Talk Dirty to Me

by Dakota Cassidy

  “And have you done that, Mistress Taboo? Have you given yourself up to someone that completely?”

  Dixie didn’t know what made her answer truthfully. Maybe it was her heart, raw and still bleeding after tonight. Maybe it was the anonymity of pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Maybe it was desperation, but she sensed if she didn’t at least reveal a little of herself to her callers, if she allowed her fear to seep into her words, she’d come across as a fake.

  And “Walker” was the only call she had right now. Dixie swallowed hard before answering. “I have, Walker.” She stopped short for a moment when her voice hitched and more tears threatened to fall. “Utterly and completely.” The admission came out breathless and unexpected before she remembered this phone call was about him. “Have you?”

  “Oh, I definitely have,” he rumbled into her ear, soft, sincere. “Only once, but it’s something I’ll never forget. Not ever.”

  She sighed into the mouthpiece, forgetting he was a client, forgetting that she was supposed to be the one in control of their phone call.

  There was the wet muffled sound of something or someone snorting before Walker cut her thoughts off. “I have to go for now, Mistress Taboo. But I’ll call again. Count on it.”

  “Wait—” her protest was cut off by the sound of him hanging up.

  The strangest mixture of giddy and disappointed settled in her chest. Dixie laid her head on her arm to bury her strong reaction to this stranger with no face. Walker’s words, so intense and soulful, gripped her heart with their seemingly genuine honesty.

  Ludicrous, of course. Who was honest in phone sex?

  Walker was probably married with three children and had a wife who didn’t understand him much in the way Clifton claimed Em didn’t understand.

  And his real name was decidedly not something straight from a romance novel.

  It was with that thought her silly, romantic bubble burst. Dixie yawned, fiddling with the mouse to bring her computer screen back to life in order to check the time. She hadn’t been up past midnight in ages, and it was already pushing one o’clock and the end of her shift.

  As silly as it was to consider Walker was anything other than a middle-aged husband, bored with his lot in life, the amount of time she’d logged in with him on the phone wasn’t so silly.

  Forty minutes times four ninety-nine a minute wasn’t anything to sneeze at. It wasn’t like a LaDawn payday, but it was better than the nothing she’d collected the first half of the night.

  Removing her earpiece, Dixie put her hand to her forehead and saluted her minutes logged. “Thank you kindly, Walker of the sexy voice and romance novel name. You’ve brought me a small step closer to digging myself out of debt.”

  Ten

  Dixie woke with flushed cheeks and a groan of frustration. She’d been dreaming about Caine. His hands on her, his words in her ear, his hard length pressing her into the bed. Scrunching her eyes shut, she gave them a good rub to rid herself of Caine Donovan.

  Whether Em believed it or not, the idea that he’d slept with Louella Palmer had been planted, and her self-esteem was taking an enormous hit dreaming about him even after such an ugly revelation.

  Her cell blared, startling her from the bed. She reached blindly, skimming the surface of the nightstand for her phone. She sighed when she saw the caller.

  Her mother. Yay.

  She swallowed the dread from her dry throat. “Hi, Mama. How are you feeling? How’s Palm Springs?”

  “Dixie Davis, am I hearin’ things right through the grapevine? Haven’t you disgraced our good name enough?”

  There was always room for improvement.

  Dixie pushed the covers off and slid to the edge of the bed, pulling Mona to her side. It didn’t shock her that her mother didn’t ask how she was, or that she wasn’t concerned about how Dixie was feeling. She’d learned long ago that her mother was concerned with two things—the Davis name and her money.

  “So you heard what Landon’s done?”

  “Of course I heard what that crazier ’n a bedbug fool’s done. What I don’t understand is why you’re playing his crazy game. How could you, Dixie?”

  “Do you mean how could I even consider talking dirty on the phone so I can pay back all those friends of yours who invested in me so you can still attend their social events without the embarrassment of your daughter’s mistakes hangin’ over your head?”

