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)
It’s my twentieth call of the day, but only my fifth on the wiretap, and so far, I haven’t heard anything from Detectives Dunn and Maddox. I know they’re out in their special van, listening, but other than that, I’ve been well and truly on my own.
It’s terrifying. Any of these men could be an actual killer, and I’m just supposed to chat them up about their dicks? Seems weird.
“Hi, Ruby. I’m Harvey. I like your voice.”
“Thanks, Harvey.” Using what Monica calls a “leading question” to progress the conversation, I ask, “What else do you like?”
Monica is the definition of a book you can’t judge by its cover. She might look sweet and innocent, but her phone sex skills are downright diabolical. She’s a true ace at making men cream their pants, as Margo would say, and when I got into work this morning, she gave me a little cheat sheet to help me not feel so out of my depth with these freaking calls. Honestly, I was so damn overwhelmed with gratitude, I could have kissed her on the mouth. I didn’t, of course, because that would have made things weird, but I could have.
Not only am I grateful for the much-needed help, but I’m thrilled to have a friend. After this many years of taking care of my mom and working to pay the bills, I’ve completely let my social life fall to the wayside. I don’t go out. I don’t text with people. I barely even talk to anyone other than my mom and Lovie.
But boy, I’m sure talking to people now.
“I like soft female curves,” Harvey says into my ear. “How curvy are you, Ruby?”
“Sooo curvy. If you look up curves in the dictionary, you’ll see my big curvaceous tatas and butt,” I reply without even glancing at my ongoing list of “phone sex words.” According to Monica, agreeing with them—no matter what they say—is the quickest way to get them to climax so we can move on to the next caller.
In reality, I guess I do have an hourglass figure, but I wouldn’t necessarily call myself curvy. I don’t know, though. When most of the girls I knew went through puberty and entered their teenage years, they became focused on their bodies and exploring their sexuality. They spent most of their time going out with friends and talking to boys.
But I skipped all that because I was focused on my mom.
Hell, it wasn’t until I was eighteen that I learned how to give myself an orgasm, and I can count the number of times I’ve really enjoyed it on the fingers of one hand—as is obvious, I’m not an experienced lover, even with myself. Same goes for boyfriends. I’ve had two notable relationships in my life, and the second one ended when I was nineteen and had to drop out of college because my mother’s Alzheimer’s had progressed to a point of me needing to be at home with her.
And now here I am, a single, introverted, twenty-five-year-old virgin with no college degree, a boatload of debt, and a job as a sex worker. Don’t forget that you’re also currently involved in a murder investigation.
I sigh out loud, and my current caller notices.
“You okay, Ruby?”
“Uh-huh,” I answer, clearing my throat and trying to quickly regain my composure. “I’m just sitting here . . . thinking about you and your . . .” I glance down at my notes. “Hard sausage.”
“Of course you are,” Harvey says, his voice husky in a way that lets me know he probably has his hand on said sausage. “Ruby, I want to feel your big, soft breasts. I want to lick and suck on your nipples.”
“Have at it, Harvey. Feast on my tatas,” I offer in reply, picking at something under my fingernail until I get it out.
“God, I love big tits,” he groans. “But just your big tits, Ruby. I only want yours.”
I only want yours? The possessive nature of his words has me sitting up straighter in my chair and sliding to the edge of my seat.
“You only want mine?”
“Only yours,” he rasps, and I don’t like how easily and quickly that confirmation leaves his lips.
Talk about suspicious . . .
“You like my tits that much, Harvey?”
“Oh yeah, baby. I fucking love them.” My eyes narrow at the roughening of his voice. “I don’t want anyone but you, Ruby. Only you.”
Only me? I blink several times. What if Harvey is the guy? The one who killed Heather, the girl who was taking the calls on the Ruby line before me?
Holy fucking shit.
Ever since Detective Dunn and Detective Maddox told me about Heather and their active murder investigation and why they need to listen in on my calls, I’ve felt wary of every single caller.
And Harvey’s possessiveness has certainly struck a nerve.