Buying Thyme

  Copyright©TJ Hamilton 2013

  First published April 2013

  The right of TJ Hamilton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author. Only exception being when quoting directly from the book.

  Cover design: Buying Ham Productions

  ISBN 10: 1484145992

  ISBN 13: 9781484145999

  Buying Thyme,

  TJ Hamilton

  Fiction – Romance/Mystery

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and identities are the products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Only the locations are real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.

  Please note: The spelling in this book is Australian English

  The content of this book is graphic with strong sex scenes and language. It is for an adult audience only.

  AKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Firstly, I’d like to acknowledge my little Flicker cat. Thanks for being my little companion into the morning hours of writing. I never get tired of you lying all over my keyboard.

  To my darling husband, thank you for always believing in me. You are my heart. Always.

  My cousin and best friend, without your support and praise, this would never have happened. Thank you for being my lab-rat.

  My mum, who hopefully will never read this- Thanks for your constant words of encouragement.

  To my beautiful son who constantly tells me he loves me whenever he walks away… I love you too… Now put the book down! It’s not for you!

  And lastly, my precious daughter. Thank you for giving me plenty of pregnancy insomnia to get this done!

  For every working girl who was ever judged or misunderstood

  CHAPTER 1

  Here we go again Miranda… it’s show time! I close my eyes and inhale as much of the surrounding air as possible before pushing down on the ornate French door’s handle. Casually, I stroll into the white-marbled grand foyer of the inner city penthouse, also home to the most successful high-class escort Agency in Sydney. I pause for a moment, struck by the intoxicating perfume of the overstated arrangement of pastel pink roses that are flamboyantly placed in the centre of a round table. While I’m caught in this daze I wonder; how old should I be this time? Hmmm… I think I’d like to be twenty-seven tonight. I begin the reoccurring

  process of settling into my role, but the constant struggle I have with myself about being a prostitute in the first place makes my palms start to sweat. I know once I’m into it though, I find it all somewhat exhilarating. Only then do I finally allow myself to fall into my character… my alter ego… Miranda. Yep, twenty-seven feels like a confident and knowing age. Probably because it hides the always-present lack of confidence I truly feel inside. I barely close the door behind me when my thoughts are interrupted by the resonant voice of my dictatorial madam, Miss Stephanie, who obviously has other ideas.

  “Miranda is that you my darling? That client from last month… you know the Stuntman from the U.S? He’s back and wants to see you again tonight. And another client is ringing back later to see if you’re free… Oh and you’re Twenty-two tonight darling.”

  Arrrgh… you can do this. Twenty-two. It’s back to immature, unaware Miranda again. Why does she always insist on selling me as a Twenty-two year old? I don’t know how she gets away with it really. Not that the clients question it. I’m not there to debate my age. I’m there to fulfil their sexual fantasies.

  “What fantasy outfits do you have with you tonight darling?” Miss Stephanie bellows out once again from her palatial office to the left of the foyer.

  I walk in to greet my madam. As usual, she is seated behind her perfectly handcrafted, French provincial desk. I’m sure its worn paint job makes it look far more weathered than the price tag would’ve suggested. A wide-screen Apple computer is positioned to the right of her, along with a slightly smaller arrangement of the same pink roses as the foyer, and just as visually pleasing too. The vista behind Miss Stephanie is sparse, the floor-to-ceiling window dwarfs her in her plush white leather chair. As I enter I notice Ben, our six-foot-five head of security -who more resembles a fridge than a man- is seated in his usual armchair inside the office doorway. His face is completely shrouded by the Sydney Morning Herald newspaper that he’s reading. My madam has an attention for detail that means not a hair is out of place in her platinum blonde bun crowning the top of her head. Nor has she an unpolished fingernail on her long, thin fingers. Her over-glossed lips have constantly been plumped with fillers since the nineties, and her brow always remains in its firmly scowled position- no matter what her mood. Her mood today seems as head-mistress like as usual, peering at me over her thick framed Chanel glasses that rest delicately on the end of her unnaturally thin nose.

