Call Me (12 page)

Moving through the tiny space, I nod at a few people I’ve seen from other Varsity Blues teams while making my way to a row of four treadmills. Stepping up, I choose a five kilometre loop, enter my weight, and settle my iPod on the equipment’s docking space. I’m about to tap “play” on the screen when a familiar scent kisses my nose. I shake it off as being my imagination, and continue looking for a good film. Scrolling through the list, I hem and haw until I hear it.

It’s him.

Professor Ryan.
And for fork’s sake, he’s on the treadmill right beside me.
How the hell didn’t I see him?
He’s all tight-blue shirt stretching across his solid chest like Superman, five o’clock shadow making him look ruggedly handsome as he jogs, his legs moving in wide strides. The man is like chocolate—sweet and smooth-looking and I want him to go straight to my hips…
Yep, Ace Ryan is chocolate.

I see his green eyes zero in on me and then dip to my iPod. He’s not wearing his glasses, and holy hell do I want those intense eyes to come back and try to focus on me.

“Choose that one,” he says. “It’s such a great movie. I love Tarantino.” He grins slightly, then a devilish smile forms on his handsome face when he glances back up my way. The term “Jell-O legs” is no longer lost on me. Gripping the sidebars of the treadmill, I steady myself.

“Me too. I love him. He really is kick-ass, eh?”

He laughs, “Yes, very ‘kick-ass’, Ellie.”

My name on his lips is also very kick-ass.
Is there a special catch phase for the feeling I’m getting in my girlie bits?

“I can’t believe he remembers my name,” I say.

Chuckling, he responds, “Of course I do. I remember a lot about you.”

“Oops, I said that out loud…” I groan.

“And that, too, was out loud.” He laughs harder.

“I’m sorry. You make me nervous, Doctor Ryan,” I cover my mouth with my hand, “and honest, apparently.” I smile under my palm, beet red I’m sure.

“It’s okay to call me Ace outside of class. Don’t be nervous. You’re too intelligent not to speak up, and there’s no way you can clam up on me now, we need to talk more Tarantino. I have so many questions.”

“All right. What do you want to know?”

“A lot, actually.” He looks at me, his eyes locking on mine for a second. Then he shakes his head as if talking himself out of something, but with every second I spend near him, I want him to talk himself back into whatever he was thinking “no” to. “First up, tell me: what’s your favourite Tarantino scene? Not film.
Scene,
” he asks, sounding pleased with his precise question.

Moving the incline up to six, I contemplate my response as my knee registers a complaint at the increase in grade. “That’s a great question. Let me think.”

“Right. I should write trivia questions in my spare time. Wait for the ones I have in store,” he jokes, and I realize how much fun I’m having working out right now. Or maybe it’s Ace I’m having fun with.

I pause for a few beats, running through my favourite scenes. “Got it. ‘The Pub’ scene in
Inglourious Basterds.
It’s kick-ass. He gives us so much with that scene: characters, intensity, conflict, and…
bam!
You’re completely sucked in.”

“Nice one. I concur, very kick-ass for any fan.” He grins and it’s beautiful, like seeing the coveted rainbow after the rain, the one you knew would be worth the wait.

I decide to remove my ear buds, hopefully signalling that I want to keep talking, and tell him: “Your turn,” wiping my forehead with my towel. The last thing I want is to be a sweaty mess in Ace’s presence.

“Now, the right answer, of course, is ‘Jack Rabbit Slims’
in Pulp Fiction
, but the honest answer is ‘The Bride vs. The Crazy 88’
in Kill Bill, Vol. 1
. That scene is bloody fantastic. ‘Kick-ass’, even,” Ace announces, excitement lacing his tone, and it’s contagious.

“Oh my God, yes! That’s such an incredible scene. Nice one. It’s such a kick-ass female moment in an action movie, pure genius. And are you making fun of my ‘kick-asses’?” I tilt my head, taking him in.

“Maybe a little. I like teasing you. You’ve got a cute blush,” he shrugs, like he hasn’t just rocked my world. “Seriously, though, the way Beatrix Kiddo spins on the floor wielding that samurai sword like a total badass…it’s epic. Honestly, one of the best kick-ass scenes ever.”

“So, you thought it was pretty good, then, I guess?” I tease.

