Call On Me

However, once they were in the kitchen, Oakley turned to him and asked him what he wanted to drink, and that voice hit him again right where it counted. That tone, dropping half an octave, and pressed close to the phone? It could probably make a guy hard before a dirty word was ever spoken. It’d be lethal.

He liked Oakley a lot already but had accepted yesterday during dinner that he was too far from her type to get anywhere. She wasn’t looking to sow some bad-boy oats. She’d moved beyond that phase of life. But if the lovely Ms. Easton wasn’t as buttoned-up and conservative as she was portraying, if she was up to some naughty, secretive business behind closed doors, that put a whole new shine on things. Because nothing was hotter to him than a woman who had her shit together during the day but who could also let loose and play dirty at night.

Maybe that had been part of what had gotten him in trouble with his teacher. She’d been strict in the classroom, so put together. But one day he’d walked up on her in between classes. She’d been bending over to get something on the floor and had stumbled, giving him the glorious sight of her lacy red thong before she could right herself. After that, he’d lost hours in that class imagining what she was like outside of school, picturing what happened when she took the pins out of her hair and stripped off that stern expression. And one day when he’d run into her in town on a weekend, he’d found out.

But that had been his young infatuation and a raging libido at work there. He’d been dumb and eager. She’d been lonely and recovering from an abusive relationship. Looking back, he’d been the epitome of non-threatening, which is why she’d probably crossed lines that should’ve never been crossed. He hadn’t known what to do with that kind of situation then.

But now the thought of discovering a woman who had that ability to play both sides of the line had his mouth watering. The girls he usually hooked up with wore their sexuality on the surface. One-dimensional. Like the one he’d kicked out the other night. Physically, she probably would’ve been game for whatever he suggested. But it often lost its punch when a girl was doing something simply to impress him—to win the I’m-the-hottest-girl game. To play the porn star to his rock star.

So much of it was pure bullshit.

But a woman who wanted to do things because it would make her feel good, because she craved it? Well, that’d be an altogether different rodeo.

“You look lost in thought over there,” Oakley said, sliding a glass of tea his way.

He took a long sip from the glass.

“Nickel for your thoughts?” Reagan said, mouth half full of pizza. “And if you say them, Mom actually pays you a nickel. I’ve got a big jar of them. I have lots of thoughts.”

He nearly choked on his drink. His thoughts were so not kid-friendly, and he had a feeling it was showing on his face. He needed to pull it together. Here he was sitting in a kitchen with Oakley and her daughter in the middle of suburbia eating pizza and spinning some bent fantasy that the woman in the Disney shirt was secretly a phone-sex operator. He was an idiot. “I was thinking you should tell me what kind of music you like.”

Reagan’s face brightened like this was her favorite topic in the world. “Have you ever heard of punk rock?”

He laughed. “A time or two.”

Oakley slid onto a stool and grabbed a slice of cheese pizza. “Reagan is very into the eighties.”

“Is that right?” he asked, directing the question to Reagan. “How’d that happen?”

“Because Mom’s a whore.”

“Reagan!” Oakley said.

Pike spit out his drink.

Reagan’s eyes went wide as she looked between the two of them. “What’s wrong?”

Oakley looked like she’d swallowed a porcupine but managed to lower her voice, replacing it with a terse but calm one. “Where’d you learn that word? That’s not a nice word.”

“Whore?” she asked, all innocence and doe eyes. “On TV. How is it bad? It just means you like to keep a lot of stuff. That’s how I found all those records and magazines from the eighties.”

Pike bit his lips together, trying not to laugh as Oakley pressed her fingers between her eyes and rubbed. “It’s hoarder, baby. Hoarder. That’s the correct word. The other one means something different.”

Reagan seemed undeterred. “What does the other one mean then?”

“It’s an ugly word. We’ll talk about it another day. Finish your pizza. You need to be in the bathtub in fifteen minutes.”

Reagan didn’t look as if she wanted to let it go. But after a few seconds she rolled her eyes, muttering a “whatever,” and went back to her meal.

Pike had grabbed a paper towel and was dabbing at the spray of tea he’d sent flying. He cut Oakley an amused look.

