Raven knows the secret desires of hotshots who spend fortunes for an hour with her. Until she meets a man whose mind she can’t read.
At night, lawyer Laurie Deloit becomes Raven, the star of a brothel with glass-walled bedrooms. Her wildness gives her what she sought after the man she loved broke her heart—sex, money, and a life without secrets. She also discovers an ability to sense explicitly the sexual desires of any man or woman whose gaze lingers on her. It’s the one man whose mind she can’t fathom who draws her into a new adventure.
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Roam Wild
Copyright © 2013 Valerie Herme´
ISBN: 978-1-77111-420-2
Cover art by Carmen Waters
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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Roam Wild
Glass Room Adventures 2
By
Valerie Herme´
T, Amour.
Chapter One Wild Dreams
A wild woman needs no secrets.
Sitting on the red fender of the antique convertible in the center of the dance floor of the Torch Lounge at Seattle Young, waiting for the bidding. My sheer, low cut, high slit dress shows off deep views of my body. Four rich men take extreme liberties in where they touch me and what they suggest they might do to me. I hope the slim guy in the cashmere blazer wins. But I don’t care. The fat bald guy’s money is good. Whoever offers the most gets to lead me through the beaded glass curtain for an hour of beyond-the-line pleasure in the glass rooms.
“Ms. Deloit?”
The judge’s voice is sharp. I’ve missed a cue. Flashes of encounters from my night job are always distracting my attention from my day job.
I stand and answer, “Yes, your honor?”
The Honorable Mara McGrath gives me a strained smile, looks at me over the top of her eyeglasses, and raises an inquiring eyebrow.
Word is, she’s gay. It’s a pity she’ll never make enough money to afford a night at Seattle Young. Unless she wants to settle for the Sports Bar, which doesn’t fit her style.
The fat bald guy won the bidding. All he wanted to do was lie naked on his back and watch me kiss his enormous hairy belly while I bobbed up and down on his less-than-enormous cock. I brought him off fast, sucked him back to semi hardness, and gave him a long second ride, sitting on his tubby thighs and splaying my legs on either side of his head. He chewed my toes.
The judge asks, “Were you planning to ask the witness any questions, Ms. Deloit?” Her voice is oh so polite, a warning that I’m in her danger zone.
Dammit Laurie, keep your mind in the courtroom. I say, “Yes, your honor.” I walk to the podium between the two counsel tables. The cop who arrested my client for prostitution waits on the witness stand. He’s tall and muscled, with heavy lips and lazy eyes.
He’s thinking he’d love to arrest me, put me in the back seat of his squad car, drive to a deserted lane in the hills, and fuck me until I squeal. Since I’ve started my second career at Seattle Young, I’ve discovered an ability to read the nasty thoughts behind blank faces. Or I think I can, which amounts to the same. If only I’d been able to do it with Stephan, before he fucked me over.
I flip the pages in my trial notebook to my copy of the officer’s arrest report. I look at the officer and make my eyes big. In a soft voice I ask, “Officer, your report says you approached my client and asked her, Hey, baby, what do you do for a good time?” The deputy district attorney stands. “Objection. Asked and answered.” Her objection is meant to throw me off my timing, and to warn the witness that I’m asking a dangerous question. I wonder what a high-ranking prosecutor like Angie White is doing in court on this minor case.
The judge gives me a raised eyebrow.
I say, “Inquiring to verify the exact words, your honor.”
She says, “Don’t fool around too long, counselor.”
“Yes, your honor.”
My black dress is tight in the right places. My shoes have two-inch heels. Compared to the costume I wear at Seattle Young, I’m wrapped a burka. But in the courtroom, this outfit reeks of sex.
The judge shoots me another get-on-with-it glance.
The cop on the witness stand eyes the judge, the prosecutor, and me. I can see why they made him an undercover vice officer. He comes off as the kind of insecure guy who’d go to a whore to prop up his ego.
I say, “Answer the question, officer.”
He asks, “Uh, what was it?”
“Your exact words, when you approached my client. Were they, Hey, baby, what do you do for a good time?”
He says, “If that’s what my report says.”
I ask, “Aren’t there are different ways to say those words?”
He says, “I suppose. Yeah.”
“Trying a harmless pick-up line, or with a different emphasis, offering to pay for sex.”
He says, “I was not unduly suggestive toward the subject.”
Angie White comes to the podium. I’ve dug enough of a hole to make her think she’d better try to fill it. She’s a tall woman who looks taller in her black suit and heels. From the podium, her height puts her level with the judge and lets her look down at the officer in the witness stand.
She asks, “Officer, were you taught how to approach someone suspected of soliciting?”
He says, “We ain’t supposed to bring it up.”
She asks, “Bring what up?”
He says, “Money.”
But he doesn’t sound convincing. He’s staring at me. I’m holding my shoulders back and letting my tight dress do its work.
