Page 11 of Hotline
He’s not going to speak first. He has the luxury of simply leaving if this conversation doesn’t go his way. I don’t. I’m a captive audience. He has all the power.
“No,” I finally say, hanging my head in shame. "I don’t like working here. It sucks.”
“I have an alternative,” he says, “one that will involve you never coming back here ever again.”
I swallow thickly and raise my head.
Is this the part where he says he wants to buy my virginity? Was Marilyn right? And is it wrong that I want to stick around and find out?
"Ten thousand dollars a week," he says.
The world seems to tip on its edge. I swallow around the lump in my throat, my mouth going dry. My brain feels like it’s floated to another plane of existence.
“I’m sorry?”
"Ten thousand dollars a week," he says, his voice a low, powerful rasp. "For exclusive access to you. No other callers."
I swallow hard, trying to maintain my composure even as my pulse hammers in my throat.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“I want you to work for me from now on,” he says, his voice dropping to a sexy rasp. “That means no other men. You answer the phone for no one but me. I am the only man you speak to. And you are never, ever going to come back to this place again.”
Surely, this man must have me mixed up with someone else. He isn’t looking for me. He must be looking for someone named Diamond or Ruby.
I huff out a nervous little laugh.
“That’s not really how this works,” I say. With shaky fingers, I grab a business card from the boss’s desk. “Call this number. You can talk to anyone you wish."
“No,” he rasps. “I only want you.”
Whoa. This guy is either totally insane, or I’ve just stumbled into a fantasy I didn't know I had.
I shift in my seat. His eyes travel over every inch of my flushed skin, making me imagine all sorts of things I might say to him.
Imagining all of the things he might say to me.
But there must be a catch. Something to induce this man into plucking me from this place and making me his own personal chat partner.
There’s something I’m not seeing.
Maybe he’s looking for something…more.
Men like him — powerful, wealthy, devastatingly hot — they always want something more.
"Whatexactlywould I have to do?" I ask, hating how shaky my voice sounds.
His gaze drops to my lips for a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes.
"Talk to me. That's all. When I call, you answer."
"That's all? Just... talk?"
“Yes."
The word hangs in the air between us.
“No more of this call center bullshit. I’m serious about this.”