She shook her head in kill-me-now chagrin, but the humor in her eyes warmed him right to his toes. Vixen or not, this woman was beautiful.

She pointed a finger his way. “Not a word from you.”

He raised his hands. “I didn’t say a thing.”

But boy was he thinking them.

Many, many things.

SEVEN

After tucking Reagan in for the night, Oakley plopped down on the couch, settling against the side farthest from Pike. Like that would help. The guy had a gravitational field like a black hole. She could feel the force of it dragging her toward him, threatening to consume her completely if she let her guard down for one second. “All right, she’s zonked out. We’re good to go until ten as long as we keep our voices down.”

“Then you turn into a pumpkin?” he asked, looking up from the legal pad he had in his lap.

“Got to get my beauty rest.”

“Yes.” He nodded gravely. “Very important for a whore.”

She grabbed a throw pillow and tossed it at him. “Hey, only eleven-year-old kids are allowed to call me that.”

And almost every single caller every freaking night. She’d nearly died when the word had rolled off Reagan’s lips. For one panicked moment, she’d thought Reagan had somehow broken through all of Oakley’s safety measures and had discovered what Mom did at night.

“She seems like a sweet kid,” Pike said, glancing in the direction of the stairs. “And surprisingly knowledgeable about bands that existed decades before she was born. Good taste, though.”

Oakley tucked a leg beneath her. “That’s her thing. When she finds something she likes, she obsesses about a subject and wants to know everything about it. Wants to live and breathe it.”

“Nothing wrong with passion. I was a lot like that when I started getting into music. Though, I was a little older than her when I got to the obsessive phase.”

Oakley smiled. “I love that she’s passionate and smart. But it doesn’t win her many favors socially. She struggles with the group stuff, so I’m hoping this project will be good for her. At her school, she’s in really small classrooms with specialized attention. Bluebonnet’s where she gets a dose of the real world.”

“What school does she go to?”

“The Bridgerton Academy.”

“Whoa. That’s the fancy one downtown with all the ivy on the fences, right?”

“Yeah. She has a partial scholarship. It’s still crazy expensive, but it’s the best thing that ever happened for Reagan. She has some extra needs, and she’s made so much progress since I moved her there. She’s finding her confidence.”

“That’s awesome.” He shifted on the couch to fully face her. “So ready to get this stuff done or do you want to sing for me first?”

She grabbed her cup of coffee and lifted it in a toast. “Work comes first. This caffeine’s only going to last so long.”

“I see how it is. You’re into making a guy wait.”

She smiled sweetly. “Endlessly.”

He narrowed his eyes at her and stretched his arm across the back of the couch. “Sadist, huh? I can work with that.”

“You’re flirting again.”

“So are you.”

“Am definitely not.” She totally had been. It was like a goddamned reflex around him. “Talk to me about rehearsal schedules.”

“Slave driver.”

They worked for a little over an hour, Pike talking fast and her jotting down as many of their half-formed ideas as she could manage. Once Pike got started, his brain seemed to work faster than his mouth. Full-on creative mode. The energy rolling off him infected her, too, getting her heart beating quicker than the coffee ever could. This was the part she missed about the industry she used to be in.

She didn’t miss the bullshit, the business, or the backstabbing, but she missed being around artistic people who ran on the fuel of their ideas and passions. She missed being in that flow with others and creating art. Music.

“Maybe we could see how expensive it’d be to get the rights to record some cover songs. If we tell them it’s for charity, we might be able to get permission,” Pike said, almost talking to himself. “Or maybe the kids want to do all originals. I guess that depends on how strong the originals are. We’d need at least one anchor song that has solid hit potential. Something people can really sing along to. And we could do a YouTube video with the kids—something fun. Morning shows will eat that up. And how many kids are in the program, not just in the music one, but all of it? A choir of kids in the background of a song can sound killer. You know, like the kids in John Lennon’s ‘Happy Xmas’ or even like the crowd singing in 30 Seconds to Mars songs. It makes it anthemic. Or—”

“Whoa, slow down, speed demon,” she said, raising a hand and forcing Pike to take a breath. “You’re spinning ideas faster than I can write. I should grab my laptop.”

