But boy, I’m sure talking to people now.
“I like soft female curves,” Harvey says into my ear. “How curvy are you, Ruby?”
“Sooocurvy. If you look upcurvesin 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 wantmine?”
“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 istheguy? 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.
“You fucking love my tits, Harvey?” I ask, and he responds without hesitation, his voice getting rougher and deeper with each word he speaks.
“Love them, Ruby.”
My hackles rise and my nerves feel frayed at the edges as I home in on Harvey. This piece of shit is sitting here talking to me like he didn’tkill an innocent girl, even though he could betheguy. The murderer. The one who killed Heather.
Anger starts to seep into my veins.
“Like, how much do you like my tits, Harvey?” I ask, my voice grating a little. “Would you cut them off and wear them?”
“Excuse me?”
Oh, sure. Act clueless, you sicko.
