9. Whiplash
Chapter nine
Whiplash
‘Your clients are somewhat displeased with your performance, Dylan,’ Isla said down the phone.
Isla Greco, manager of the Manchester branch of the Scortare escort agency, was the epitome of precision: severe bob, severe bangs, severe Botox.
‘You are a direct reflection of this agency’s standards and we expect more from you.
’ The eyeroll the sentence induced from Dylan was so loud it could have been heard in Stockport.
‘You are declining your regular clients. A client of two years has suddenly stopped booking, and your woefully insufficient interaction has resulted in a complaint.’
Sitting on her bed, Dylan’s fingers picked at the tiny cotton bobbles on her duvet cover.
‘Jesus. Who’s complained?’ she asked, irritation flaring despite the fact that she knew it was probably deserved. The woefully insufficient part was hard to argue with.
‘That doesn’t matter, Dylan. You need to do better.’
The words scraped over Dylan’s nerve endings like nails down a chalkboard.
Dragging in a chestful of air, she pressed her fingers into her forehead, allowing a beat of silence to pass.
‘Isla, I quit,’ she blurted. The small sentence had arrived before she could fully process it, but her relief was immediate.
‘What? You can’t just—’
‘I can and I am. Tell whoever complained to buy their husbands Clits and G-Spots for Dummies. They could probably do with a bit of bedtime reading and it’s an absolute bargain compared to what you charge an hour.’
Before Isla could manage one of her well known acerbic retorts, Dylan ended the call.
The phone slipped from her trembling hands, landing on the bed between her crossed legs.
Her stomach roiled at the impulsive decision.
It was over. She hadn’t known quitting would be the outcome of the call, but escorting was no longer an option. Everything had irrevocably changed.
They had some savings, enough to manage for a while.
A normal job would have to suffice and, if necessary, they could sell the house.
Moving away from Chorlton into the outskirts of Manchester would mean getting more for their money.
Even her Master’s could be paused, meaning she could reduce the nursing hours she subsidised.
It would be tough again, but she could find a balance.
As Priya had said, there were always options. It would be okay. They would be okay.
They’d have to be.
It was the day after her text exchange with Greta, and the ball had been firmly left in Greta’s court.
Dylan had opened their message thread several times, read the old messages, only to close it again, deciding that any pressure would surely backfire.
The phone bounced between her hands restlessly until she dropped it onto the bed, just as it began to ring.
‘Fuck,’ she said sharply, fumbling to grab it.
The screen lit up with Greta’s name. She bit her thumbnail.
‘Be cool. Be cool. For once in your fucking life, St John, be cool,’ she quietly coached herself before sliding her thumb across the glass.
‘Hello?’ Dylan said in a tone that implied the caller was a mystery. Too aloof.
‘Dylan?’
‘Hey,’ her tone warmed.
‘I think you’re right,’ Greta said bluntly.
‘Abooout?’ Dylan stretched the syllables for too long. Too aloof, again.
‘We should talk.’
Dylan over-compensated for her nonchalance.
‘I would love that.’ She coughed to clear her throat and brought her voice back down an octave.
‘I would like that. A lot. Yeah. We should probably do that.’ The fuck, Dylan?
She rubbed her brow with her fingers and thumb, while wincing. ‘Are you free today? It’s Saturday.’
Possibly the most redundant statement she’d ever made, but it made Greta chuckle lightly, warming Dylan’s cheeks.
‘Yes,’ Greta replied. ‘I’m aware it’s Saturday.’ Dylan pulled the imaginary trigger on the gun fingers she had put to her temple. ‘I’m free. Shall I come to your—’
‘No. No, not here.’
‘Roommates?’ Greta’s judgmental tone bled through.
‘I live with my mum. Not because I’m the world’s oldest mummy’s girl. It’s a long story.’
‘I see,’ Greta replied softly.
‘I could come to you.’
Greta paused as if the mere suggestion had caught her off guard. ‘No, not here,’ she said firmly.
Dylan chuckled nervously. ‘Why? You’re not married, are you?’
‘I’m widowed actually. My wife, she—’
‘Oh Fuck,’ Dylan silently banged her palm on her screwed-up forehead while mouthing ‘fuck!’ at the ceiling. ‘I’m sorry, I…I had no idea. I’m so sorry.’
‘Yes, well, why would you?’ Greta’s tone was changing. Dylan was losing her.
‘What about a hotel?’ Dylan suggested quickly. ‘I’m not saying anything needs to happen, but we can talk undisturbed, for as long as we need to.’
‘Okay. I’ll book and send you the details.’
