Harlot (Hush #2), page 2
“What does that mean?”
“You don’t want to find out,” I say, slowly sidestepping toward the crowded door.
Susie takes my word for it and lowers the toothpick. “Get the hell out of here and never come back.”
“You have my word.” And to serve as a warning to Dr. Goodmen, I add, “You’ll never see me again.”
The McCann family parts like the Red Sea for my departure, not bothering to disguise their disgust. Pretending to side with his wife, Mr. McCann arranges an expression of loathing on his face as I saunter by, taking advantage of the opportunity to get a good look at me. His body language is rigid, but I recognize desire in his wide eyes. If his wife could see past her own ignorance, she’d see it, too. Most men are truly one-dimensional.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Mrs. McCann says, unable to help herself.
“You’re right,” I say with a smile. “I should be.”
Gasping, Mrs. McCann grabs her young daughter by her shoulders and pulls her out of my line of sight, like being a mistress is contagious.
Arrangements to collect the payment for my time can easily happen on a later date, but now I have a point to prove.
I’m not a mistress.
My only intention is to capitalize on indulgence.
I’m a harlot.
Retreating back into the room with Dr. Goodmen and his now hysterical wife, I clear my throat to announce my presence. The dentist takes one look at me and drops his head back to stare up at the ceiling, maybe praying for divine intervention. Maybe he thinks if he pretends I’m not here, I’ll disappear. No such luck this time.
I hold out the palm of my hand and say, “Pay up.”
“Megan,” he says in a pleading tone. “Please, don’t do this right now.”
“Eric,” I counter. “Don’t make me ask twice.”
Left with no choice but to do as I ask, Dr. Goodmen reaches into his back pocket to retrieve the same stack of cash he used to taunt me with before karma had its way with him. He deposits two thousand dollars for services rendered into my awaiting hand with the audacity to look insulted. Dr. Goodmen’s wife now knows he pays for sex, and he has nobody else to blame but himself.
Closing my fingers around the money, I wink and see myself out before Susie picks up another weapon. The elevator doors open like it knew I was coming, and I wait until I’m inside before kicking my shoes off. My bare feet earn questionable stares as I stroll across the lobby to the front of the building, where a dark SUV waits for me.
Grand Haven, a small Bay Area city in northern California, is drowsy under a blanket of cloud cover. The sidewalk is cool below my feet. I can taste the ocean on my lips, and the scents of fishing boats and the salty sea swirls in the crisp autumn air. It’s a far cry from the dusty town I ran away from almost two years ago, and I could not be more grateful for this tiny piece of heaven on earth. I’d run through the streets right now, until my hair was damp with sea spray and the bottom of my feet were filthy, if my driver were not waiting on me.
“Ma’am,” Yael greets me with a curt nod and a polite smile.
“It’s Camilla, Yael. I’m too young to be a ma’am,” I remind him for the millionth time, accepting his help and taking his hand as I step into the back of the vehicle.
“Yes, ma’am.” Since accepting the position as Hush’s lead driver, Yael, a dark-skinned, white-haired man with heavy freckles across his nose and cheeks, has hired on a few more chauffeurs. He’s my favorite, and I request him whenever he’s available. He asks, “Should I drop you off at home or the office?”
“Home,” I interject in a voice too loud for such a small space. “Please, drop me off at the apartment.”
Untouched by my sudden outburst, Yael nods again and pulls away from the curb, leaving Dr. Goodmen, his wife, and Betty behind for good. I turn on the seat warmer and sink into the firm leather seat, still amazed that such a thing exists. Sundays were the only day I was allowed to ride in the car when I was a girl, but my parents’ old Volkswagen Beetle didn’t have seat warmers. The heating and air conditioner didn’t work at all. In the winter, I froze. In the summer, I wasted away. But these seats feel like a warm blanket on a rainy day.
As Yael weaves in and out of traffic, passing by crowded eateries and art galleries in a blur, I retrieve my cell phone from my purse and send a text to the only contact I have.
On my way home. We need to talk.