He nodded. “Yeah, do that. We can share notes better that way anyhow.”

She went into her room and unhooked her laptop from the docking station, double and triple checking that the window for the call service was closed, and then brought it into the living room.

Pike continued bouncing ideas with her, and the clicking keyboard filled the spaces between sentences. But she was watching the clock closely. When it hit 9:50, she set the laptop aside and stretched her arms above her head. “I think we’ve gotten more than enough done for tonight. Next week, we can look at the songs they have already first, and you can see what direction we need to go.”

Pike pulled his phone from his pocket. “Is it that late already?”

“’Fraid so.”

“Damn. Well, guess it’s time for you to sing for me.”

She shifted on the couch cushion. No way was she singing that song in front of him. It’d be like standing in front of him naked. “It’s too late. Maybe next time.”

“Come on, I’m sure you can stay up a little past your bedtime? It’s just one song.”

His tone was gentle, cajoling. Part of her really wanted to give in to him. But that was the same part that also wanted to crawl across the couch and run her hands up his T-shirt while she discovered what his mouth tasted like. She knew not to listen to that part. “I really can’t. I have some other stuff to do before bed.”

He frowned, considering her. “The same stuff that made you run out of the restaurant last night?”

Her heart ticked up a beat.

“You know how I said I have a thing about honesty?” he asked, setting aside his pad and pen.

The question caught her off guard. She swallowed past the tightness seizing her vocal cords. “Yeah.”

“Well, I have a little confession to make. Last night when you left the table, I accidentally answered your phone.”

Her stomach dropped right through the floor. Boom. Crash. Catastrophe. “You what?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “It was a complete accident, and I’m really sorry. We have the same ring and I wasn’t looking. I just grabbed it. A guy asked for Sasha.”

Her pizza was going to make a reappearance. She could feel it burning the back of her throat. “So a wrong number.”

“Was it?”

She’d gone clammy all over, like all the interrogation lights in the world had just turned onto her, glaring in her face. “Well, that’s not my name, so yeah.”

Pike blew out a breath and rubbed his palms on his jeans. “Okay. I just wanted to let you know that it happened. I’m not into secrets.”

“I—I appreciate you telling me,” she said, her words coming out as nervous as she felt.

He stood and she followed suit. But instead of turning toward the door, he stepped over to her, standing far closer than any two co-workers had any business doing. He put a knuckle under her chin to guide her face up to his. “Also, I’m not into judging. Or telling other people’s secrets.”

His eyes were going to be the death of her—those long, dark lashes framing eyes that changed color with his moods. Right now they were golden brown, penetrating. But she couldn’t give him the honesty he wanted. She gave him a tight smile, ignoring her twisting insides. “Good to know.”

After a long few seconds, where he held her solely with the power of that searching, steady gaze, he stepped back and grabbed his keys from the coffee table. “I left a name and number on the kitchen counter. You call that guy and tell him I sent you. My band’s playing a big festival in Fort Worth next Saturday and he’ll get you tickets. You and Reagan should come. I think she’d like it—even if my band’s a little more hard rock than punk.”

Oakley opened her mouth to protest, but he was already at the door.

He turned back to look at her, as if he wanted to say something else, then his gaze flicked to the coffee table where her phone sat. He put his back to her again. “G’night, Oakley. Don’t stay up too late.”

When the door closed, she sank back onto the couch, head in her hands. It would be so easy to call him back in. So. Easy. She could tell him about her secret job, unload that burden. She doubted Pike would care. It’s not like he wanted to date her. He wanted to sleep with her. Who cared what she did for a living?

He could be in her bed tonight and sneak out by morning before Reagan woke up.

But then what? Awkwardness and hurt feelings, probably. She’d learned early on that she sucked at casual. Maybe it was her conservative upbringing, but she had trouble separating out feelings from sex. She didn’t have a ton of experience, but when she let someone inside her body, it left a mark.

She didn’t need any more marks. Especially ones meted out by fly-by-night musicians who bedded women for sport.

Her life was complicated enough.

So what if her libido had decided to make an appearance after a long hiatus? That didn’t mean she had to appease it with the nearest willing heartbreaker. She didn’t need some guy to fix it.