  “I’m hoping you have that divine black leather outfit again for tonight darling? You know I think it just looks delicious on that figure of yours darling.” Her sentences always seem to include the overuse of the word darling.

  The interrogation reminds me how excruciating it was when I initially picked out my five fantasy outfits- the Agency’s insisted items and the secret must-have’s that apparently set us apart from the rest… plus a few other tricks that I’ve learnt as part of the exclusive range of stimulating activities at this Agency of provocation. A world I never thought I’d become accustomed to. I feel my cheeks start to prick with heat as I remind myself of what I now know I can do to men who pay for my time, and my body.

  “Um, I have my sexy cop outfit, the French maid, and the black leather corset. I thought I’d try just the fishnet suspenders with the leathers this time?” I reply and slightly wince in anticipation of her rebuttal.

  “Hmm… as long as you wear that mask with it darling. Otherwise it’s not a fantasy outfit is it? It’s just plain lingerie darling.” She replies, still peering over her glasses.

  “Well Miss Stephanie, I would barely call a leather corset normal lingerie.” I rebut, attempting to convince her of my seductress status in the Agency.

  “Very well darling. Now your booking is at eleven thirty. Kelly is waiting. Go and get out of that god-awful attire. Surely I have taught you better dress sense by now darling?” I look down, un-waivered by her opinion of my jeans, favourite INXS t-shirt and cons.

  This is me. Well… this is the real me… I think?

  Sally… or at least that’s her ‘working’ name, sits cross-legged on the oversized cream couch, in front of the ridiculously large flat screen TV. The couch itself looks as if it gave birth to a litter of massive cushions. Sally’s completely absorbed by the program playing in front of her while devouring a bowl of cereal. None of the girls in the Agency use their real names, not even to each other. The second we walk through the doors of the Agency, we all assume a different identity. I chose Miranda. It’s easy to remember. I like Miranda. She feels more in control than I am, but each day that I master my Miranda persona, I feel like I lose a slice of the free-spirited girl I once was. I have seen too much in this game. I don’t think anything will surprise me any more. Nothing will bring back my innocence now. I hate that I have done this to myself. I feel my lips twist under my top teeth, picturing the distant memory of who I was before. Before this was the answer to my cash-flow issues. I quickly shake the thoughts and flex out my fingers. I’m here now. Get to it!

  I think Miranda has an age that varies anywhere from Twenty through to Thirty. Seriously, I don’t know how I get away with it sometimes. The vivaciou
s Sally has been in the game a lot longer than I have, and she is definitely my closest confidant in the industry. We often get booked to work together on jobs with our regular clients. I guess it’s our contrasting hair and bodies that draws men to have us both at the same time. Sally is a blonde, busty double D cup, who amazingly, has a size six waist and more than a handful in the rear. Her skin is more than sun-kissed, and she has a petite nose that slightly flares at the nostrils, above the most naturally full lips.

  “Isn’t it a little late for cereal Sal?” I laugh, entering the huge lounge area, also fringed by floor-to-ceiling windows.

  The room has an unobstructed view over Sydney’s city skyline, to the harbour in the distance. Everything in the penthouse is overstated and vast. The abstract paintings on the wall opposite the TV look like they’re of people in the throngs of sexual acts, but then again I never am very good with art. Sally’s drawn from her program to greet me with her gentle, yet slightly troubled grey eyes.

  “It’s ten pm… I just woke up an hour ago. Last night’s job went well... into the morning hours.” She rolls her eyes, “I got fourteen hours out of him… and all he wanted to do was play his guitar. I just danced around in my suspenders and heels. Easiest money. I drank way too much Veuve again though… Don’t know how I’m even going to get through tonight.” She holds her palm to her forehead theatrically, “How about you get that client of yours to do a double with us so I don’t have to work so hard. I can just play starfish while you do all the work and fuck him hard for the cash.”

  I shudder and shake my head as Sally talks so freely about what we do. I always hate how she just accepts what she does as normal, and speaks about it in such an openly vulgar manner. I guess it comes with the years of working in the game that Sally has under her belt… garter belt.