  The moment she spoke the words, she regretted them. This wasn’t the Dixie she wanted to be. Accept what you can’t change. Love without strings attached. No more grudges. Over and over she’d repeated those words in her head. Words spoken by someone whose memory she cherished.

  Her mother was never going to love her without conditions attached. It wasn’t in her DNA. Pearl didn’t nurture, she demanded. She connived. She orchestrated everyone and everything. Acting out wouldn’t change that—ever. “I’m sorry, Mama. That was wrong of me to say. Yes. I’m talking dirty on the phone in the hope I’ll win Landon’s company. I’m sorry if it embarrasses you with the other Mags.”

  Pearl’s outraged sigh crackled over the connection. “You’ll make a fool of yourself and the good Davis name!”

  “Better a fool than a pauper, right?” she joked, knowing it was futile.

  “You don’t have to be a pauper, Dixie. The Donovan money is still good.”

  No. Never again would she let her mother encourage her to find the easiest way out. In Pearl’s superficial world, all Dixie had to do was find another way to lure Caine back in and everything would be right as rain. “No, Mama. I’ll do this on my own or not at all. I think you’d better get used to the idea that the Donovan-Davis merger is off.”

  So off it hurt.

  “It didn’t have to be, Dixie. You were careless.”

  Disapproval—Pearl’s specialty. Even though she was always prepared for it, it never stung any less.

  Dixie kneaded Mona’s soft fur. If only her mother meant she’d been careless with someone’s feelings rather than just carelessly getting caught. “It was a long time ago, and it’s over now. It’s always going to be over. Now, I have to go because I have a date with Emmaline and her boys.”

  “Emmaline Amos? Why, in all of heaven, would you have a date with her?”

  Because she’s the only person who’ll associate with me? But something in her mother’s tone struck her as odd. Why would her mother care if her date was with Emmaline?

  “She’s not in the same class of people as you, Dixie. You’ll do well to remember where you come from.”

  Long live the ultimate snob. “If you mean the class of people who are honest, genuine, and kind, you’re right. I’m not in the same class. Now, I have to go. I hope you feel better every day and that Palm Springs is treatin’ you good. Bye, Mama.”

  Dixie clicked her phone off before her mother could protest. She wouldn’t hear a single bad word about Em or another word about how she’d messed up the marriage merger of the millennium.

  * * *

  Dixie’s blurry eyes reread the newest cryptic text message from Landon and clenched her hands into fists of sheer frustration. Don’t believe everything you hear, Dixie-Doodle...

  Whatever that meant.

  She wondered for the hundredth time since this had all begun, what Landon had set out to accomplish by sending her text messages.

  It was as if he’d known how their battle for his company would play out, and he was enjoying the role of incorporeal commentator. Despite wanting to kill him all over again for poking her at her lowest, mostly, it soothed her to see his name pop up on her phone.

  The ringing of the bell over the door at Madge’s brought with it Em and her two boys, instantly quelling her lust for Landon’s blood. Em and her sons, Clifton Junior, and Gareth strolled in with Em’s mother.
>
  Clifton Junior, his lips a thin line, the slump of his shoulders screaming disinterested, stood beside Gareth, who beamed a smile at her, his front tooth missing. He poked his head out from behind Em’s hip. “Hi, Miss Dixie.”

  Dixie grinned at him and crooked her finger. Em’s children warmed her all over—even sullen Clifton Junior, struggling so with his father’s absence. “Well, if it isn’t Gareth Amos. Your mama’s shown me all your pictures. It’s nice to finally meet you in the flesh. What brings you to Madge’s on this fine day? Shouldn’t you be off at your big, important job so you can pay for your big, important apartment? How will you keep the lights on if you’re here eatin’ donuts?”

  Gareth giggled, scratching his dark head. “I don’t haf a job. I’m only five,” he lisped a protest that turned to a squeal of joy when she handed him a jelly-filled donut.

  Dixie looked at Clifton Junior. “Boy, five years old, and your brother still doesn’t have a job? How will I ever collect social security if you don’t have a job? I suppose next you’ll tell me, at eight years old, you don’t have one either, mister?”

