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BUYING
THYME
TJ HAMILTON
Untitled-3 1
31/07/15 4:04 PM
Revised paperback edition published by Harlequin Mira 2015
First published 2013
ISBN 978 174369385 8
BUYING THYME
© 2013 by TJ Hamilton
Australian Copyright 2013
New Zealand Copyright 2013
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This is a work of fiction. 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.
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Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press
ONE
Here we go again, Miranda … it’s showtime. I close my
eyes and inhale as much of the surrounding air as possible
before pushing down on the handle of the ornate French
door. Casually, I stroll into the white-marbled foyer of the
inner city penthouse, also home to the most successful highclass escort agency in Sydney.
I pause for a moment, struck by the intoxicating perfume
of pastel pink roses, placed in a flamboyant arrangement in
the centre of a round table. While I’m caught in this pink
daze I wonder: how old should I be this time? I’d like to be
twenty-seven tonight. I begin the process of settling into my
role, but the constant struggle I have about being a prostitute
in the first place makes my palms sweat. I know once I’m
into it, though, I find the job somewhat exhilarating. Only
then do I finally allow myself to fall into my character … my
alter ego. Miranda.
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TJ Hamilton
Yeah, tonight I’ll be twenty-seven. It feels like a confident and knowing age. Probably because it hides the alwayspresent lack of confidence I truly feel inside. The agency
door has barely shut behind me when my thoughts are interrupted by the resonant voice of my madam Miss Stephanie,
who obviously has other ideas.
“Miranda, is that you, my darling?” Miss Stephanie bellows from her palatial office to the left of the foyer.
“Yes, it’s me.” I almost groan.
“That client from last month, you know the stuntman
from the US? He’s back and wants to see you again tonight.
And another client is ringing back later to see if you’re free.
Oh, and you’re twenty-two tonight, darling.”
Arrrgh … I can do this. Twenty-two. It’s back to immature, unaware Miranda again. Miranda has an age that varies
anywhere from twenty through to thirty, but Miss Stephanie
usually insists on selling me as a twenty-two-year-old. I don’t
know how she gets away with it, really. Not that the clients
question it. But I’m not there to debate my age. I’m there to
fulfil their sexual fantasies.
“What fantasy outfits do you have with you tonight, darling?” Miss Stephanie calls out into the foyer.
I walk in to greet my madam in her office. As usual, she’s
seated behind her perfectly handcrafted, French provincial
desk. I’m sure its worn paint job makes it look far more weathered than the price tag would’ve suggested. A wide-screen
Apple computer is positioned beside her, along with a slightly
smaller arrangement of the same pink roses in the foyer. The
floor-to-ceiling window behind Miss Stephanie dwarfs her in
her plush white leather chair. I notice Ben, our six-foot-five
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3
head of security—who resembles a fridge more than a man—
seated in his usual armchair inside the doorway. His face is
completely shrouded by the Sydney Morning Herald that he’s
reading. I look away from Ben and back to my madam.
Miss Stephanie has attention for detail, which means
not a hair is out of place in the platinum blonde bun that
crowns her head. Nor has she an unpolished fingernail on
her long, thin fingers. Her over-glossed lips have constantly
been plumped with fillers since the nineties, and her brow
always remains in its firmly scowled position—no matter
what her mood. As usual she seems like a headmistress, with
her scowling glare over her thick-framed glasses that rest
delicately on the end of her unnaturally thin nose.
“I’m hoping you have that divine black leather outfit for
tonight, darling? You know I think it looks delicious on
that figure of yours, darling.” Her sentences always seem to
include the overuse of the word darling.
Her interrogation reminds me how excruciating it was
when I initially picked out my five fantasy outfits—the
agency’s secret must-haves that apparently set us apart from
the rest … along with a few other tricks that I’ve learnt
as part of the exclusive range of stimulating activities at
this agency of provocation. It’s a world I never thought I’d
become accustomed to. My cheeks start to prick with heat
as I recall what I now know I can do to men who pay for my
time, and my body.
“Um, I have my sexy cop outfit, the French maid, and
the black leather corset. I thought I’d try just the fishnet
suspenders with the leathers this time?” I slightly wince in
anticipation of her rebuttal.
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“Hmm … as long as you wear that mask with it, darling.
Otherwise it’s not a fantasy outfit, is it? It’s just plain lingerie,” she replies, still peering over her glasses.
“Well Miss Stephanie, I would barely call a leather corset
normal lingerie,” I retort, attempting to convince her of my
seductress status at the agency.
“Very well, darling. Now your booking is at half past
eleven. Kelly is waiting. Go and get out of that god-awful
attire. Surely I have taught you better dress sense by now?”