My fight-or-flight instincts kick in, and the devil on my shoulder whispers in my ear, run. It would be so easy to throw the phone from the window, order Yael to the nearest airport, and run from my problems. I’ve proven to be great at reinventing myself, and Hush has given me everything I need to leave Camilla Hearst behind and live my life entirely as Megan Rice.
Like he can sense my worry, Yael meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Do you need to make a stop on the way home?”
Yes.
“No.”
If I run away, I’ll end up where I started, alone and scared. Or worse, I’ll find my way back home to North Carolina.
Twenty minutes later, I don’t know if I’m relieved or worried that the throwaway burner phone I recycle every month has yet to buzz with a response message. Yael’s passed the airport, parking outside my apartment complex, where the rain now falls from the sky in sheets. He trots around the front of the SUV, opening a black umbrella. The brim of his driving cap captures the rain before dripping onto his shoulders, where it beads upon the thick fabric of his jacket.
Drenched in the earthy smell of the rain before the drops have a chance to touch me, I peel myself away from the cozy heated seat and step barefoot into a cool puddle of water on the sidewalk.
“You need something for your feet,” Yael says. He closes the Suburban’s door after my exit and follows me with the umbrella over my head.
With my shoes hanging from the tips of my fingers, I smile and say, “A little dirt and water never hurt anyone. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Yael allows me to go on alone, but he watches me kick through every puddle on the walk to my front door before he leaves.
The two-bedroom apartment I’ve called home for the last eight months is dark, and the ends of my hair drip water onto the floor as I stumble blindly through the hallway to my room on the left. My bedroom door opens with a crack, unleashing the trapped scent of blown-out candles and sulfur from sparked matches. My anxious heart weighs a thousand pounds inside my chest like it always does when the lights are out.
“Camilla,” the sound of my father’s voice resonates inside my head as I drop my purse to the ground, walking straight to my dresser where most of my candles rest. “What have I told you about eating without permission?”
I was six years old, standing on a plastic step stool in front of the pantry I knew was off-limits. Chewing a stolen saltine cracker as quickly as I could, I shoved a second one into my mouth before I dropped the box in surprise. God doesn’t like little girls who don’t listen to their parents.
“I’m sorry, Daddy.” Crumbs escaped from my mouth with an apology.
He stormed into the kitchen, and I threw my arms up to protect my face. He didn’t swat me. My dad pulled me from the stool, away from the pantry. Tears swept silently across my cheeks like the tips of my toes swept across the linoleum floor, a cry for help trapped behind a dry cracker that glued my teeth shut.
“Didn’t I warn you what would happen if you disobeyed me again?” His blue eyes blazed like the hottest part of a fire, and Daddy’s thin, dark blond hair was pushed back, showcasing his sweaty hairline.
It was an ominous expression I’d become acquainted with like a predatory enemy I was in constant fear of. From that day forward, it sank its fangs into my flesh when I was naughty, but it always followed me around and nipped at my ankles to keep me in line.
“Yes, Daddy,” I cried.
At the end of the hallway was a small closet where my mom hung our winter coats with the greasy coveralls Daddy wore to work. I’d swallowed the cracker in my mouth and apologized, crying loud enough to lure my older brothers from their room. They stood behind our father, not daring to interfere—not daring to disobey.
Dad kneeled in front of me, forcing me to face what I feared most: his disappointment. “You’re going to learn, Camilla. You don’t have a choice.”
As I strike the head of the match across the powdered glass pad on the side of the matchbox, fire ignites at my fingertips. The flame reflects off the white walls, and the muted orange glow rescues me from the dark. As the wicks set fire across my dresser, I remember the warning my dad had given me if I didn’t follow the rules.
But at six years old, I didn’t believe him.
Daddy opened the closet door, and the bitter odor of gasoline and motor oil smacked me harder than the reality of what was about to happen. Until he tried to shove me inside. I clung to my dad’s leg, screamed for my brothers’ help, and when my mom finally emerged from her bedroom, I made the mistake of thinking she would intervene. She was my mom. It was her job to protect me.
