Hotline (Scorching Hot Summer #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Opal

"You're going to need this."

My new boss drops a box of tissues on my desk as I plop into my seat.

"And this."

A bottle of hand sanitizer follows.

I grab both as she turns and starts to walk away.

"Can you tell me what I'm supposed to be doing?"

She snorts over her shoulder.

"Just answer the phone when it rings. Simple."

"Answer the phone and say what, exactly?" I shift in my seat.

"Just sell the product," she says as she keeps walking, swinging her hips in her ridiculously slim pencil skirt. Her black bob swishes against her shoulders with each step.

"How can I do that if I don't even know what the product is?" I say after her.

She turns around.

"You'll figure it out."

She crosses her arms over her chest, looking at me with a smirk. She points at me with a fluid up-and-down motion.

"And something tells me you're going to catch on quickly."

She delicately adjusts her glasses and walks away.

I turn back to my computer.

"Okay, okay, new job," I say, cracking my knuckles. I shake my hands out. "Let's get to work."

"You shouldn't do that," the person in the cubicle next to me says, popping over the divider. Her thick, platinum-blonde hair is pulled into a high ponytail that cascades over one shoulder, with thick curtain bangs framing her face and a little black choker with a heart in the middle.

"Do what?" I say.

"Crack your knuckles. You should never crack your knuckles."

"My mom always told me that, too," I say. "She also told me to not stick out my tongue because my face would stay that way. That never happened, so I think I'm good."

"Suit yourself," the girl says as she sticks her hand out. "I'm Marilyn."

"That's a lovely name," I say, shaking her hand. "I'm Opal."

"So you're new," Marilyn says, eyeing me with a raised eyebrow.

I nod sheepishly and let out a nervous laugh.

"Brand spanking new."

"Hm. Something tells me that you're going to need my help," she says, disappearing behind the divider. She rolls over to me in her chair.

"Um," I say sheepishly as I look around. "What is it that we actually do here? Do we sell knives? Extended warranties? Apple cider vinegar gummies? What exactly is this place?"

This office is rundown and dusty. There's a copier in the corner, and someone is slamming their fist on it and cursing under their breath.

And everyone here is a woman.

Maybe we sell tampons?

Marilyn tilts her head to the side.

“Oh, my sweet, innocent new friend. This is a place where a name like Opal won't fly.”

"Can you please tell me why that is?"

She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back in her seat.

"You know how strippers have fake stripper names?"

"Sure. I'm aware of that."

"My real name is Gertrude," she says. "Opal isn't bad, but you'll need something else."

My heart drops.

Oh dear god.

"Why do I need a fake name?" I ask Marilyn with a shaky voice.

"You really don't know?" she says, her lips turned down at the corners.

She stands up and motions for me to do the same.

"Follow me."

I get up, but I feel weak as my heart knocks around in my ribcage.

"Here's your training," Marilyn says as she guides me along a row of cubicles.

"There are a lot of lonely men in this city. There are a lot of men who just want someone to talk to. There are a lot of men who want to pretend they’re talking to their fantasy girl.

Sexy librarian, MILF next door, French maid, what have you.

Some men have a weird fetish and want to play it out in a safe environment.

And there are some men who just want a quickie phone call to blow off some steam. "

She guides me around a corner.

"And here we have the break room. We've got fantastic coffee and unlimited snacks."

"So this is a place where…"

"Yes," Marilyn cuts in, nodding sagely.

The walls seem to close in on me.

I squint up at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling.

"It's so bright in here. I always imagined that a place where sex work happens would be darker than this."

Sex work…is this sex work? It is, isn't it?

"For the really sexy stuff, you need to go next door," she says with a shrug. "That's where the cam girls work."

She says it all as though it's an everyday thing. Totally mundane.

A shiver runs through me.

"I don't know if I can do this," I say, wrapping my arms around myself. I suddenly feel very cold. I want to crawl into bed and never get out.

