Hotline

Riptide Publishing

PO Box 1537

Burnsville, NC 28714

www.riptidepublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.

Hotline

Copyright © 2016 by Quinn Anderson

Cover art: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

Editors: Rachel Haimowitz, Kate De Groot

Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at [email protected].

ISBN: 978-1-62649-485-5

First edition

October, 2016

Also available in paperback:

ISBN: 978-1-62649-486-2

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Zack never intended to become a phone sex operator, but with half a college degree and a smart mouth, his options were limited. It helps that he has a knack for thinking on his feet and a willingness to roll with whatever his clients throw at him. Sure, he gets his fair share of creeps and unconventional requests, but it pays the bills, and he’s in no danger of breaking his one rule: never fall for a client.

Until a man named “John” starts calling, and Zack finds himself interested in more than a paycheck. It’s not just that John has money, or that his rumbling baritone drives Zack wild. He’s everything Zack isn’t: educated, poised, and in total control of his life.

A twist of fate brings them face-to-face, and now that they’ve seen each other—and spent an unforgettable night together—they can’t go back to the way things were. A sex worker and a trust fund brat . . . It’s like Romeo and Juliet, but with less stabbing and slightly fewer dick jokes. Hopefully they can pull off a more successful ending.

To Violet Wylde, for the warmth and constancy of your friendship.

About Hotline

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Dear Reader

Also by Quinn Anderson

About the Author

More like this

“Oh, yes,” Zack moaned, “keep touching yourself just like that. You make me so hot.”

He heard an answering grunt, but it seemed his client was too far gone to form actual words. He glanced at the clock at the corner of his desk. Eleven minutes and counting. He’d had this one on the phone for longer than most, but he needed to keep him there if he wanted to make any real money. He could hear the wet sound of lube and a hand moving over flesh. Zack’s cock twitched enviously, but he ignored it. He was working, after all.

“I love the noises you make,” he purred. “You sound so sexy and desperate. What would you do to me if I were there right now? Would you fuck me until I couldn’t stand?”

His client whimpered, and Zack bit back a curse. Shit. He’d been in the biz long enough to recognize that sound. His client was about to come, and there was little Zack could do to stop him. He briefly flirted with the idea of saying something to kill the mood. So, are you and your parents close? Were you bullied in high school? I’ve had this weird rash on my thigh for like a month now . . .

Tempting as it was, he discarded the idea. Not only would the client never call him again, but he’d probably hang up on him too. He mentally sighed and started drawing random symbols on the surface of his desk with an index finger. After a few more well-timed moans and an “Oh, fuck yes, baby,” he heard a startled groan, followed by heavy breathing. A second later, the line went dead.

“Another one comes and goes.” Zack huffed as he placed the phone back in its cradle. Part of him resented the fact that his clients seldom bothered to say good-bye. He understood why, though. If those extra five seconds caused the minute to roll over, they’d have to pay another $1.99. Good-byes just weren’t economical.

Zack turned to the ancient computer that took up the left half of his desk and squinted at the dim screen. The tracking system logged his calls incorrectly more often than not, and their commission rate wasn’t the best. Even working full-time, he couldn’t be blasé about losing a single minute. Everything seemed to be correct, however, so he typed his initials in the appropriate box and hit Enter.

Zack checked his clock again. It was a quarter past two in the morning, which meant he could go home soon. Not so soon that he couldn’t justify taking a quick break, however. None of his phone lines were blinking, and Colette hadn’t dropped off a new Murmur. No one would notice if he slipped away for a few minutes.

Zack stood up and stretched his arms above his head, rising onto the toes of his red Converse sneakers. His joints popped pleasantly, and the hem of his shirt rode up over his flat stomach. One of the major selling points of becoming a phone sex operator was the dress code, or lack thereof. Since his clients couldn’t see him, it didn’t matter if he showed up in street clothes. His boss certainly didn’t care, so long as he made money. It was Casual Friday all week long.

Zack poked his head out of his cubicle and surveyed the room. More cubicles and desks dotted the open space, but the similarities to a normal office ended there. Murmur Inc. was located in a disused recording studio. An assortment of old mixing consoles, audio workstations, and equalizers were piled haphazardly in the back. At night, the blue walls and olive carpet looked gray beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting. Zack preferred to work the afternoon-to-evening shift. When sunset rolled around, warm light flooded through the windows on the west side of the building, casting the office in gold and shadow. It created the perfect atmosphere for seduction.

Zack stepped out of his cubicle and glanced toward a desk that was two up and one over from his. To his immense pleasure, it was occupied. He strolled up to a woman with multiple facial piercings and shockingly purple hair that had been shaved on one side. She was perched on the edge of a desk identical to Zack’s, and seemed utterly absorbed in the task of filing her neon-green nails.

Zack waited for her to acknowledge him, but she just kept filing. Zack fought a smile and stepped closer. And closer. And closer, until their knees were nearly touching. The corner of her mouth twitched up, and Zack knew he’d won.

“So, Alexa—” he began, but she cut him off.

“Don’t even think about it, Zack.” Her deep voice was at odds with her petite frame. “I’ve given you enough already.”

Zack pressed his palms together in mock supplication. “Please? Pretty please? You know I left my pack at home. Plus, if you come with me, I’ll tell you about this freaky caller I had.”

“We all get freaky callers,” Alexa protested, but she tossed her nail file into the pencil holder on her desk and stood up. “Fine. I’ll do it, but only because you look especially hot today.”