  When Clifton stoically refused to join in on her joke, Em nudged him, passing him a stern look. “Miss Dixie spoke to you. Surely, you have an answer?”

  But Dixie held up a hand with another chocolate donut—Clifton’s favorite. “No answer necessary. I like my unemployed men strong and silent. Both of which Clifton Junior is.”

  Like the tiniest bit of hope still existed, Clifton smirked, taking the donut.

  Dixie smiled at Clora. “Clora, good to see you again.”

  Clora’s chin, square and tight, lifted along with her eyebrow. “So you’ve come back.”

  Dixie bit the inside of her cheek. Clora had never liked her. She probably liked her less now that she was so closely tied to Em. Her disapproval was evident. “Like the dead risin’,” she joked.

  “Or trouble stirrin.’”

  “Mama! I warned you.” Em hissed over Gareth’s shoulder. “Please be gracious.”

  Dixie flapped a hand. “It’s all right, Em. You go right on and disapprove, Clora. I’d disapprove if my daughter was mixed up with Dixie Davis, too.”

  Em clapped her hands together, effectively quieting a response from Clora. “Say thank you to Miss Dixie, then off you go with Grandma. Mama’s got work to tend to.” She gathered each boy up in a warm hug, one Clifton remained stiff in, and thanked her mother for taking them for the afternoon before ushering them off.

  “I’m sorry, Dixie. You know what my mother’s like.”

  Dixie smiled. She did know what Em’s mother was like. She’d grown up under the same kind of control and endless unattainable perfection Em had. “Just like mine. You know, I was thinkin’ about that last night after what you said to Marybell.”

  “You mean about how pathetically insecure I was.”

  “And I was out of control. Isn’t it funny that our mothers raised us with the same iron hand of disapproval, but we each reacted so differently? I just could never win with my mother.” And clearly, after today’s phone call, still couldn’t.

  Em scoffed. “Right, except you had a daddy and piles o’ money. I had no father and I wore clothes my mother hand sewed. But I think I can almost understand why you were so mean. I tried harder to please everyone, you spit pleasin’ everyone in the eye.”

  Dixie nodded. “It’s funny what shapes us—motivates us.” Made you act out at every possible turn.

  “How about we forget our controlling mothers and talk about you and Caine?” Em teased, sliding into the booth and latching onto the coffee Dixie had waiting for her. She peeked over the top of her oversize coffee cup and grinned.

  “There is no me and Caine, Emmaline.” She buried her nose in the vinyl red-checkered menu—one whose items hadn’t changed much for as far back as she could remember.

  “Oh, Dixie, who do you think you’re kiddin’ here, petunia? You still love Caine Donovan.”

  She flicked Em’s menu, the delicious fried scents of home mingling with strong coffee called to her. “Focus. I invited you to breakfast—not a therapy session.”

  All she’d thought of since waking from that dream was how much she wanted to run right back to Caine, burrow her face in the hollow of his neck, beg him to let her back into his life. To recapture those perfect moments before she’d ruined everything or even before she’d found out he’d slept with Louella.

  Being in Chicago had dulled those emotions—muted the sharp edges of them. Being back in Plum Orchard had continually plucked them.

  Em tapped the table. “Have I apologized enough for what I blurted out last night, Dixie?”

  “You have.”

  Dixie grimaced, the pain still as sharp as it had been the night before.

  Em reached across the table and squeezed her hand, remorse still lining her creamy skin. “I was just sick over it last night. I’m sorry again and again, S.S. And I still don’t think I even believe a word that comes out of that woman’s mouth.”

  Dixie smiled at her nickname and blew a strand of messy hair out of her eyes. “Forget it. Let’s forget everything but a big plate of greasy bacon while you tell me how things went with you and Clifton last night. How did the meeting go?”

  Em plunked her coffee mug on the white Formica table and sat back in the red cushioned booth, fading and cracked. “You want to talk about me?”