But that’s not an option. I need this job.

If this doesn’t work out, I might not have a bed to crawl into at all.

Marilyn gives me a sympathetic look and comes over, putting her hands on my shoulders.

"Listen," she says. "You've got the one thing in Hollywood that no one else has."

She gives me a little smirk.

"What?"

"Your virginity.”

How could she know that just from looking at me?

She pauses for a moment, then breaks out into a laugh. "Just kidding. No one out here has their virginity. One way or another, this town will fuck you over."

I look at her blankly.

"Don't tell me," she says, eyes wide. "No. You're an actual virgin?"

I nod and give her a little closed-lip half-smile.

"Then why are you wasting your time here, girl?" she says. "Go out and sell that shit."

"Sell my virginity?"

"Yeah." She nods. "Rip the bandaid off. Get paid for it. Get the bill collectors off your ass.”

Okay. Maybe. She does have a point.

Just rip the bandaid off. Get it over with all in one fell swoop.

Talking to horny men every day will be death by a thousand paper cuts.

Selling my virginity would be like bludgeoning myself over the head. It’ll be a lot more painful, but at least it’ll be over quickly.

"How'd you know I have bill collectors on my ass?"

"Because you look scared." She shakes her head and squeezes my shoulders. "And you look like you don't really want to be here."

"No," I say, shaking my head. "I do. I really do."

She huffs out a breath and shakes her head.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," she says.

I nod gratefully. That's a huge relief.

"Of course, you won't get any big tips that way."

I frown. That's very disappointing.

"If you don't want to do this, maybe you can do one of those clairvoyant hotline things," she says.

"But I'm not clairvoyant." I shake my head. "Unless you count the time I predicted that my cousin's first baby would be a girl."

"See, you are clairvoyant. And you're so good at it! What were the odds that you'd pick a girl instead of a boy?"

I laugh and roll my eyes.

"Trust me," she says. "This is the best money you can get without taking your clothes off."

"Okay," I say with a serious nod. "I've got this."

"Good," Marilyn says with a little smile as she grabs my hand, "now let's see if you can be more convincing with the callers."

My stomach churns as my phone rings and Marilyn motions toward it.

"Answer it!" she whispers.

"Is it okay if I use the actual phone instead of the headset?" I ask as the phone keeps ringing. "For some reason, I don't like the idea of being… hands-free…while I talk to strange men. It's a reminder of what's happening on the other end of the line."

Oh my god. Am I really doing this?

"Fine, whatever you want, but just answer it," she says. "Every second you're not on a call is money that's not going into your pocket."

I let out a breath and grab the phone.

"Hello?"

Marilyn rolls her eyes.

"Um, hold on just a sec," I say as I put my hand over the phone and turn to Marilyn, hissing out a whisper. "What?"

"You said hello like you work at the cable company," she whispers. "Give it a little oomph."

She cups her boobs and smooshes them up.

" Oomph ," she whispers.

"Hi," I say in the most sultry voice I can manage, twisting my fingers through the coiled phone cord. Marilyn carefully grabs my ponytail and slides it out of its elastic tie, making my long brown hair bounce down my back. "How are you doing this lovely evening?"

Marilyn leans in, and I hold the phone between us so we can both hear.

"Um, I'm okay," the guy says. The sound of a TV in the background sends a static vibration through the phone.

Marilyn scribbles something down in her notebook and shows it to me.

First-timer , it says.

"So, what do you want to talk about?" I say.

“Things are over between me and my girlfriend. I haven’t seen her in weeks," he says. “And I’m afraid I’ll never see her again.”

I can feel the genuine sadness in his voice. He actually sounds very sweet.

"That must be rough," I say. “What's she like?"

"God, she was amazing," the guy says. "She was beautiful. Smart. Lit up every room she walked into.”

Marilyn grabs the phone out of my hand and lunges over me to hang it up.

“Gah!” she shouts.

