Page 20 of Shameful Addictions

Charlotte swallowed what remained of her protestations and called Champion Media’s head office, using a burner phone she’d bought for a piddly sum of money some years ago. Ever a sensible woman, she had an emergency kit she could grab out of her closet whenever she needed to run, in the case of some sort of attack or natural disaster. The kit contained a supply of nonperishable food, clothes, toiletries, money, and this phone, in case there was no time to get her real one. She’d already used the money and the toiletries to keep from having to spend more.

The burner phone was a pay-as-you-go sort. She hoped the call would be brief and the cost minimal.

After a few seconds of staticky ringing, there was a click and a woman’s voice echoed through the terrible connection. “Champion Media, head office, Princess Harlemaine speaking. How can I help you today?”

Charlotte winced as the woman’s falsetto grated on her ear. Her voice was as fake as her name, a singsong probably forced upon her by Mamba.

Get it together. Talk!

“Hello, my name is Cha…”

“You have been asked not to contact anyone in this company,” the secretary interrupted her, her warbling voice now mocking. “Please hang up now or I will be forced to report you to the police for harassment.”

“I need to speak with Mamba!” she yelped, digging her toes against the carpet. “Please. I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to. Please just forward me to him, or give me his number. Something. Anything.”

“Please hang up now or I will be forced to report you.”

Charlotte pushed her fingers to her eyes, panting, her pulse thrumming in her ears.

Someone murmured something on the other end of the line, out of earshot. Princess responded, her high voice dulled to a squeak now. She must have had her hand over the speaker.

“Are you still there?” Princess the secretary asked, voice clearer now.

“Yes. Please…”

“Luckily for you, I was just given permission to transfer you. Please hold while I do so.”

Princess’s voice was replaced by scratchy jazz tunes, trumpets bleating and piano notes fluttering in and out. It was a step up from elevator music and did nothing to calm Charlotte’s nerves.

The music stopped almost as soon as it had come, a trumpet dying mid-wail.

“Mamba speaking.” He sounded exactly the same as he had nearly six months ago. His voice was a measured and smooth hiss, lacking any true identifying characteristics. Had she not seen him and known what he looked like, she wouldn’t have been able to identify him. He could have been anyone, from anywhere, skulking just out of sight in a dark corner.

“Who is this?” he continued.

Somehow, she found her voice. “Charlotte Aria.”

“No. Your name means nothing to me,” Mamba said smoothly, darkly. “Tell me who you are.”

“I-I’m the woman who lost the defamation suit against you.”

“Yes, I recall now,” he purred.

You recall? You recall?Charlotte wanted to tear her hair out. This bastard. She meant so absolute little to him that he’d forgotten her existence.

No. He was messing with her. He had to be.

“What is it you want? I am a very busy man with no time for riffraff such as yourself.”

Riffraff. Such a silly insult, almost outdated, and yet it tore deep.

“I need to see you,” Charlotte said. “Urgently.”

“Then you can schedule an appointment, though you can expect a considerable wait time as I am a man very much in demand.”

A wait time of a week, a month? A year?

“Please,” she said. “It has to do with the contract I signed with you.”

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