  I head to the kitchen to put my container of stir-fry in the fridge, ready to reheat and eat when I finish my booking later. Hopefully it’s not too late when I get to eat it. I haven’t eaten since lunchtime. Last time I was with this client he couldn’t get enough of me. Just think of the money girl. At least I’ll get some oysters, and strawberries with cream at the start of the booking. Both of which have become my staple diet. Who ever said oysters are an aphrodisiac was definitely not a working girl. Two more girls are sitting at the long dining table as I pass through the dining area on my way to the commercially equipped kitchen. The girl at the head of the table is Maricel, a dark-haired European beauty with the most velvety olive skin and the longest eyelashes, framing vivid green eyes. As usual, Maricel is engrossed in her university textbooks, her white iPod headphones sit firmly in each ear. Being an international law student, Maricel saw working as a high-class escort a good way to pay for her tertiary education. Unlike Australians, international students don’t get the luxury of student loans when studying here so I really don’t blame her for her decision. At least she has a more dignified reason to be here than I do. The luscious redhead sitting three places down in the middle of the dining table with her off smelling bottle of a greenish concoction -obviously her current fad diet- is Paris. Her steely blue eyes are feverishly flicking through the pages of the latest gossip magazine, stopping only to give her attention to the social pages. Predictably hoping to catch a glimpse of herself at any of the latest celebrity parties that she has recently attended. She’s always chasing that fame. I don’t know why… she obviously pays little heed to the fact that her chosen profession isn’t exactly one that is widely accepted within society. I quietly snort at Paris’ sour smelling potion within her grip, attempting to dispel the foul odour that has crept up into my nostrils.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re still on that fermented avocado diet Paris?” I quiz, “That shit smells whack.”

  I lean against the end chair to the twelve-seater dining, or rather banquet table. In the centre, yet another arrangement of pink flowers sits. This time the flowers are different varieties, in every shade of pink.

  “I only have two days to go Randy! I’ve lost seven kilos in two weeks! Isn’t that amazing? You should try it.” She says with pride as she slides her hands down her scrawny torso.

  Under her drawn skin, I can clearly make out both of her clavicles resting below her shoulders.

  “What… and lose this ass that men just love to grip onto so much?” Sally says, slapping me on the behind while she wanders past me towards the kitchen.

  I squeak at the sudden sting in her veteran dexterity on my rear end, “Thanks. But I quite like my body as it is… Gay Parie.”

  Paris’ eye’s narrow in frustration at my name-calling. She can dish it but she can’t take it.

  “I’m only gay when I’ve seen dollars Randy.”

  “Well I’m only Randy when I see the money honey.”

  “Oh bullshit! You’re a toey bitch and you know it Miranda.” Sally affirms Paris’ position in the debate as she struts back into the dining room.

  If only that was the case. Little do they know the real truth. I’ve only ever had one brief boyfriend back in high school, and my first experience with sex ended with me waking up to an empty hotel room and a wad of cash on the bedside table... and I wasn’t even a prostitute at the time. I wouldn’t know how to have sex with someone that wasn’t paying me.

  “Ha… Told you!” Paris spits back and pokes her tongue out in playful defiance.

  She reminds me of a teenager. Then I guess she wouldn’t be much more past nineteen, so she could very well be in reality. Kelly, a five-foot-three pocket rocket in her mid thirties -and our beloved hair and makeup artist at the Agency- bounces down the stairs behind the dining area. No doubt she has come from our purpose built salon on the upper level of the penthouse. She’s in her uniformed black skinny jeans, black sleeveless see-through blouse and six-inch heels, almost making her reach my shoulder height. Her silky hair is unnaturally crimson red, unlike Paris’ beautifully natural red hair. She has the most perfectly cut fringe and is the quintessential hairdresser-type with way too much makeup for my liking.

  “Come on girly. Get a wriggle on. I’m waiting.” She smiles at me, “Let’s get you dolled for… what’s his name…”

  “Michael.” I finish for her.

