the more dramatic the better—otherwise she’d ultimately starve and, much to the detriment of her heavily padded thighs, she liked food entirely too much to go hungry.
Since she’d been paying off student loans and attending night school to get her master’s degree, Rowan had been caught with a grand total of $633 in savings, even less in checking and nothing—aside from a 1962 Chevrolet Corvette that had belonged to her father, and for which she would prostitute herself in the literal sense to keep if need be—of any value to sell.
She did substitute teaching when she could, but that income hadn’t been enough, or even dependable, for that matter. Then she’d read an article about a woman who, in similar circumstances, had morphed herself into a phone sex entrepreneur, and the rest had been history. She’d weighed the advantages and disadvantages, deemed it a good temporary choice, then installed her line and invested in a good mobile headset.
This freed up her hands and allowed her to do the things that she really loved—gardening, stained glass and metal-working. Tinkering, according to her father. Her shoulders sagged with disappointment. Initially, she’d tried to make ends meet by selling her garden art, but unfortunately—and this thoroughly baffled her—no one seemed to get her style. Rowan cast a glance around her eclectic garden—whimsical metalwork, stained-glass whirligigs, antique roses, bulbs and vines—and swallowed a despondent sigh. Screw ’em, she thought, the tasteless traditional cads. She was an artiste. Her garden thrived and made her happy, which when one really thought about it, was all that mattered anyway.
A stuttered breath hissed across the line, cut through her musings. “Wh—what about your panties? What do they look like?”
Rowan glanced at her watch. She’d had this guy on the phone for eight minutes. Time to finish up. She had some impatiens to transplant, and her roses were looking a little droopy.
“I don’t wear panties,” she lied breathlessly. “They…constrict.”
Predictably, the line worked. A garbled groan and the telltale whine of a zipper echoed into her ear.
She lowered her voice. “Can I tell you a secret, Jeff?” she asked, purposely using his name. It played into the whole say-my-name, who’s-your-daddy mentality. Sheesh. Men were pathetically predictable.
“S-sure.”
“Sometimes…when I’m alone…I like to touch myself.” She barely suppressed a snigger. Rowan Crosswhite, former high-school science teacher turned kinky phone sex queen.
Another broken hiss sounded. “Are you— Are you touching yourself now?”
“Oh, I want to, Jeff. Do you want me to?”
“Oh, God, yes.”
“Then I should probably lie down.” Rowan affected a dramatic wince. “My sheets are cool…especially since I’m so hot.” That wasn’t a complete lie. It was hot. And humid, she thought pulling her tank top away from her chest, a vain effort to circulate a little air beneath her shirt.
A harsh breath stuttered across the line. “How hot are you?”
“I’m on fire, Jeff. I’m imagining that you’re touching me. Can I touch you?”
“Yes.”
Thirty seconds later it was over. She was thirty-six dollars richer and her sheets were still clean. Honestly, if a woman was going to use her body for profit, phone sex was definitely the way to go. In all seriousness, Rowan knew there were some people who would criticize her choice of temporary employment, but she’d used her own morality meter when making the decision. As far as she was concerned, she was providing a harmless form of entertainment. She simply played a part, catered to men’s fantasies from a comfortable distance. No harm, no foul. It was a practical business arrangement, one that benefited her, kept food in the fridge and the power on.
She waited until his breathing slowed before she spoke again. “I’ve enjoyed talking with you, Jeff. Call me again, anytime.”
Jeff exhaled a long, satisfied breath. “You can count on it.” He paused. “Hey, as long as you’re still there, do you mind if I ask you a quick question?”
“Sure. Go ahead.” This was common. Men frequently asked her for all kinds of advice. Everything from how to remove stains, to what brand of fabric softener did she prefer. She didn’t mind. It was their dime, after all. Cha-ching.
She’d even had a teenage boy call—she’d taught enough of them to recognize the pubescent squeaking croak—and, after she’d neatly avoided the sex issue, she’d ended up tutoring him in science. He’d contacted her several times during one week, then the calls had abruptly ceased. She’d been tempted to give him her home number, but Caller ID and cross-referencing had prevented the impulse. What she did on her own time wasn’t anyone’s business, but she didn’t think Middleton’s Mississippi Bible Belt board of education would agree. She’d fully expected a call from an outraged parent, but so far nothing had come of it, and she sincerely hoped nothing did.
“I’ve got a date tonight,” the caller said, “and I really want to impress this girl. What do you think? Burger King or McDonald’s?”
Rowan rolled her eyes. Her clients, the poor fools. No wonder they could never get laid in the traditional sense. “Wow her,” she told him flatly. “Head for the border.”
“Taco Bell?” A thoughtful hum, then, “An even better choice. Thanks.”
“No problem.” She chuckled under her breath and disconnected. Just in the nick of time, too, Rowan thought, as she watched her elderly neighbor, Ida Holcomb, amble unsteadily across her backyard toward Rowan’s fence.
Rowan rented the small guest house, which was located at the rear of Ida’s property, from the older lady. The white frame house was small, but two-storied with full, sweeping porches on both levels. It was the mini-version of Ida’s grand antebellum home and, for what it lacked in modern convenience, it more than made up for in character.
There was only one plug-in in the bathroom, and the pipes invariably froze in the winter, but the ten-foot ceilings lent an airy mood to the house, and the crown molding, fireplace, and hardwood floors had been handcrafted with a quality of workmanship which couldn’t be duplicated much less found in today’s power-tool, particle-board world. The small greenhouse, workshop and attached garden had made it the perfect choice for Rowan.
When Rowan lost her job, Ida had sacrificed part of the rent in exchange for errands and personal services. Rowan did Ida’s grocery shopping, took her to and from the hairdresser’s, paid her bills and whatnot. She plucked her eyebrows—not that there were that many left because Ida had been part of a generation where having no eyebrows was fashionable—and stoically—miserably—rendered the occasional pedicure. Her gaze involuntarily moved to Ida’s slowly-approaching slippered feet and she quelled a shudder. In Rowan’s opinion, there was nothing remotely attractive about feet, and there was something downright yuck about knobby, gnarled old-people feet.
Ick.
For all of that, however, she’d nonetheless grown very fond of her neighbor. Her grandparents had passed away when she was small, and her parents had decided to make the most of their retirement by seeing how many stamps they could add to their passports before they grew too old and feeble to globetrot. They were part of the new generation of fashionable retirees. They’d visited the Pyramids of Giza, the Great Wall of China
