Chapter Thirty-Three
Rush
Work was slow.
I mean, my job had been slow a lot lately.
But it was especially slow now.
Meaning I hadn't had a call in days, not since I came back from the woods.
I would sit at my desk at night waiting for a phone that never rang, a call that never came.
Not even her.
My regular.
A woman who called, but rarely spoke. If she did, she did so in a small voice, barely audible.
Instead, she had specified in her notes that we asked callers to fill out, describing their preferences, that I talk to her.
About "anything" she'd said. So, sometimes, I talked to her about the weather, something I was watching on TV, some news story I'd heard about that wasn't too controversial. And she just listened.
I guess that should have been weird. But lonely people just wanted to not be so alone sometimes, to hear a voice. Some people could go whole days without speaking to another human being. It was good to get relief from that. Even if you had to pay for it.
Sure, there were nights when I was a little heated from some book I'd been reading when the call came in. And those nights, the stories turned into dirty talk.
She would be on the other line, quiet for a while, but her breathing would get fast, ragged. Then, as things got hotter, she would make these quiet little mewling noises.
Now, the nature of the job was detachment.
The women did it with ease, knitting while taking calls, doing color-by-numbers, painting their nails.
I figured, when I first started, that it would be difficult to detach. Sex was sex. Hell, even phone sex counted. It could get steamy. The body reacted.
But, in the end, Fiona had been right about there being a wall, that it wasn't like real life.
Because you knew it was a job. Because you knew you were getting paid.
Because you knew at any point in time, someone at the company could listen to your call for quality control, to know things were appropriate.
All that helped.
I never did get turned on during a call. Not even when the older women with a shitton of sexual confidence got on the phone and said filthy shit I wasn’t sure I'd ever heard a woman say before.
But then there was my regular girl.
She'd put her name as Katherine, had given her age, but hadn't given out any other personal information, not even interests for me to play off of when we talked.
But even knowing less about her, something about her calls did something. They penetrated the wall of professionalism.
Maybe it was just because she was such a regular caller, on the other end of the phone often enough that I felt a connection with her.
All I knew was her little whimpers and moans actually made me get hard some nights. Fine, most nights.
I was unexpectedly concerned about the absence of her name on my caller ID.
My mind went in several different directions. Something had happened to her. She ran out of money. She found someone.
It was irrational to be annoyed about that prospect, but it was there—a coiled thing under my ribcage—regardless.
"Slow lately, huh?" Fee asked when I came in for my shift the next day, feeling a little more listless than usual. I found myself wanting to hop in my car and take a trip somewhere, anywhere. Get my mind clear. Even though I'd just gotten back.
Because this fucking mind of mine kept going places it had no business going.
Like back to those woods.
To the things I wanted to happen there, but didn’t let.
To how much of a dick I’d been in the end.
"Yeah," I agreed. "Feel like I'm cheating you out of money," I told her, shrugging, going to her coffee bar to help myself to her personal coffee machine.
We had the one in the main area, but Fiona kept a couple special pods for herself that I liked to steal when I was in a shit mood.
Stuff like salted caramel or mocha or Kahlúa.
"Wait, sit," she demanded, brows furrowed, when I tried to rush right back out.
"Yes, ma'am," I said, dropping down into her seat, laughing at the pussy flower statue she had on her desk.
"Pretty, right? Aimee, remember her? She left like a year ago when she got married, she took up ceramics, and made that for me."
"Nice," I agreed, hearing the solemness in my voice, not caring enough to try to mask it.
"What's going on, sort-of-little-brother?" she asked, taking her seat.
"Nothing. Just... frustrated," I admitted, shrugging.
"You know what I find interesting?" she asked, turning a golden pen in between her fingers.
"I'm sure I don't want to know," I told her, lips twitching, “But I know you well enough to know there's no stopping you either."
"Smart boy. Well, I think it is interesting that before you left to go to the cabin, you were happy as a clam. And now, you're all mopey. I find that interesting."
"Fee, don't," I demanded, shaking my head. "Haven't you done enough?" I asked, hearing a rawness in my voice that I didn’t like having there, but I didn’t know how to stop it either.