“Hey, hey, guys can fanman as much as you ladies get to fangirl. I’m a complete movie buff so, yeah, I get carried away sometimes,” Ace says, wiping his face.
A job I’d gladly volunteer to do with my shirt.

“I love your excitement, no judgment here.” I wave my hand. “You get on with your bad self, your secret is safe with me.”

“All right, E, what gets
you
passionate, excited?” he asks, and all I can think is
you, and you calling me ‘E’.
It’s personal, intimate. I want to hear it all the time. If I get to spend even another bit of time with you like this, it’s sure to be always be
you
.

“Ellie? You okay?” Ace asks, eyeing my knee brace. “You need to slow down?”

“No, sorry, I was thinking about your question. I zoned out, I guess. Okay, I’d say
The Color Purple
, and movies like
The Notebook,
The Godfather
.”

“Adaptations from novels are your thing, eh? I remember from class. But
The Notebook?
That one surprises me, if I can be honest.”

“Yeah. I love them. The good ones—the ones where you sit holding your breath because they’ve managed to capture all the beauty of what the author intended you to see and feel. Gah, sorry, see
my
fangirling? And for the record, Mr. Cool,
The Notebook
was very well done, have to give credit where credit is due, right? Everyone needs some mushy stuff now and then, and that, Professor, is pure mushy goodness.”

“I’ll take your word for it, but perhaps we can agree to disagree on that one,” he says laughing. “Will your thesis be about film adaptations?”

“I can’t tell you. I have a week, still, before I have to reveal all,” I tease. Not because I’m not ready, because of course I am. But talking about school makes me realize how I’m enjoying being with my professor like this far too much, when the reality is, I shouldn’t be.

“My apologies,” he says. “You’re right. We’re both off the clock and I’m ruining our fun.”

“And I’m having a kick-ass time, Ace.” I give him a cheeky grin.

We both laugh and continue to work out on the treadmills for what feels like hours. I smile inwardly, liking how it feels working out beside him, with his scent, his smile, the easiness of it. By the time we decide to stop working out, we realize we’d been talking on the treadmills for well over an hour, neither of us making it to any other piece of equipment.

My knee even cooperated for the most part, but it will need a good icing.

I fangirled pretty hard over our time spent together that night at home, lying in bed. And I might have fangirled pretty hard over Ace Ryan himself too.

My professor.

Ellie

“H
ey, Greta,” I
say, as I walk into Breathless Whispers for my first solo shift. I’m nervous as hell, but seeing her warm, welcoming face settles me a bit.

“Evening, dear. You all set for your shift? Nervous?”

Huffing out a breath, I tell her I’m as set as I can be. “I’m super nervous, I’m not going to lie. I worry that I’m going to be a big flop. I hope I can pull off the sexy talk.”

Waving her hand, she dismisses my stress. “Ah, don’t worry, Ellie. Everyone is nervous their first time. Erica was a bloody wreck, believe me. She came bawling her eyes out to me after her first call, claiming she couldn’t do it.” For some reason, hearing that settles me. I mean, Erica is a legend around here from what I’ve gathered. Greta continues: “By the end of your shift, you’ll be a bit schooled, I’m sure, but you’ll also be ready to do it again. It really is one of the safest and quickest ways to make good money and fast when you think about it, especially here at Breathless. I’ll be here until eleven tonight if you need anything. It’s month end, so I’m pulling a bit of overtime.”

“That’s perfect. I might need a good cry, too,” I laugh. “How many others are here tonight?”

“Let me check,” she says, rifling through some papers. “Looks like five of you are working the seven-to-eleven. I bet if you go to the kitchen, you’ll find them. They always chat a bit before they start, a little gossip and story swappin’.”

“Okay, great. Maybe I’ll go take a peek and introduce myself. Thanks, Greta.”

“Wait. Before you go, I meant to give you this the other day. It’s your discount code. The Conrads allow the girls to assign up to three regulars as their VIP’s if you want. When you see in the system it’s them calling, once you accept the call, type in this six-digit code in the comments section and I’ll apply the discount. It’s a little thing we do to keep the usual suspects wanting to call us and not the competitors.”

“Wow, that’s pretty decent. Who would have thought couponing would transcend into the sex-line industry?” I laugh, but Greta looks like she isn’t so sure I’m funny.