Zack glanced down at himself. He was wearing his “working on my car” clothes: a black, fitted shirt and old jeans that sported several oil stains. He had to admit, he looked rugged. “Darling, I’ll wear this every day if it’ll make you happy.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Alexa opened the top drawer of her filing cabinet and extracted a pack of cigarettes. Zack was far from a regular smoker, but he indulged more often than he liked to admit. It was a combination of peer pressure—his coworkers all smoked—and the fact that he worked in the sex industry. Postcoital cigarettes were a fact of life at Murmur Inc.

Alexa gestured for him to follow and then weaved her way toward the exit. Zack fell into step behind her, keeping his eyes fixed on the back of her black hoodie. It was all he could do to block out the murmuring voices coming from the other cubicles. He was no prude—he couldn’t be in his line of work—but he had little desire to eavesdrop. The company Christmas party was already awkward enough.

Alexa reached the exit and shoved the metal doors open, revealing a darkened flight of stairs. Zack followed her down until they reached another door and then finally hit outside air. It was a clear, crisp autumn night, but Zack couldn’t see a single star. He’d been living in Los Angeles for over two decades, and he could only remember a handful of times that he’d really seen them. The city was a sprawling skeleton of concrete and metal. And, in his opinion, one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Living here meant inhaling exhaust fumes and ordering salads with dressing on the side in the same breath.

Alexa broke him from his thoughts by handing him a cigarette.

Zack took it eagerly. “Thank God. I was dying of boredom in there.”

“What a coincidence,” Alexa said in an amused tone. “I was dying for a nonsmoker to steal one of my cigarettes.”

Zack rolled his eyes. “I smoke plenty.” He held up the cigarette as proof.

“Yeah, when you’d rather wreck your lungs than be inside. That really says something about how much you love your job.”

Alexa pulled a bubblegum-pink lighter from the pocket of her hoodie and lit up. Then she tossed it to Zack. He lit his own cigarette and handed the lighter back before taking a puff. The nicotine hit his bloodstream in a rush and made him feel dizzy. He could never quite decide if he liked the sensation or not. It was like being suddenly drunk for no reason.

Alexa noticed his unsteadiness. “That proves it. Real smokers don’t still get dizzy from it. Not that I’m encouraging you.”

“All judgment and lung cancer aside, I can’t afford a regular habit.”

“Fair enough. So—” she exhaled a plume of smoke “—tell me about this alleged ‘freaky caller’ of yours.”

“Oh man, you’re never gonna believe this one,” Zack began, brushing his dark hair out of his eyes. “He wanted me to—”

The door to the building swung open, and a man Zack vaguely recognized stepped outside.

“Hey, Pete,” Alexa greeted him, folding her arms over her chest. She flicked ash from the tip of her cigarette in a way that somehow looked artful. “How’s your first week going?”

“It’s going,” Pete said as he lit a cigarette of his own and shuffled closer. He looked like he was in his early twenties, same as Zack, but where Zack was tall and muscular, Pete was all elbows and knees. He had clear blue eyes and a baby-soft complexion, however, which made Zack stare longer than was necessary.

“A newb, huh?” Zack asked. “Welcome to the glamorous phone sex industry.” He eyed Pete’s skin again and rubbed his own stubbly jaw. Maybe he should start waxing.

“Yeah, I just started Monday. I have to say, I had no idea what to expect, and after three days, I still don’t.”

“You never will,” Alexa said cheerfully. “Every day I walk into the office thinking I’ve heard it all, and every day I’m proven wrong.”

“Tell me about it,” Pete said, his eyes growing wide. He glanced over his shoulder and then leaned toward them. “Just now, I had a client who wanted me to take a phone into—”

“The bathroom,” Zack and Alexa finished simultaneously.

Pete looked startled and embarrassed. “Um, yeah. How’d you know?”

“That’s a pretty common request,” Alexa answered. “I don’t know why, but men love to listen to you pee.”

“Just wait until you get into the really colorful shit,” Zack said, slapping Pete on the back. He clipped a shoulder blade and winced. It was like hitting a shard of glass. “Did you and Colette set your boundaries?”

“Yeah,” Pete said. “It seemed sort of unnecessary. I mean, no one is really going to call in and ask for—”

“Yes, they will,” Alexa and Zack interrupted again.

“Trust us,” Alexa continued. “Those boundaries are there for your mental well-being. They only stop about half the callers, but you’ll be grateful that you don’t have to deal with that half. What did you pick?”

Pete shifted from foot to foot. “Um, incest, rape fantasies, underage, and sadism.”

“Not bad.” Zack cocked his head. “You might want to be more specific about sadism, though. You’d think that would cover a variety of kinks, but if you don’t list something by name, clients will assume it’s on the table. I’d specify knife and blood play to start. We get a lot of requests for those.”

“Since you’re dishing out advice anyway, there is one thing I wanted to ask about. I don’t mean to sound rude, but I was expecting the people who worked here to be . . .” He gestured vaguely.

“Young?” Alexa suggested.

“Hot?” Zack supplied.

“Uh, not exactly. I guess I’m surprised that most of the people here look like I’d see them at the grocery store with their kids. Why is everyone so . . . normal, I guess?”

“You don’t have to be a model to be a PSO. You just have to have the right voice,” Zack answered. “There’s one woman who works here who’s a grandmother, and she’s one of our most popular operators because she sounds like a giggly sorority girl. Though being hot certainly doesn’t hurt.” Zack winked.

Pete blushed and cleared his throat. “Fair enough. Out of curiosity, does anyone service women callers? I’m signed up exclusively for men, and all the people I’ve spoken to only take men as well.”

“Nope,” Zack responded. “The ladies are sadly excluded, and not just by our company either. Most hotlines won’t do women. Every now and then we’ll get a client who wants his wife or girlfriend to listen in, but otherwise this is an old boys’ club.” Zack held up an indignant finger. “As a feminist, I, for one, am outraged.”