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Authors: Lauren Gallagher

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Damaged Goods

BOOK: Damaged Goods
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Damaged Goods

Lauren Gallagher

Damaged Goods

Copyright © June 2011 by Lauren Gallagher

All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book

ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any

printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in

violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

eISBN 978-1-60737-994-2

Editor: Jules Robin

Cover Artist: Anne Cain

Printed in the United States of America

Published by

Loose Id LLC

PO Box 425960

San Francisco CA 94142-5960

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical

events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either

the product of the author"s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any

resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or

locales is entirely coincidental.


This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be

considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC"s e-books are for sale to adults

ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase.

Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

* * *

DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that

might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced

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Chapter One

Eight fifteen, the blue numbers on the clock beside the bed announced without

enthusiasm. Fifteen minutes till showtime.

It was a decent hotel. Not the Four Seasons, but not a roach-infested shit hole.

A pair of queen-size beds. Thick drapes to block out the rest of the world and its

prying eyes. A couple of watercolor prints so bland they almost disappeared into the

pastel wallpaper.

It was the kind of place with people in nearby rooms and reassuringly thin

walls. The murmur of room 412"s television was just barely audible, and earlier,

room 416"s shower had added a whisper of white noise for a few minutes. At least

this place wasn"t Hotel No-One-Can-Hear-You-Scream, though if everything went

according to plan tonight, the guests in the adjacent rooms would probably wish it


Rather than staring at the other bed, which was already turned down in

undeniable anticipation of the next few hours, I focused on one of the watercolors on

the wall, though I had virtually no interest in the lifeless image of some flowers in a

vase. I"d once heard that there"d been studies performed that determined pastel

colors had a soothing effect on people. Rumor had it some sports teams had painted

the visiting team"s locker rooms with that scheme in mind. I couldn"t say if it ever

worked on a rival football or baseball team, but it didn"t do a damned thing to slow

my pounding heart or unwind my knotted stomach.

What the hell am I doing here?

Groaning, but not loud enough for it to carry into neighboring rooms, I rubbed

my eyes.

I had everything. The husband. The kids. The white picket fence and the moat

of perfectly manicured grass encasing a flawless suburban four-bedroom on a street

where nothing ever happened except gossip and barbecues. A sensible car. A

refrigerator covered with grade-school pictures, grocery lists, and Garfield magnets.

A calendar full of meetings with prestigious clients and blowhards.

Oh, and a drawer full of sexy lingerie I hadn"t worn in years.

had everything.

I did still have most of it. The kids, the car, the house. The overloaded calendar

and neglected lingerie. Thanks to that calendar, the grass wasn"t so perfectly

manicured anymore, but my son kept it trimmed enough to appease the

homeowner"s association.


Lauren Gallagher

The husband was long gone. Amicably divorced, happily remarried, completely

oblivious to where I was tonight while the kids were with him.

Yeah, I had everything. Which was, of course, why I now reclined on a rented,

rock-hard, queen-size bed, waiting for a male prostitute to show up.

No, not a prostitute. An “escort.” So said the company"s site, the woman I"d

spoken to on the phone, and Kim, the friend who"d referred me to Elite Escorts to

begin with. An “escort” who"d meet me in a hotel room and do anything I asked in

exchange for three hundred prepaid dollars.

Not a prostitute at all.

Eight twenty-one. Nine minutes to go.

“Trust me, Jocelyn,” Kim had said. “These guys are top quality. You won"t

regret it.”

Wouldn"t I? I wouldn"t regret admitting I was so desperate for headache-free

sex that I"d pay money to skip the crap and get to the fun part. I was buying sex.

Nothing to be ashamed of or regret or hope to God no one ever found out about.

I groaned again, and this time the other guests might have heard me, but the

TV noise didn"t falter, nor did the silence in the other room. This was a bad idea. A

really bad idea. What was I thinking?

I knew exactly what I was thinking. I was thinking about the fact that I hadn"t

had a decent night of no-strings, no-bullshit sex in entirely too long. I"d wondered

for a while if it was even possible to have sex without first killing an evening

feigning interest in the uninteresting, talking about anything except the reason we

were both there, all the while dancing the dance of “I want this; do you want this?”

until someone finally broke down and made a move. And even then there was no

guarantee the sex would be good.

That was just the headache that went into trying to get a one-night stand. The

very thought of what it took to kick-start a relationship these days made me want to


Why was I here? Because I wanted to skip the song and dance, cut to the

chase, and maybe have some sex that wasn"t so hilariously bad it warranted a “you

won"t believe this” conversation with my girlfriends. I had more of those stories

than I cared to admit.

Eight twenty-four.

I checked my cell"s sent messages for the thirtieth time to make sure I"d sent

the right room number to the phone number the agency had given me. The room

was correct, the message had transmitted, and my stomach tightened a little more.

Now that he was mere minutes away, another thought occurred to me: what if

I wasn"t attracted to this guy at all? Every photo on the site had been gorgeous, but

that didn"t mean a thing. I"d done enough online dating to know how deceptive a

profile picture could be. It wasn"t that I was excessively picky, but the fact was love

was blind, lust was
. I didn"t need Adonis, but I could do without the Elephant


Damaged Goods


Kim had spoken highly of the agency, though, and she was the princess of

pickiness. Any man for her had better be well-dressed, well-groomed, and well-

hung, and if he couldn"t get her off at least twice with his mouth, she wouldn"t

return his calls. Couldn"t imagine why she was thirty-nine and still single.

That pickiness was why she"d started using Elite Escorts to begin with.

“Once in a while,” she"d told me, “I just want a long night with a beautiful man

who wants nothing more than to make me come and fuck me senseless.” And in

spite of the fact that I eventually wanted a husband, or even a lover who stuck

around for more than a few months, that was all I wanted tonight.

Of course, that wasn"t addressed directly in my interactions with the agency.

We"d discussed the things I didn"t want and didn"t allow, all the while very carefully

avoiding saying I wanted to have sex with the escort or that he"d be willing to do so.

I paid for his company tonight. What happened during the allotted time was up to

me, and it cost the same if we spent the evening playing chess, discussing the

weather, or…not.

All the cloak-and-dagger of coded phrases and carefully worded questions

added to the thrill, but it also made me nervous. What if I got caught? What if my

man of choice tonight—a tattooed, goateed escort named Sabian—had a badge in

his pocket instead of condoms?

An arrest for soliciting sex from an undercover cop. Oh, Lord, I could only

imagine how that would go over at the advertising firm where I worked.

Fuck, what am I doing
? I had kids to think of. And a career. My ex-husband

had never tried to take the kids from me, but if he found out about this little

indiscretion, then what?

I glanced at the clock. Eight twenty-seven. Blood pounded in my ears. Sabian

would be here any minute.

I could always go the cowardly route and simply take what I"d paid for: his

BOOK: Damaged Goods
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