Page 1 of Harlot (Hush)

“Hello, I’m Megan Rice. I’d like to check-in for my two-fifteen appointment with Dr. Goodmen.”

The receptionist looks up from the computer screen long enough to put a face to my name, interrupting the tapping her acrylic nails make against the keyboard. The kind expression reserved for clients who don’t make her feel inferior disappears the moment she recognizes me, and the tapping ensues.

“Unless your contact information has changed since your last appointment, Miss Rice, sign your name on the clipboard and have a seat.”

I thought she might say that.

Sliding the clipboard across the counter until it’s directly in front of me, I scan the sheet for the last person to have signed in and say, “I hate to break it to you, but Mildred Depp stole your pen. Should I sign with the blood of my finger instead?”

The tapping stops again, and the receptionist exhales rudely.

“Is Mildred here?” I look back at the waiting room. “Are any of you named Mildred Depp? Did you take the pen? It’s the only one in this entire office—”

I’m new to the underground world of sex work, but I’ve been pretty my entire life. Depending on the sinner dishing judgment, I’m treated like a god amongst men or a snake in the grass.

“Miss Rice, please, don’t disturb the other patients.” The receptionist slaps a blue ink pen atop the sign-in sheet. She manages to hold eye contact with me for a split second before looking away, and I’d like to think it’s because she’s blinded by beauty.

But I know better than that.

She thinks of me as the slithering type.

I’m not a typical escort. You won’t find me on a street corner or by scrolling a website. No one will catch me selling myself in a casino or a private social club. Five days a week, I walk into doctor offices, high-end real estate offices, and big tech headquarters to meet clients who pass a background check that rivals a government employee, affords the steep price tag, and has a private office.

My rise to the top was fast.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned participating in the reinvention of the world’s oldest profession, it’s that serpents live amongst the righteous seamlessly. It’s hell on earth, and no one can tell who’s good or bad anymore. Worlds have collided, and the people in this waiting room with standing room only, have no idea I’m about to screw the brains out of the dentist while they wait for their bi-annual cavity check.

Receptionists might be the exception to the rule.

They’re my least favorite part of this arrangement because of their weird sixth sense about the guests in their waiting rooms. Dr. Goodmen’s receptionist is particularly rude to me. I’d love to fire back and give her a taste of her own medicine, but my ego can handle dirty looks and sharp tongues from the staff. I don’t think the receptionist could handle the truth about her place in this office, so I go easy on her.

“Thanks, Betty.” I scrawl my alias across the sign-in sheet and then wiggle the pen playfully toward the receptionist. “You did something different to your hair, didn’t you?”

Her reluctant glare softens.

The doctor told me Mrs. Goodmen took it upon herself to hire the receptionist because she isn’t pretty enough to distract him or threaten her.

Aside from her acrylic nails, I think the receptionist is lovely.

“Don’t tell me. I’ve figured it out. You didn’t have bangs the last time I was here,” I say and wink. “They look great. Perfect for the season.”

A family dental office is an unlikely rendezvous spot for a couple of lawbreakers, but aside from the self-important employees, Dr. Goodmen’s office is one of the few places I don’t worry about prying eyes. The patients have private insurance or they’re wealthy enough to pay out of pocket. No one’s on government assistance or a payment plan.

Moms come equipped with big bags of tricks, revealing a new electronic device whenever their child dares to look up or to speak out.

Here, baby, watch your show, play your game, melt your brain while we wait to see how many cavities you have this time.

And husbands aren’t brave enough to check me out with their wives so close. They steal glances at my ankles, at my knees, and if their better half is busy bribing their child with a handheld gaming system, they’ll live on the edge a little and take a peek at my chest.

Picking a random magazine from the table, I cross my legs and read the scandalous details of a Hollywood power couple’s divorce. Two paragraphs in, I’m bored by their definition of scandal. Some big shot actor was caught in bed with the nanny again, and his wife, the star of a hit television sitcom, is taking the kids and asking for privacy during this difficult time.

That’s not a scandal. That’s a millionaire who’s used to sticking his dick into anyone he wants, a nanny who thinks he’ll give her the life she’s only dreamed about, and a wife who was waiting for an excuse to file for divorce without looking like a bad guy in the media.

Matrimony doesn’t change people like that.

A real scandal sits in this waiting room. Me, the whore seated next to the family of five, adamant to collect her entire fee despite the scheduled appointment slot running over. My time is as valuable as my body. When Dr. Goodmen’s hour with me is up, it’s up. Whether or not we spend that hour together is entirely up to him and inconsequential to me. I will be paid for every second I sit in this chair or on his lap.

Slipping my feet out of my six-inch heels, I curl my toes and circle my ankles for ease from the strain these shoes inflict upon me. Muscles and tendons stretch, and the ache in the heel of my foot melts away, pulling with it a sigh of relief from between my lips. The husband clears his throat and adjusts himself, pretending to correct his seating. His cheeks pink as he watches my ankle slowly rotate. I give him a show and wiggle my toes before sliding my feet back into their torture devices. I dramatically flip the page of the magazine and smile to myself, crossing my legs.

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