The judge says, “Put them away, Ms. Deloit.”
I relax my shoulders. The officer looks embarrassed. Angie White rolls her eyes, picks up her file, and leaves the podium.
I come to my feet and say, “Your honor, the witness’s demeanor in the courtroom indicates the manner in which he approached my client at midnight on Hollywood Boulevard. Clearly he was soliciting sex for pay. She could’ve been a young homeless woman who hadn’t eaten too well and was wondering where she’d find a safe place to sleep. Then the officer presents her with an offer for a few dollars to do what she’d never have done otherwise.”
The witness says, “Hey, I didn’t—”
The judge says, “Nobody asked you a question, officer.”
I don’t look toward my client. I hope she’s not straining too hard to appear innocent. She was arrested wearing stiletto heels, torn net hose, a skirt hardly long enough to cover her twat, and a tank top that graphically outlined her nipples. It was her fourth bust for working the streets, but her record isn’t admissible at this stage of the trial and none of the earlier cases went through Judge McGrath’s courtroom.
The judge says, “Ms. White, the defense is raising a doubt.”
Angie White closes her file folder,
stands, glares at the witness, and says, “Move to dismiss, your honor.”
The officer raises his hands in a what-the-hell-happened gesture. The judge gives him a harder glare. He leaves the witness stand and the courtroom, not quite running.
The judge says, “Counsel, approach.” Angie White and I stand in front of the judge’s bench. The top of my head is level with her shoulder. She’s having trouble keeping her hands at her sides. She wants to touch the judge’s face.
I have to look at my feet to keep from smiling. The sex radar I’ve developed in my night job tells me Angie is hot for the judge.
Judge McGrath says, “Ms. White, the court appreciates your discretion in dropping the case before the officer further damaged his credibility.”
Angie says, “Thank you your honor.”
If her undertone is so obvious to me, can the judge be missing it?
Without looking at me, the judge says, “Ms. Deloit, next time you come into my court, wear a blazer.”
I say, “Yes, your honor.” No problem. I can poke my tits out of a blazer just fine.
Chapter Two Angie
In the hallway my client says, “Hey, thanks.” She saunters away. The torn left cheek of her jeans shows off the rose tattoo on her ass. When I saw she’d shown up for court dressed this way, I guided her to a chair before the judge came in.
Angie White shakes my hand. “Nice job.”
We walk toward the gray light pooling through the dingy windows above the street entrance. Angie says, “I’ll be sure the officer understands he lost the case by staring at your boobs.”
I say, “He lost by being a jerk.”
She looks me over and says, “If I owned a pair like yours, I’d use them too.”
“They’ve been a good investment.”
“You mean?”
I say, “I can give you the name of the surgeon.”
She laughs and says, “Hang all that on my chest, and I’d fall over.”
I say, “I think maybe the judge felt sympathy for the working girl.”
Angie’s face gives her thoughts away. She wouldn’t mind getting her hands on me in bed, but her real desires are elsewhere. I was right. She wants Judge McGrath.
Chapter Three Bargains
We stand on the sidewalk and let the rain dampen the hoods and shoulders of our raincoats. The washed air feels good on my face. I think of a favor I can do for Angie and the Judge.
I ask, “Any plans for Saturday night?”
“Not especially.” She tries to sound casual, but she’s wondering if I’m interested in her.
I say, “I have a ticket to the children’s center benefit, and I can’t make it. If you’d be interested….” I take the ticket out of my briefcase and hand it to her.
The benefit dinner is a big occasion for the legal community. Judge McGrath will be there.
Angie says, “I’m not supposed to accept gratuities.”
“One of the firm’s partners gave it to me. Anyway, it’s hardly enough to count.”
She tries to look reluctant, but the envelope with the ticket is quickly in her pocket. She says, “It’s formal, isn’t it?”
“Seattle formal. You can make do with funky.”
“I don’t know.”
She’s worried about looking right. An assistant district attorney doesn’t make much. I say, “I’m headed to à la Seattle. Want to check the sale racks?”
She says, “I can’t afford to walk past that place.”
“I know the owner.”
She frowns. “I’m not supposed to accept special favors.”
I say, “You won’t be.”
A cab answers my summons. I climb in. Angie joins me. She doesn’t say anything. Either she’s decided a free ticket to a charity ball and some possible bargains off a boutique sale rack won’t stain her prosecutor’s code of ethics, or she’s interested enough in Judge McGrath to cut a few corners for the chance to meet up with the judge at a gala affair in a hot new outfit.
The ride lasts a few blocks. In better weather I’d walk, but I need to keep my lawyer shoes out of the puddles.
Angie leaves the cab and hesitates. I understand why she might find the storefront intimidating. The window display reeks of money. Any of the outfits in the window cost a couple months of her pay.