Tomorrow, she’d take a trip to one of those stores with the suggestive names and tinted windows. She’d handle this herself.

But for now, she had other people’s libidos to satisfy.

Her phone was ringing before she shut her bedroom door.

“Hello, this is Sasha …”

EIGHT

By quarter to one, Oakley was running on fumes. She’d taken seven calls tonight and the last had been a guy who’d wanted her to humiliate him pretty much non-stop. She’d had to pull out all her reserves to find creative enough insults because he’d complained that other women he’d called only said things like “You’re such a naughty boy.” He needed more than that. He wanted to be verbally assaulted. That took energy.

She let her head sag onto her pillow, her headset like a weight pressing down on her brain, and waved the white flag. She’d planned to work until one but she didn’t have it in her tonight.

After yawning loudly, she sat up and reached for her laptop to sign out of her shift. But before she could hit the button, the phone rang.

“Son of a bitch.” Once a call was in her queue, she had to take it.

She clicked the Sign Out icon on her laptop so she wouldn’t get another call after this one and slammed her laptop shut, then she sank back onto the pillows and hit the button on her headset to answer the call.

“Hello, this is Sasha. Ready for a fantasy night?”

God, she hated that cheesy scripted intro the service required. It made her teeth grind.

The caller cleared his throat on the other end.

Great. A breather. “Hello?”

“I’m here.” The voice was quiet, still.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to put some effort into it. “Well, hi there, handsome. How you doing tonight?”

A few seconds passed, and she thought maybe the call had dropped, but then he spoke. “You sound sleepy. Are you in bed?”

“I am. All alone. How about you? You want some company?”

“I want you.”

The words were ones she’d heard a thousand times before, but for some reason these sent a bloom of heat through her. Her body prickled with awareness. Huh. Weird. “Well, I’m right here for whatever you want.”

“I just got what I wanted.”

She frowned. “And what’s that?”

“To hear your voice one more time tonight.”

Her eyelids blinked open. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name, have we already talked?”

The sound of sheets rustling filled the phone as he apparently shifted in bed. “Yes. And I’m still waiting for you to sing to me.”

Her heart jumped into her throat, time slowing around her and alarm bells blaring in her head. She grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand and flipped it over. A name she’d programmed into it only tonight showed on the screen.

Pike Ryland.

She hadn’t checked the phone before she’d hit the button on the headset. She’d been so tired she’d forgotten to look. Who the hell called after midnight? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Her hands trembled, adrenaline chasing her panic. “You must have the wrong number, sir.”

“You know I don’t,” he said, his voice slipping into his normal tone now that he knew she’d figured out who it was.

“I’m sorry, I have to—”

“Oakley, take a breath. It’s okay,” he said, his words gentle. “I’d already pretty much figured it out. It’s why I thought I could get away with calling you so late. I knew you’d be up.”

She pressed a hand to her forehead. “Pike, I—We—No one can know I—”

“Shh, hey, calm down. I told you tonight I’m not into telling other people’s secrets.”

“This is—No one knows this, Pike. No one can know.” She closed her eyes. “God, this is mortifying. You must think—”

“That it’s incredibly hot? That the woman who I thought probably said fudge instead of fuck actually has the ability to talk dirty enough to get paid for it? Yeah, that’s exactly what I think.”

She groaned, tapping the back of her head against her pillow. “Of course that’s what you’d think, isn’t it? Guys are so ready to buy into the fantasy. You probably think I’m dressed in a silk nightie and have come seven times for my seven callers tonight.”

He laughed. “Oh, no. We allow ourselves the illusion, but most of us know that we’re probably talking to a Chris Farley lookalike who’s watching infomercials on mute while she talks to us about how bad she wants us to give it to her.”

“Sounds like you have some experience.”

“Totally. Fourteen-year-old Pike was a big contributor to the Dial-A-Girl industry.”

“Oh, God. Don’t say that. I need to have my own illusions that the measures they have in place to keep kids from calling me actually work.”

“Sorry. You’d probably be able to tell. They’d just want to talk about feeling up your boobs.”

“Ha. Welcome to half my callers.”