“Okay dear. You have a great shift,” she says, handing me a file with my discount code, a list of a few do’s and don’t’s, and a cheat sheet to help remind me how to work the computer and phone.

Taking the file, I wave goodbye and mouth “wish me luck” as she answers her phone.

Deciding to forego introductions tonight, I head down the hall past the noisy kitchen to find Sweet 22, my assigned room tonight. The butterflies that have been dancing around my stomach all evening before coming here begin to take flight, causing my anxiety level to rise along with them.

“You can do this, Ellie. It’s no big deal. It’s easy money. A few hours. It’s a little sexual simulation. You’re the director and star. Tonight’s your debut.” I mutter this little mantra as I move down the corridor. Noticing how quiet it is helps to settle my nerves a titch. Thank goodness all the rooms are soundproof and private. There’s no way I could do this if people in the office could hear me. It will take me some time to find my groove, but as with everything else in my life, I know once I set my mind to it, I’m a natural overachiever.
Can you overachieve at getting someone’s rocks off over the phone?

Opening the white steel door, I move inside, taking the occupied sign off the inside of the door and placing it onto the outside handle before clicking the deadbolt into place behind me. Destiny had said it’s important to lock the door, in case you end up getting off with a caller and also for security reasons. Even though I have no intention of that happening, I lock the door regardless. I don’t want to worry about anyone coming in and hearing me make a fool of myself.

Despite my denial that I will get myself off during a call, Destiny says what happens between you and your caller is no-one’s business and to never feel shame for getting turned on here, that it’s part and parcel of the gig. She also explained that the only time management would need to be involved is if a caller crossed the line, if they became threatening to me or disclosed something that was deemed to be of a concerning nature. If that happens, I’m to follow the security protocol in the manual. The protocol basically says to hang up, add notes in the comments section, flag the call in the system and leave it for Mrs. Conrad, as she’s the one who deals with those issues. If there’s a concern, she’ll alert the police and contact me if she needs more information.

Sliding my finger across the trackpad, I quickly bring the computer to life. Typing in my ID number and password, I change my colour from red to green. Then, taking a deep breath, I empty my Phone Sex Superhero kit onto the desk. I laugh, looking over everything as I line it up along the desk. Courtney and I had way too much fun creating this little montage of sex-simulating paraphernalia. I don’t think I’ll ever look at elastics or my leather belt the same way again.

I’m about to open my laptop and pull up my thesis notes, when there’s a beep signalling that it’s show time. Reading the description, the caller claims it’s a fetish call.
Of course it is.

Taking a deep breath, I steel my nerves before answering the call using the best breathless voice I have.

“Good evening, Breathless Whispers.”

“What colour are your panties?” the caller asks right away, catching me off guard.
Doesn’t anyone introduce themselves around here?

“Um…sorry?”

“I said, what colour are your panties.” The panting voice in the line repeats, and I feel my cheeks heat immediately.
Oh God, here we go.

“Black. They’re black,” I repeat.

And with that simple divulgence, I’m met with a long “ohhhh” sound, coupled with a guttural: “That’s my favourite colour. So fucking perfect. Black is sexy, black makes my cock so fucking hard. I love it when my slut is wearing…
black
.” He clucks out “black”, while I blanch at his use of the word “slut”.

Shaking it off, I try to move on as best I can. I play along, hoping the call ends sooner rather than later. “Oh yeah? That’s funny, ‘cause it’s mine too. I feel so sexy and dirty wearing black. Naughty, even.” I roll my eyes at myself.

“Tell me how they feel. Take your hand and run it over the material. Fuck.”

I hear him take a deep breath, and some rustling noises.

“They feel soft,” I say, the words somehow flowing off my tongue like this is my usual form of dialogue, “like silk. The smoothness tickles my fingers, the silkiness allowing my hand to slide across the material so easily it’s hard not to make myself wet.”

“Yeah? Are you wet for me, slut? Are those sexy panties exciting you like they are me?”

“Yes, so much. I can’t stop my hand from rubbing over my pussy. The combination of silk and slick is gonna make me come so hard. You gonna come with me too?”

“Yeah, doll, stroke those panties. Feel me rubbing your panties over your clit. Fuck it, take them off. I need you to wrap them around my cock. I need you to finish me off. Tell me what you’ll do to me.”