Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
I glance down at my white blouse and black pencil skirt a little self-consciously and cross my legs at the ankle. I tried to “dress to impress,” but if Margo’s squeaky hot pants and tattered scrap of a sweater are anything to go by, I may have missed the mark.
“How’d you hear about the position, hon?” she asks.
“I saw the ad in the newspaper. The, um, Nashville Newsleader, I think it was.”
Margo nods. “Glad those things are working. Most of the time, I don’t know if anyone even reads that shit anymore.”
I shrug. My dad used to read the paper every morning and every night. I don’t take the eccentricity quite as far as he did, but I crack the pages every now and then.
“All right. Let’s get down to it.” Margo takes another puff of her cig and blows actual smoke circles into the air. “Go ahead and give me a taste of your phone voice.”
“My . . . phone voice?”
“Yeah, hon. Just act like you’re answering a call.” Her hot pants squeak again as she leans closer.
Nerves flit around inside my belly. Truth be told, I’d be hard-pressed to think of anything worse than a job in telemarketing. I’m an introvert. A classic case of “text instead of call” and a certified homebody. I don’t put myself out there—I never have.
But I need the job—the money—and that means my comfort zone is a thing of the past.
“Okay.” I swallow hard against the nausea and lick my lips to wet my dry mouth. I even pretend to put a phone to my ear, splaying my fingers in the hang-ten hand sign. “Hello, thank you for calling Call Me Anytime. My name is Hannah. How can I help you?”
Margo frowns and takes another drag from her ciggy.
“Was that bad?” I ask, my voice sounding as awkward as I now feel from Margo’s anticlimactic reaction. I loathe feeling like I’m letting people down, but really, that’s no surprise.
My people-pleasing gene is hardwired, a gift from my mom I can’t return. When I was little, her whole world was making me and my dad happy and being the mother and wife we needed. She attended every PTA meeting, sat through countless gymnastics classes despite my obvious lack of Olympic drive, and dedicated every Saturday to balancing the books for my dad’s home construction company.
“It’s a little stiff,” Margo comments, shoving back into her seat and crossing her arms over her ample boob balloons, two fingers and her cig extended to keep from burning herself. “Though I’m sure some of our callers will cream their pants over the sweet-and-innocent thing you’ve got going on.”
I’m sorry, but did she just say cream their pants?
“You got any hard limits?” she asks. “Anything you won’t do on a call?”
“Hard limits?” I tilt my head to the side, a puzzled wrinkle forming between my brows. “Like on sales attempts?”
Margo shakes her head, ticking off fingers. “Blow jobs, anal, foot play, piss parties, choking, or aggression?”
My eyes widen enough to encroach on my cheeks, and vomit threatens in the back of my throat. When I was rehearsing some practice questions and answers last night, this didn’t make the cut.
“Those are normally the big ones,” she continues as I choke on my own saliva. “But everyone is different. Different kicks for different chicks and all that. What won’t you do?”
A harsh buzzing explodes in my ears, and I blink what feels like one thousand times. I . . . I thought this was a job selling toner . . . or extended car warranties. Something. Anything other than blow jobs and anal and . . . my God . . . piss parties.
Is this . . . is this a phone sex line?
“Did you just say piss parties?”
“You’ll get a few curveballs in the beginning, but you’ll get used to it pretty quick,” Margo replies on a shrug. “A lot of these men call because they’re ashamed to admit their fetishes in person, you know?”
I look around the messy office and back at Margo, an ugly realization dawning well after the chickens have hatched. “What exactly does Call Me Anytime do?” I ask. “You never specified in your ad.”
“Phone sex, hon. We’re a twenty-four-hour hotline.”
Oh, freaking hell. I can’t take a phone sex job! I’m a virgin, for Pete’s sake.
“The more calls you take, the more money you make,” Margo rattles off while my brain feels a little too close to bursting inside my skull for any level of comfort, past or present. This isn’t just outside the zone; this is a whole other freaking planet. “Most of my girls make well over two thousand a week, but since you’re just starting out, I’d keep your expectations low and plan on fifteen hundred.”
Hold up . . . did she just say fifteen hundred dollars? My throat is so tight I feel gagged, but the numbers sound too musical to my ears for me to run from the pressure. In this case, maybe just maybe, I could deal with being choked.