Mom’s soft brown eyes brimmed with tears, and she clung to her shirt where her heart pounded beneath. I let go of my dad’s leg and reached for her, and Mom’s lips parted to speak. But her words were lost under sudden darkness and the sound of my tiny fists colliding with solid wood.
He’d locked me inside the closet.
“It’s this or damnation.” His voice boomed over my assault on the door. “God help me, the girl is going to learn.”
When every candle is lit, flickering flames burn away bleakness, taking with it the memory of the first day I spent inside the closet. Light fills in the corners, waltzes alongside the tapestry hung above my bed, and tiptoes across my chilled skin until my cheeks redden with warmth. I change out of my wet clothes and climb into bed, waiting for the inevitable.
When my phone finally vibrates with a text message, I hold my breath and pray for mercy.
Because who runs the world?
Lydia Montgomery.
Lydia Montgomery didn’t become the most powerful woman in Grand Haven by being nice to anyone. Her reign over this city was built slowly from years of discipline and hard work. She controls Hush with an iron fist, and I’m no exception to the rule. We may share an apartment, a dog, and coffee in the morning, but I don’t mistake her kindness for weakness.
Meet me at the office.
Chewing on my bottom lip, I read the message over and over, contemplating the tone of the short text until I can’t decide if she ended the sentence with a grammatically correct period or a dead stop. Does the period show off Lydia’s respect for punctuation, or is it a warning?
This wouldn’t be an issue if she ended her text messages with exclamation points or emojis like sane humans, but this is Lydia If-Looks-Could-Kill Montgomery. She says what she means and means what she says. Nothing extra. Nothing left for guesswork. The period is definitely a death threat.
When?
I include a thinking face emoji with my responding text, hoping it’ll eventually rub off on her. My phone rings and her number flashes across the screen, and my heartbeat immediately soars.
“Dammit,” I groan to myself with dread before answering. “Hello?”
“Eight.” Lydia’s tone is as smooth and as calm as an untouched lake in the early morning.
But I know better.
She’s a hurricane making waves in the ocean.
“Eight?” Eight lashings for messing up my appointment with Dr. Goodmen? Eight minutes to pack my things and leave? Eight days before my life in Grand Haven was nothing but a dream?
“Camilla, meet me at the office at eight o’clock. We’ll talk over dinner.”
“You’re not staying with Talent tonight?” I ask, checking my clock for the time. I have a few hours to wash the Goodmens’ bad vibes away and head downtown.
“No, he has a meeting.” Unlike her vague text messages, Lydia’s voice makes her intentions crystal clear. The period at the end of her sentence is loaded, and the conversation is over.
“I understand. See you at eight.”
On the murky side of society, a meeting is never as simple as a sit-down between associates. And it’s never safe to discuss over the phone.
Nothing like Lydia’s bedroom across the hall, my room doesn’t have a connecting bathroom. Talent Ridge, Grand Haven’s former most eligible bachelor turned Lydia’s boyfriend, is our only visitor. He shares a space with Lydia when he stays the night, making the guest bathroom all mine. The house I grew up in had one bathroom, and since I was the youngest, I showered last. My childhood baths smelled like artificial strawberry shampoo, and the shower curtain had mold. The bathroom rugs were always wet, and the water was never warm.
The candles continue from my room to the shelves in my bathroom, and the plush rugs under my feet are dry and soft, forming to the shape of my feet. My shower curtain is pink, and the cleansers inside smell like orange blossoms and mandarins, luxuries I dreamed of using as a young girl. I even have bubble bath.
An artist who writes songs about her ex-lovers dominates my playlist, singing a wistful tune that’ll be stuck in my head for the rest of the night. Using my shampoo bottle as a microphone, I sing along and swear we are never, ever getting back together until the water cools.
“In our business, looks are everything,” Lydia’s voice nags me as I consider my dirty Vans, critical of my jeans and T-shirt style. “You’re a fucking queen. Act like it.”