“Really?”

“No. That’d be too easy. Most require more effort than that.”

He got quiet for a second. “So do you get into it? I mean, it’s got to feel kind of powerful knowing you’re turning someone on.”

She blew out a breath. “We’re so not going to talk about this.”

“Aw, come on. I want to know.”

“No, Pike. I do it for the cash. My position at Bluebonnet is great and I’m hoping for a promotion, but I could never afford Reagan’s schooling on a receptionist salary alone. I do this because it’s good money that I can earn from home. It doesn’t turn me on. If anything, it numbs me. Makes me immune to things most people would find sexy.”

“Well, that would explain how you’ve so easily resisted my undeniable charms. But sexually immune? No fucking way.”

“Believe what you want.”

He sniffed. “I saw how you looked at me in the restaurant, Oakley. That look did not come from a woman who’s numb.”

“That look is called shock. I thought I heard something I didn’t. And seriously, how do you and your ego fit in the same room?”

“We work it out. And that was more than shock. You wanted me.”

“Whatever.” Great. Now she was sounding like the kids she worked with.

“Close your eyes, Oakley.”

“What? Why?”

“Humor me.”

“We’re not going there, Pike. I was not issuing a challenge.”

“Come on, close them. What can it hurt? I’m all the way across town. You’re safe from me.”

Lie. Lie. Lie. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t help it.

“Are you still wearing what you were earlier?” he asked.

“Oh my God. Seriously? The what are you wearing question? You could at least—”

“Tell me.”

“Ugh. The shirt but not the pants. Super hot.”

He made some sort of pleased sound on the other end. “Good. That’s exactly how I’m picturing you now.”

“Fantastic.”

“And though you didn’t ask, I’m wearing nothing. Just my sheets. I like the way they feel against my skin.”

She rolled onto her side and pressed her face into her pillow. Shit on a stick. Pike was naked. This was a stupid, stupid idea. She needed to hang up. She adjusted her headset. “You are making crap up right now. I know this game way better than you.”

“Don’t taunt me, mama. I’m not above sending you a dick pic.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Play nice then. Now, where were we?” he said, in a sleep-soft, sexy voice—all cool sheets and hot skin and long nights. “Right, you on your bed in just a thin T-shirt and panties. I bet you’ve taken your bra off, too.”

She had, but she wasn’t going to confirm it for him.

“Mmm, I can imagine that shirt is pretty see-through with nothing else beneath it. I wish I was there to brush my fingers over the front of your shirt, see your nipples rise against the cotton so I could put my mouth on them.”

“Are you charging me by the minute?” She kept her voice even, but her hand had drifted to her breast. She drew her fingertips over her nipple, casually at first, then with more purpose, sending a hot bolt of sensation down through her belly. Her toes curled.

God, what was she doing? She went through this scenario all the time with callers and never once had the urge to actually participate.

“First call’s free.” She heard the glide of sheets again. “Especially since I’m going to enjoy this, too.”

She clamped her lips together. She would not ask him if he was touching himself. Would. Not. Ask. And she would not picture what he might look like laid out naked, thighs spread, cock in hand.

She shuddered and the spot between her thighs pulsed with awareness. “I’m going to hang up now.”

“Don’t. You don’t have to pretend to hate this. I told you I’m honest. Do me that courtesy, too. This is a no-risk proposition. We don’t even have to talk about it face to face. Work is work. Fine. This—this is just a no-pressure, late-night anonymous phone call. Give yourself a break, mama. Indulge a little.”

She let out a long breath, the weight of her limbs pressing into the bed. It’d been so long since her body had tingled and ached, so long since she’d fantasized about a man. The offer was so damn tempting.

“I’m hard for you, Oakley.”

Well, hell. That fucking did it. How was she supposed to stay cool after that? Hard. It was such a filthy word when he said it. She licked her lips, tried to find her voice. “Is that right?”

“Have been since you answered the phone. Your voice does it for me. I keep hearing your song in my head and picturing you in nothing but a T-shirt. If I were there, I’d peel it off of you and tie your hands with it so I could taste your skin and feel you against my tongue, watch your green eyes go black with want.”