The door opens. Out walks a young blonde woman in a perfectly fitted knee-length sleeveless dress. Her hair and face look expensively done and gorgeous. She reaches for me with her slender arms, smiles big, and says, “Hey, babe.”
We hug. I say, “Denise, this is my colleague, Angie White. Angie, Denise Willkin, the owner of à la Seattle.”
Denise offers a hand. Angie takes it quickly. We walk into the store. I say, “Angie came along to look at a few things.” I don’t need to say, I’ll cover most of the tab without telling her. Denise knows. When you’ve worked with a woman in a glass-walled whorehouse, you build a special understanding.
Denise calls, “Jamie, Michelle.” Two young sales clerks hurry over. They lead Angie to a dress rack, chatting and flattering her.
I ask Denise, “How’s it going?”
She says, “Wonderful! I’ll brew you an espresso.” She leads me to her office. While we’ve talked, she hasn’t let go of my arm.
I sit in one of her leather chairs. The frosted glass she chose for her walls makes a statement she and I understand. We’ve worked inside glass, surrounded by transparent rooms where men and women bare themselves and do everything.
She keeps her back to me while she messes with the coffee machine. I ask, “Everything okay?”
She says, “Running a business is harder than whoring. The bottom line’s great, but I have to stay on everything all the time.”
Denise as Desiree, perched on the fender of the antique red convertible, her face painted in silvery blue diamonds, her perfect legs bared all the way, her body lighting fantasies in the eyes of the rich men crowding around her.
I say, “Maybe you need some night work.”
“Ha! No way.”
“What if we bid ourselves as a twosome?”
She shakes her head. “Walter made me swear to quit.” But she’s trying to hide a grin. I know she’s intrigued.
I ask, “How’s Wally?”
She says, “Fine. Staying busy.”
What her fiancé, Walter Cross, does with his time isn’t obvious. He acts self assured, though he’s obviously not the breadwinner. The money for their penthouse condo on Puget Sound and the capital to set up à la Seattle came from what Denise earned as the star whore at Seattle Young.
A male voice and female laughter come from the front of the store. Denise says, “Here he is.”
Walter lets himself in the office. He’s dressed in a dark suit and his retro fedora. He gives me a nod and a “Hey, Laurie’” His arm goes around Denise. He squeezes her ass to juice their kiss.
They make an amazing couple, him thick-bodied and buff, her golden-haired, pale, long legged, and slender. She keeps her hand on his chest and says, “Laurie was suggesting a girls’ night at the shop.”
He says to me, “Nice try, but she’s a one-man woman.”
I say, “Lucky you.”
Denise asks, “How’s business?” She means my night job. What I make from lawyer wok is a pittance compared to my income from whoring.
I say, “Brisk.” I took her place as the most desirable woman in Madame Renee’s stable, and I’ve reaped huge sums by letting my body be auctioned three nights a week. Most of the riches come from the live video feed, an unlisted internet site for those who can can afford to pay the steep subscription price.
Walter asks, “Join us for lunch?”
I say, “Another day. I’ve spent the morning in court. I think I’m headed for a workout and the spa.”
Denise says, “Thanks for dropping by.”
I say, “Great to see you both. You’ll bill my account for ninety percent of what my friend chose?”
Denise nods. I leav
e them standing arm and arm, Walter’s big hand resting on her ass. Outside her office, I keep a blank face in case the sales ladies are watching. The way Denise sounded when she spoke of Walter, and the way she didn’t look at him, makes me think she’s hiding a problem.
Angie is waiting for me with a big gold dress box under one arm. She says, “This stuff was ninety percent off!”
“They save their bargains for special people.”
“Thanks, Laurie. You’re a buddy.”
She shelters the dress box under her coat. We pull up our hoods and return to the rain. I raise my arm to signal a cab.
A woman walks between us, though she had room to circle around. Her old black leather jacket is pulled partially over her head. The rain batters her lowered face and tousled hair. The hiked jacket and her low-rise denims bare the tattoo on the small of her back, a pattern of snakes and birds. Below it she’s wearing a short leather skirt, torn net hose, and clunky platform heels.
It takes me a moment to recognize my client of the morning. She’s back on the street, probably headed for some dry spot on the curb under the awning of an abandoned building. She’ll stand in the chill until a john offers her enough to pay for a meal, a room for the night, and a hit of whatever drug she relies on.
She makes no sign of recognizing us, but I know she didn’t pass between us by accident. What did she think when she saw the lawyer who represented her and the lawyer who tried to send her to jail chatting outside the fanciest boutique in town?
A man in a hoodie shuffles along a few steps beside her. He says, “Hey, baby. She slows to let her pimp catch up. He swats her ass. She walks behind him.
Angie’s look shows she recognized the woman. A cab pulls over. We climb in. I see a last glimpse of my client turning a corner.
Angie says, “I feel sorry for her, but what are we supposed to do?”
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