"Oh, but I thought it was "no big deal," just the "principal of the thing," she said, air-quoting the things I'd said to her over the phone. I never knew someone to have a better memory than a woman determined to make a point.
“Remember that text you sent me six years ago?
On that day where it was raining and the neighbor's dog came barreling into the back door to get out of it?
And I took his picture to send you. And then you told me that you thought my interest in photography was a waste of time.
Well, look at me now, supporting the two of us with that money.
I was just thinking about that, randomly. Funny huh?"
"Fee..."
"I think for all the brushing off you’ve given me, that I was a little bit right. Something happened in those woods. And you are all pissy about it for some reason,” she concluded.
"I'm not pissy,” I objected, taking a sip of my too-hot coffee, regretting it as it burned down my throat.
"I raised three daughters, Rush, I know pissy when I see it."
"Look, I don't know what it is, Fee. I'm just feeling restless. Maybe it will pass."
"And if it doesn't?"
"I don't know. I'll have to shake it up somehow, I guess."
"You would dare leave me?" she asked, clutching her heart.
"I haven't had a call in days,” I reminded her, though I was sure she was aware. She was always on top of things like that.
"Yeah, you're fucking up my bottom line," she teased, waving a hand.
"Who knows. Maybe your regulars are busy or on vacation.
Or sick. They will probably call back. Hang in there for a few more days.
If there is still nothing, then, yeah, I guess maybe we will need to reconsider the need for your position.
But I would never throw you out on the streets. "
"I have Kingston to fall back on," I reminded her. "With Nixon working with Reagan a lot now, and Atlas never around for long, he could use the help. I wouldn't be on the street. I'm not giving up yet. I'm just in a shit mood. It'll pass."
"Right," she agreed, smirking. "Emotions do that. Just go away on their own. No work or change or anything."
"I'll be fine, Fee. but thanks for giving a shit."
"You know... I could ask Helen to reinstate the 'bring a date' rule this Sunday."
"Fuck, Fee. Don't kick a man when he's down," I demanded, getting up from my seat, feeling a little lighter than I had when I walked into her office.
Family could do that.
Lighten the load.
Or, sometimes, help build you back up, so it didn't feel quite so heavy anymore.
I was just getting back to my desk when I saw a familiar light brown ponytail bouncing away from me on her way to her desk.
She was back.
Better.
And back.
I hadn't seen or heard from her since her apartment.
Where her mom none-too-subtly tried to suss out what was going on between us.
Much to the embarrassment of her daughter.
I should have been a nicer guy and brushed off the invite to brunch.
Especially since it hadn't come from Katie herself.
But what can I say? I wanted to try those crêpes.
The crêpes.
It had nothing at all to do with the woman who made them, a woman who had been invading my thoughts far more than she should have. A woman who plagued my dreams, leaving me waking up hard and aching.
It didn’t matter how many times I told myself to stop thinking about her.
There she always was.
And now, here she was.
She buzzed through the office, gathering files off the desks as she passed, slipping some paperwork onto others.
Her work attire was different than what she wore in the cabin—thick layers to keep warm.
I guess because at work, she was in control of the thermostat, and she kept it boiling, something most of my female coworkers enjoyed.
So she tended to wear dresses to work, but never anything form-fitting, anything that suggested she had any soft curves underneath. Which I knew for a fact she did.
This day, she was wearing a navy blue dress of some flowing material with a little white bird pattern on it, the skirt falling just below her knee, the top a size or so too big.
She did have a white sweater on over the dress, but not an oversized one, and she had it open in front.
She had on flats. Always did. Today, in blue to match her dress.
I hadn't seen her wear any jewelry at the cabin, but she had little diamond studs in her ears and something hanging off a simple silver chain.
I wanted to go over there, apologize for showing up at her place, for implying that she was avoiding me instead of being genuinely sick.
I was just about to get up to do that when her phone started ringing, making her rush over the last few steps, answering.
Then I watched as her calm, professional demeanor melted away, leaving her shoulders slumping, her face falling.
Her gaze shot around the room, making mine fall for a second, not wanting to be caught watching her.