“What the hell?” I say, my mouth agape in confusion.

“Haven’t you ever seen a true crime documentary?” she says. “Any time a girl is described as ‘lighting up a room,’ it means she’s gone missing. And it means the boyfriend probably did it!”

“I highly doubt that,” I say with a little roll of my eyes.

“Watch the local news tonight,” she says with a serious nod. “You’ll see.”

I huff out a laugh and shake my head.

Her phone rings and she answers it. My phone rings and I answer it. And I do okay, mostly. Every time things seem like they’ll veer into sultry territory, I transfer the call to someone else. Every time I'm able to steer the conversation into some good, clean, PG-rated fun, I do that.

I just can't bring myself to get sexy with these guys. I try, but my vocal cords freeze up. My tongue gets numb every time a guy asks what I'm wearing. My throat goes dry, parched, crackles to death whenever a guy says that he only has time for a "quickie."

The one thing they all have in common is that they are lonely. I can hear it in the voice of every single one of the men I speak to.

I certainly understand loneliness. Ever since my mom passed away, I have no one.

I shake my head and sigh as I look at the ringing phone on the desk in front of me.

How did it come to this? How did I let my bad luck lead me to this?

I look down the row of girls sitting in cubicles. I wonder what their dream and aspirations are. I wonder why they’re here in LA in the first place. Are they aspiring hopefuls who’ve dreamt of being actresses or singers their whole lives?

It is a widely held belief that no one is actually from LA. They say that all of the people who live here moved from someplace else.

But that’s not the case for me. I was actually born here, to an idealistic mom and a father I never met.

I’ve never felt like I really belong here.

Everyone here is beautiful and thin, and if they’re not famous yet, they’re trying to be.

I’ve never wanted to be famous. I’ve never wanted to be an actress or a singer. I’ve never wanted to be in the limelight at all. I’d be perfectly content to work in a windowless room, putting away files for the rest of my natural life or serving coffee to tourists.

I’ve applied to every job imaginable, but I’ve come up empty — until now.

I found this job online. The description was very sparse. All it said was, love to talk? work for us! and then I showed up here, filled out an application, and was immediately shown to my desk.

I guess you could say I'm just as lonely as the guys who call in.

At the end of my shift, the boss's voice rings out through the vast room of cubicles.

"New girl," she says. "My office. Now ."

I slump my way over there, feet shuffling. When I get to her office, she’s sitting behind her desk, neck-deep in paperwork.

I knock softly on the open door.

"You wanted to see me?" I say.

"Yes," she says, not raising her eyes to me, her voice totally void of emotion. "You're bad at this."

Everything inside me goes heavy.

"But…"

"But what?"

"I think I helped some of those guys out," I say. "I kept them on the phone. I brought in money. What's the issue?"

"Every single nonsense conversation you have with these men degrades our brand. We want repeat customers.”

She clicks something on her computer. A printer in the corner of the cramped room whirrs to life and shoots out a few pages. She huffs out a breath and brings them to me.

"Look at this." She smacks the printout with the back of her hand.

"In this conversation, you convinced a guy to get his cat spayed.

" She licks her finger and feathers through the papers.

"Here, you told a guy he should go to the eye doctor because floaters in your vision can be a sign of astigmatism, and you then launched into a whole monologue about how your grandfather had a glass eye.”

Okay. She has a point.

"What if I promise to improve?" I say, a lump forming in my throat. I swipe my fingers beneath my eyes to stop them from stinging, but I can feel the tears already forming. "I swear I'll get better. Just give me one more chance. Please .”

"Fine. You get one more chance," she says, her voice sharp and snappy. "But one more shift like this one and you're out of here."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," I say. "I promise I’ll do better."

I turn around, dashing out of the office. I push through the revolving door, a sick feeling swirling inside me.

I don't know if I can do this. Despite my promise to my boss, I don’t know if I’ll be able to talk dirty to strange men without gagging.

But I have to try.