room across the hall. Everyone gathers in the doorway to see what’s going on, and even the children look up from their devices to watch the drama unfold.
“Do I need to call security?” Betty asks.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dr. Goodmen swears under his breath. “Betty, please go back to the front desk and make sure no one comes back here. Daniel, show the McCanns to their room. I’ll be there as soon as I get this cleared up.”
The missus is brandishing a toothpick like a knife, but Betty scowls at me like this whole ordeal only confirms her suspicions that I’m a troublemaker. She’d love to see me thrown from the building, but she likes her job more and follows Dr. Goodmen’s directions.
“Protecting your whore. That’s a first.” Susie laughs broken-heartedly.
The tune of her unhappiness chips away at my conscience, making way for guilt to travel between the cracks of my amusement. I don’t blame her for wanting to hurt us like we’ve hurt her. Death by metal toothpick might be cleaner and less painful than facing the consequence that’ll await me downtown once this gets out, and Susie will get some payback in the process.
“He’s not wrong, Susie,” I warn her. None of this is her fault, and I can’t allow her to pay for her husband’s mistakes. “Woman to woman, if you so much as lay a single finger on me, you’ll have more than marital problems to deal with.”