‘Great. Thank you. I’ll see you soon then?’
‘See you soon.’
‘Today, yeah?’ Dylan added.
‘Today, Dylan.’ Dylan detected a smile in Greta’s voice.
‘See you in a bit.’
A short while later, Dylan’s phone buzzed with a WhatsApp notification.
Greta:
‘Cow Hollow. Northern Quarter. 4pm. I’ll text you the room number’
Dylan didn’t reply. She just double-tapped to attach a heart to it. Too much? Too little? She wasn’t sure. She thought about it for a moment.
Dylan:
‘Can I go straight to the room? Or?’
Greta:
‘Of course.’
A beat. Dylan’s phone buzzed again in her hands.
Greta:
‘You’re not coming as Remi’
An overwhelming sense of relief washed over Dylan. Greta didn’t want Remi. The clarification hadn’t happened the night Greta had come to her house, and she arrived as Margot. She didn’t want that to happen again; Dylan knew above all else that she definitely did not want Margot Grenson.
***
A familiar rhythm against the hotel door got Greta to her feet.
Pulling back the door, her hand remained tightly gripped onto the wood.
Her outfit of high-waisted blue jeans and an oversized white shirt, loosely tucked at the front was a stark contrast to her usual bare skin and underwear sets, or her professional attire.
With her hair down and lips glossed, Greta could see Dylan’s struggle to hold her gaze.
Dylan sunk her teeth into her bottom lip, her hands pushed deep into her pockets as though she was fighting the urge to pull Greta into her arms.
‘You know you can knock like a normal person now?’ Greta said through a weak smile.
Dylan grinned. ‘A normal person?! What’s one of them?’
Standing to the side, Greta allowed Dylan to pass her.
With her hand still pressed against the wood, Greta closed the door, waiting for a moment as Dylan’s scent hit the disturbed air around her.
Greta's eyes softly closed, making her momentarily unsteady.
Inhaling a steadying breath, she turned to face Dylan.
The room was small but luxurious, much like the hotel itself.
The bed was huge, completely dominating the space.
For a heavy beat, both of their gazes lingered on it for a second too long, before self-consciousness kicked in.
Dylan dragged her eyes away and turned toward the window, the open shutters offering a view over a bustling Newton Street.
Saturday traffic and shoppers made the Manchester street busier than usual, a blur of movement that felt worlds away from the quiet tension of the room.
‘Drink?’ Greta offered.
Dylan turned to face her. Greta tilted the bottle of wine she was about to pour from.
‘No, thank you. I don’t drink.’
‘You don’t drink? Jesus, wait until life kicks in,’ Greta scoffed, wincing at her condescending tone.
‘Hmm,’ Dylan hummed in disagreement. ‘I actually don’t drink because I… Never mind. I’ll have some water though please.’
Dylan accepted a bottle of San Pellegrino, her fingers briefly brushing against Greta’s—sending a frisson over Greta’s skin—and perched on the edge of the bed.
Greta couldn’t stop herself from raking her gaze over her.
She had no business looking so good in just a green jumper and jeans, when she—unable to settle on smart, casual or smasual—had changed three times before she left her apartment, congratulating herself as she finally walked out the door for achieving a ridiculous level of overthinking. Something she wasn’t used to.
Greta wanted to move toward Dylan, but she rooted herself to the spot.
What was this pull Dylan had? This appeal?
She knew, and admitting it to herself—even silently—made her chest tighten with something dangerously close to panic.
Dylan was confident, self-assured without a single shred of arrogance.
She was kind, gentle, oozed charm and aesthetically, Greta had grown to find her astonishing.
Her brown natural curls, stopping just above her full eyebrows, were always perfect.
The distinct lack of grey hairs and lines on her face and around her eyes was very apparent, as Greta stole furtive glances.
With both feet flat on the floor, strong thighs parted, the denim of Dylan’s jeans sat tight against the muscle.
Even the way she held herself was attractive; back straight, head high.
Her rolled-up sleeves exposed her tattooed forearms; Greta’s eyes followed them to her strong, tattooed hands and fingers, which were now, for some reason, utterly mesmerising.
As Dylan twisted the cap off her water Greta’s eyes followed as she brought the bottle to her mouth.
That fucking mouth.
Transfixed, Greta watched the bob of Dylan’s throat as she swallowed. It was enough to make her lose her poise altogether, but Dr Greta Vincent didn't lose her poise. Greta was ordered, controlled, and considered; at least she used to be. Dylan had a way of wordlessly pulling her to pieces.
Moments passed as the room fell into a heavy silence, neither of them ready, or willing to break it.