Call Me Cat (Call Me Cat Trilogy #1)(4)

Clearing my throat to buy time, I tried to process what she was saying. "You want me to have phone sex with strangers for money?"

"We want you to perform a role for them. It's not real, and it's completely legal. You can work from home, set your own hours and choose the topics you are comfortable role-playing. You never have to take a call you don't want to, but I will say that the girls who get… adventurous… make the most money."

I shuddered to think what 'adventurous' would entail in this industry. "Um, this isn't at all what I was expecting. Can I think about it and call you back?"

"Of course. Why don't I email you our company policy and some sample scripts, and you can let me know what you think when you've had a chance to read through everything?"

I thanked her, took down her number on the notepad next to me, gave her my email and hung up, wondering how my life had gotten to the point that I was actually considering this job. Of course I couldn't do it. It might not be illegal, but it was immoral, unethical and honestly kind of disgusting. I couldn't imagine making some stranger on the other line jack off to fantasies of me doing whatever he wanted. It felt… violating.

Pushing thoughts of jobs and money aside, I walked to my bedroom, dropped all my books on my desk and slipped into sweatpants and a t-shirt. The apartment seemed quieter than usual, even with Violet the Violent gone for the evening. I went back into the living room and realized what was off.

Some of my paintings were missing from the wall. What the f*ck?

I rushed into Violet's room and her scraggly cat Crackhead hissed at me and ran out, probably to scratch up my chair again. She'd cleared out everything but her dresser and the shabby mattress she did God-knew-what on. "Son of a bitch."

I dialed her number as I stormed back into the living and got a disconnected message. Then I dialed Bridgette's number again, and she answered.

"Motherf*cking—pieceof—shit—assery!" I screamed into the phone, swatting Crackhead away from my chair.

"Whoa, babe, what's going on?"

"So many things, but the latest? Vi's gone. She stole my shit, cleared out, and didn't pay this month's rent. She promised to get it to me today. I am so royally f*cked, Brig."

"Oh God, I'm so sorry. I can loan you some money, but not a lot. You know my parents don't give me much cash, they just pay my bills. What are you going to do?"

I sank to the floor, anger turning to despair as I hiccupped back a sob. "I don't know. Was I like a mass murderer of puppies and children in my last life, Brig? I must have been, otherwise why the f*ck does life keep punching me in the face?"

"You're a good person. The best I know. Something will change for you, I know it will. Just stay open to the possibilities."

I looked at the notepad lying on the table next to my chair. "Stay open to the possibilities, huh?" But what if those possibilities make me feel like a prostitute? What if those possibilities scare me?





Chapter Three


Sex Sells


THAT WEEKEND, BRIDGETTE came over for our study date and we stuffed ourselves with pizza while pursuing the wanted ads for job possibilities.

She shoved the paper in my face, a red circle around one listing. I took it and read. "Dog walker needed for our three babies. Must be good with animals and be available three times a day." I dropped the newspaper. "Dogs hate me. Besides, walking three mutts isn't going to pay the bills or tuition."

Her shoulders drooped. "This is so boring. There's nothing here that would work with your classes. All the halfway-decent jobs are nine to five."

We gave up for the night and popped in our favorite romcom,eating popcorn and drinking red wine while I pretended I wasn't about to be homeless and kicked out of school.

In a rare show of affection,probably because I actually fed him, Crackhead curled up on my lap and purred. I couldn't even afford to feed myself, but with Vi gone, I couldn't let the critter starve. And, if I was being honest, I liked the company.

On Monday, in between classes, I grabbed a cup of much-needed coffee from Lucky, who ran a coffee kiosk in Harvard Square.

"Hi, Catelyn. The regular?"

I nodded and pulled out my wallet but he waved my money aside. "You know I can't charge you. You always brighten the place around here."

Lucky stood out at Harvard like an Ivy League CEO would stand out in prison. In his mid-thirties, he looked a good ten years older, with a weathered face that had been through a lot of hard life. His dark curly hair always looked mussed and a bit oily, and he had an unconscious habit of rubbing his finger over his mustache when he was nervous or thinking.

I often heard the students talking crap about him, but he'd always been kind to me.

"Where you headed?" he asked, handing me a steaming cup of liquid deliciousness.

"I need to talk to Professor Cavin about getting more work as his assistant."

He handed me another cup of coffee. "You'll need this then."

"Thanks, Lucky. Have a great day."

Professor George Cavin kept regular office hours, according to the sign on his door. Actually catching him during those hours was a different matter entirely. Today I got lucky; he was just about to lock up his office when I arrived.

"Catelyn, what can I do for you?" White tufts of hair flopped over his spectacles—which is what he called his glasses because he thought that sounded more scholarly. He didn't have as many wrinkles on his face as you'd expect of a man his age, but when he smiled his laugh lines became more prominent, making him look like a wizened wizard who lost his magic staff.