She doesn’t leave the house without winged eyeliner, bloodred lips, and heels sharp enough to cut glass. Nothing, not even Lydia’s annoyance, will put me back into a pair of heels tonight. I meet her halfway and wear mascara, blush, and tinted lip gloss. The scent of cooling wax chases me out the front door in a pair of flats.
“Going somewhere?”
Clutching my keys like a weapon, I spin around after locking the door to find our neighbor Dawn walking her dogs. They’re dressed in matching raincoats, with the same wide-eyed expression.
“Did I scare you?” Dog Mom asks. She eyeballs the way I’m holding my house key like a prison shank and freezes. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“Didn’t see you there.” I chuckle nervously. Here I am encouraging Lydia to use emojis; meanwhile, she’s managed to make me wary enough to kill our neighbors with a set of keys. Dropping them into my purse, I ask, “Care to join me on my walk?”
The rain’s stopped, and the puddles have mostly dried up, but a bitter coolness creeps in the air while the clouds act as a wall between the moon and stars. Dog Mom’s incessant chatter replaces their light during our short trip to the street, where a driver waits to take me downtown.
“I don’t blame you for being vigilant, Camilla, but things have been relatively safe since we started the neighborhood watch program. The only exception being the night when the gentleman in Building C fell asleep during his patrol and those punks graffitied the pool house. What a disaster that was.”
My memory of that night’s fiasco is less dramatic, as is my definition of graffiti. Someone drew amateurish dicks on the side of the pool house with red chalk paint. After a short investigation, it turns out the gentleman from Building C has twelve-year-old twin boys who knew their dad was on watch and took advantage of his slumber, stirring up trouble.
After a stern talking to, the twins cleaned the dicks off the wall while Dog Mom stood by with her arms crossed over her chest. She’ll never admit it, but her disappointment was spiked with a bit of satisfaction. It was the moment she’d been waiting for.
“You’ve done a great job keeping everyone safe, Dawn.” I intertwine my arm with hers. The dogs’ paws tap on the walkway ahead of us. “The bad guys don’t stand a chance with you in charge.”
What if she discovered Lydia and I are the bad guys?
Lydia lived in our apartment alone for years without uttering a single word to anyone. Much to her annoyance, I’ve made a place for myself amongst our small community. She thinks I’m drawing attention our way, but I think she caused more speculation with the neighbors being a pariah. Dawn is under the impression that we’re friends and roommates, but the truth is, we’re the criminals she swore to fight.
“Which reminds me, Camilla,” Dawn says. She tightens the dogs’ leashes the closer we get to the street. My driver exits the car and opens the back door. “I haven’t seen your name on the volunteer list in a while. We can really use the help. Maybe you can talk Lydia into teaming up with you?”
Lydia wouldn’t be caught dead patrolling our apartment complex at night. I’ve volunteered once to save face, but staying up to scare off nothing more than stray cats isn’t my idea of a good time. Especially when I have to be up early the next day to meet a client.
“Umm … sure, Dawn. Come by the apartment sometime this weekend with the sign-up sheet.” I wave her goodbye and jump into the back of the car.
“Where to?” my chauffeur asks.
“The office,” I reply.
The Ridge & Sons building is the tallest in the city, massive and towering over its companions as the monarchs inside do. The skyscraper’s mirror finish reflects everything from the gutters on the street to the blackest part of the night’s sky like a panoramic portrait. Every window is dark except the offices on the top floor, where David Ridge and his sons, Wilder and Talent Ridge, take over the world.
And where Lydia Montgomery operates a prostitution ring.
“Would you like an escort to the door?” The driver must be one of Yael’s new hires. I don’t recognize him, but his choice of words makes me smile.
“That’s okay.” I toss him a twenty-dollar bill and exit the vehicle. Noticing Tony, the building janitor, about to close the entrance doors, I wave my arm and call out, “Hold the door, please.”
“We’re closed. Come back tomorrow. Office opens at seven.” He shuts and locks the large glass doors between us but looks up before walking away. His eyes are as big as his apology, and he fumbles with the large key ring to let me in. “I’m sorry, Camilla. No one told me to expect you tonight.”