  “Oooooooooooh Michael.” Both Paris and Sally tease in unison.

  I roll my eyes and sigh, “Seriously girls.”

  Following Kelly up the stairs, I begin to prepare myself mentally and become the temptress within.

  “There. Transformation complete.” Kelly stands back and admires her handiwork.

  I feel routinely plucked and primped within an inch of my life. I admire the stranger I see reflecting in the mirror in front of me, mentally thanking Kelly that I don’t look like me anymore. Not the real me anyway. My shiny wave of brunette hair flows past my shoulders and down my back. My eyes look bigger than their usual almond shape with the unnecessary addition of eyelash extensions, highlighting my amber eyes. My deep red lips for once almost look full and fuckable with a high gloss finish. I never know how Kelly manages it, but I’m glad she does. Somehow my lip colour doesn’t move all night either. My bottom lip starts to twist once again as I mentally prepare myself. Show time girly.

  I pour each leg into the lace top stay-up stockings and decide to go with midnight blue lacy La Perla lingerie with Brazilian-style panties. I look down as I pull my underwear up and quickly realise that I have more hair growth down there than I thought. Shit! How did I miss that important part in all the primping and pulling?

  I poke my head around the door, “Hey Kel. Do you think you could give me a quick Brazilian wax?”

  “Yeah doll, just let me get the pot on. Give me ten minutes.” Kelly calls back from the salon.

  My favourite bedroom is adjacent to the salon. It’s one of six that lead off of the main circular landing to the top level. Each have their own marble en-suite that looks more like it should be attached to a luxury day spa than a bedroom. There are usually only five or six girls on per night, so we usually have ou
r own room. This is my home for the next four nights while I’m working in and out of bookings. I found out very early in the piece here at the Agency, that there is a pecking order with the bedroom selection. If you choose someone else’s room, prepare for an all out bitch attack of the third dimension! I love these girls, they are like family to me in this lonely city, but get on their bad side and they can be your living nightmare.

  An involuntary quiver rolls over my body as I recollect the time I found a dead rat in my toiletries bag. I had just started here and accidentally took someone else’s room. I couldn’t bare the thought of that stinking, decaying vermin being on any of my personal products. I had to throw out the lot. Including my beloved but now nauseating, Louis Vuitton make-up bag. I knew exactly who it was. Mega-bitch Carmen. She’s been at the Agency the longest, and she’s at least thirty-eight the old hag, but looks more like she should be in her forties. Probably is? You never can tell anyone’s real age in this game, and you never can tell if the game has just aged them either. Carmen, with her raven-black hair, cut to perfection in a harsh bob, falling silkily around her head. It’s too bad her haggard face doesn’t match the nice look of her hair. Her pasty thin skin is almost translucent around her thick, raised veins. Unfortunately men still book her. Who in their right mind would fuck that old bag of bones? She must have some amazing tricks up her vulva, is the only conclusion that I can come up with. Miss Stephanie knows not to put us on the same shift anymore. Not after I decided to attack her head-on. She was on the treadmill in the Agency’s gym when I entered the room. I knew immediately that this was my opportune time to strike. I quickly left the room to retrieve what I needed to fix that bitch. Sally was on the elliptical bike next to her, later telling me that Mega-bitch was quite smug with herself when I hastily left the room. Muttering, “That’s got you, you silly little bitch. She knows not to cross my position in this place again.” Sally stared at her, having no idea what she was talking about. Both of them were completely absorbed in their cardio session… and the flat screen in front of them when I re-entered the room, weapon of choice in hand. I stared that bitch in the eye, grabbed her hand and before she knew what had happened, I’d secured her left wrist to the side of the treadmill. Thanks to my favourite, shiny handcuffs, she had nowhere to go but forward. The handcuffs were illegally obtained of course, from my twin brother who works in private security overseas. I stroll around to the other side of the treadmill and grab her other weak, bony wrist. Her brief struggle against my grip was futile. Her bright blue eyes, widened with astonishment before quickly becoming desolate with fear seeping over her ashen face.

 
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