  Dixie’s frown portrayed her confusion. “Of course I do,” she said gently. “I was worried about you in the state you were in last night. Seeing Clifton couldn’t have been easy.”

  Em’s surprise filled her gaze. “I can’t remember the last time anyone wanted to talk about me or even to me unless it was my mama and the boys. But to have you want to talk about me? It’s like baby Jesus just dropped by for a playdate.”

  “Then tell me all about it, or I’ll be forced to make you break out the lighted manger you put in your yard every Christmas.”

  Her joke fell flat. Rather than laughing, Em’s blue eyes skirted hers. Shame cast them downward to her lap. Dixie’s heart clenched into a tight ball seeing her struggle with her emotions.

  As people scuttled around them, Madge’s finest and oldest waitress, Tammy, moving furtively from table to table across the yellowing floor on orthopedic shoes, Dixie sat silent.

  When Em lifted her head, her eyes were swollen with unshed tears. “Can you believe he brought that woman with him to mediation, Dixie? Worse still? She’s absolutely gorgeous. Forgive my horrible thoughts, but I wanted to pull her hair and knock her long legs right out from underneath her.”

  “But why? You’re gorgeous, too.”

  Reaching into her mint-green purse to pull out a tissue, she shook her head. “I’m not. I’m a used-up ol’ housewife who’s been tossed out like week-old biscuits.”

  It struck Dixie like thunder right then and there—she knew that look. She’d seen it a hundred times on Em’s face in high school. She’d had a hand in Em’s low self-esteem—her and the Mags. A big one.

  Twenty years later, and the damage was part of who Em had become. And she had to make it right. Change it, fix it, own it.

  Dixie shook her head in denial. “Please don’t say things like that about yourself, Em. None of them are true. I don’t care what anyone’s said—what I said, you’re beautiful, and funny, and smart. And you’re a housewife who still has plenty of life left for livin’! The next night I have off—or any loose change I find in Landon’s couch—whichever comes first—I’m going to treat you to a girls’ night out just to prove as much to you. You’ll see. The men’ll line up.”

  Em was about to protest again when the tarnished copper bell on Madge’s door rang out a new entry.

  Or several of them. Louella and the rest of the Mags wandered in on a cloud of sweetly scented perfume and a colorful array
of modestly heeled pumps.

  As they swished past her and Em’s booth, Dixie was dismayed to see Em sink deeper into the seat, obviously hoping to fly low under their radar.

  Dixie knew better. There was no flying low or otherwise. If the Mags had their sights set on you, secret-government-agency-issued invisibility packs couldn’t keep you hidden.

  Unlike Em, she sat straighter, setting her menu aside and waiting until the group of her former henchwomen made eye contact. “Sit up, Emmaline Amos,” she scolded. “Always look your enemy in the eye. It’s one of the first mean-girl rules ever written.”

  “If you’ll recall, I wasn’t privy to the rule book.”

  “I wrote it.”

  “Then to thine own self be true. As for me, I’m just gonna make myself as small as possible and hope they find a moth to pull the wings off of in my stead.”

  “Dixie Davis—look who’s come home to roost!”

  Em groaned out her misery from across the table, reopening her menu and setting it in front of her to hide behind.

  Dixie plucked it up and away from Em’s face, whispering, “Watch and learn, grasshopper.”

  Sliding out of the booth, she pivoted on her chunky wedges, likely considered much too high for this time of day by the Mags, and smiled at Annabelle Pruitt and Lesta-Sue Arnold as they weaved through the assorted white tables. “Annabelle, Lesta-Sue! So good to see you both. I see life’s been treating the two of you well. You both look fresh and vibrant.”

  Annabelle, petite in her knee-length white skirt and blue-and-white polka-dotted silk shirt, let a polite smile tease her frosted lips. Her rounded chin grazed the large bow of her blouse. “I see your Southern charm’s all but escaped you, and your appearance, too, Dixie. Where’d your good fashion sense and accent get to? Too much Chicago in you to ever come back to your roots?”