Page 2 of Harlot (Hush)

No free shows, buddy.

Twenty-three minutes into our appointment time, the door leading to the exam rooms opens and my name is called. I immediately go down my internal checklist:

Shoulders back.

Chin up.

Eyes ahead.

I’ve mastered the first two rules, but my eyes roam everywhere but forward. The boy who’s invited me back combs through my chart and determines that I don’t need X-rays. If he looked closer, he’d notice I’ve never needed X-rays. If he had more experience, he’d realize Megan Rice only visits for cosmetic consultations performed in Dr. Goodmen’s personal office. Luckily, the boy is a dental student and doesn’t know what the heck he’s doing.

“Sorry for the wait.” He slaps the chart closed. “We’ve been unusually busy today and didn’t have an available examination room. But we’re finally set up for your cleaning. You’ll be out of here in no time.”

Anchoring all six inches of my heels into the floor, I stop and say, “You have me mixed up with someone else. I’m not here for a cleaning.”

The casual smile on the student’s face melts away, and red-hot panic burns his cheeks. He reopens my paperwork and delves back in, using his pointer finger to underline the data inside. Dark eyes scan the chart, sweeping back and forth as he tries to figure out where he went wrong.

“YouareMegan Rice, correct?” he asks.

“That’s me, but I’m only here for a consultation with Dr. Goodmen.”

Scratching the back of his neck, his expression mimics that of a person who’s bitten into a lemon. “A consultation for what?”

The theme of our appointments together is strictly used as a ruse to get me out of the general examination room and into the doctor’s private office. It changes before every visit to avoid suspicion from the staff and has worked flawlessly until now. I’d never be penciled in for something as routine as teeth cleaning.

“Whitening,” I say boldly, not to sound like a guess. “I drink a lot of coffee—”

“I don’t see anything about a whitening consult today.” Furrowing his eyebrows in deep concentration, the poor guy scans my chart and comes up empty. “But it looks like you had one twelve weeks ago, and six weeks ago, you were here for a veneer consultation. If there’s a scheduling mistake, I’ll need to run this by Betty.”

Hush doesn’t make mistakes, and I’d never be sent to a job blind. Every appointment, client, and escort is checked and double-checked in advance to guarantee a smooth transaction. My next move should be out the door, but I panic at the thought of Betty rummaging through my appointment file.

“Wait,” I say, stepping forward. “My mistake. Please, show me to the exam room.”

Dropping his shoulders in relief, the dental student smiles and leads me to the last examination room at the end of the hall. Nothing about the brightly lit, sterilized space feels safe. I sit in the long chair in the center of the room, where I’m lowered into a lying position. The paper bib secured around my neck feels like chains, and the halogen light feels like a laser stripping me of sight before it’s lowered to my mouth.

Heads will roll once this gets back to Hush.

All I can do is hope that my neck isn’t on the chopping block.

“All right, Megan, it’s smooth sailing from here. Sit back and relax. Someone will be in to start your cleaning shortly.”

“Thanks,” I mutter.

As soon as the door clicks shut, I sit upright in a hurry and hit my head on the exam light.

“Son of a bitch.” Pressing the palm of my hand against the small bump forming at my hairline, I pull the bib from around my neck with my free hand and slide from the chair.

This was a mistake. I should have trusted my instinct and left when the appointment veered from routine. My job is to show up at the predetermined time, service the client, and collect payment. It’s not my responsibility to stick around and find out why the dentist in training thought I was here for a cleaning or to keep the bitchy receptionist away from my chart.

I’m digging through my small purse for my cell phone when the door swings open and Dr. Goodmen scampers inside, quickly locking the door behind him. He takes in my angry expression and general unease and approaches me cautiously, like one approaches a frightened animal.

“Don’t be mad,” he says in a tone that doesn’t match his disheveled appearance. “My office is out of commission today. I wanted to tell you myself, but time got away from me.”

Checking the time on my phone, I say, “You’re right. We’re down to our last ten minutes.”

Dr. Goodmen slips his hand into his back pocket to retrieve a fat stack of hundred-dollar bills. He’s a handsome man in his late forties with the straightest teeth I’ve ever seen, a haircut meant to look unintentionally messy, and a set of brown eyes too soft to trust. I don’t hate my appointments with him like I do with others, but the shape of his crude smirk is wicked. He’s a rotten man with a pleasant exterior.

“It’s enough time.” He repockets the money. “Trust me.”

---