I look down, unconcerned by her opinion of my jeans,
favourite INXS t-shirt and Cons. Miss Stephanie insists
that we are always dressed in designer outfits. I couldn’t be
bothered with all the labels, but she always says, ‘If you want
to earn top dollar, then you need to be top dollar. While you’re
here, you are the best version of you. You are a fantasy. Something that can only be bought, but never fully obtained. Your
clothes will give you the level of sophistication the clients desire.’
Jeans, t-shirts and Converse shoes, that’s me. Well, the
real me … I think?
Sally, or at least that’s her ‘working’ name, sits cross-legged
on the oversized cream couch in front of the ridiculously
large flat screen TV. The couch itself looks as if it gave birth
to a litter of massive cushions. Sally’s completely absorbed
by the program playing in front of her while she devours a
bowl of cereal. None of the girls in the agency use their real
names, not even to each other. The second we walk through
the penthouse doors, we all assume a different identity. I
chose Miranda. It’s easy to remember. I like Miranda.
She feels more in control than I am. But each day that I
master my Miranda persona, I feel like I lose a slice of the
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5
free-spirited girl I once was. I’ve seen too much in this game
and nothing will bring back my innocence. I hate that I
have done this to myself.
We all become fringe dwellers in this industry. We’re not
really part of society, we just float around the edges of it. No
one really knows who we are. Our identities become hidden.
It can be lonely sometimes. I really only have two close friends.
My best friend Charlie is the only person outside of prostitution who knows what I do. Not even my own brother knows
the truth. I could be an international spy and no one would
be the wiser. The girl I once was doesn’t really exist anymore.
I quickly shake off the thoughts and flex out my fingers.
I’m here now so I have to get used to it. The vivacious Sally
has been in the game a lot longer than I have, and she’s
definitely my closest confidant in the industry. We often get
booked to work together on jobs with our regular clients. I
guess it’s our contrasting hair and bodies that draws men
to have us both at the same time. Sally is a blonde, busty
double D cup, who amazingly has a size six waist and more
than a handful in the rear. Her skin is sun-kissed, and she
has a petite nose that slightly flares at the nostrils, above the
most naturally full lips.
“Isn’t it a little late for cereal, Sal?” I ask, and laugh.
The full-length window gives the room an unobstructed
view over Sydney’s city skyline, to the harbour in the distance. Everything in the penthouse is vast and overstated.
The abstract paintings opposite the TV look like images of
people in the throngs of sexual acts. But then again, I never
am very good with art.
After a moment, Sally glances away from her program to
greet me with her gentle, yet slightly troubled grey eyes.
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TJ Hamilton
“It’s ten at night,” she says, “but I just woke up an hour
ago. Last night’s job went well … into the morning hours.”
She rolls her eyes. “I got fourteen hours out of him and all
he wanted to do was play his guitar. I just danced around
in my suspenders and heels. Easiest money. But I drank way
too much Veuve again. Don’t know how I’m even going to
get through tonight.” She slaps her palm to her forehead
theatrically. “How about you get that client of yours to do
a double with us so I don’t have to work so hard? I can just
play starfish while you do all the work and fuck him hard
for the cash.”
I shake my head while Sally talks so freely about what
we do. I always hate how she just accepts our work as normal, and speaks about it in such an openly vulgar manner.
I guess it comes with the years of experience that Sally has
under her belt … garter belt.
I head to the kitchen to put my container of stir-fry in the
fridge so it’s ready to reheat and eat when I finish my booking later. Hopefully it won’t be too late. I haven’t eaten since
lunchtime. Last time I was with this client he couldn’t get
enough of me.
Just think of the money, girl.
At least I’ll get some oysters and strawberries with cream
at the start of the booking. Both of which have become my
staple diet. Whoever said oysters are an aphrodisiac was definitely not a working girl.
Two girls are sitting at the long dining table as I pass
by on my way to the commercially equipped kitchen. The
girl at the head of the table is Maricel, a dark-haired European beauty with the most velvety olive skin and the longest eyelashes, framing vivid green eyes. As usual Maricel is
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engrossed in her university textbooks, her white iPod headphones sitting firmly in each ear. Being an international law
student, Maricel saw working as a high-class escort a good
way to pay for her tertiary education. At least she has a more
dignified reason to be here than I do. The luscious redhead
sitting in the middle of the dining table with her off-smelling bottle of greenish concoction—her current fad diet—is
Paris. Her steely blue eyes are feverishly flicking through the
pages of the latest gossip magazine, stopping only to give
attention to the social pages. No doubt she’s hoping to catch
a glimpse of herself at any of the latest celebrity parties that
she’s recently attended. She’s always chasing fame. I don’t
know why she bothers. She seems to pay little heed to the
fact that her chosen profession isn’t exactly widely accepted
amongst mainstream society. I quietly snort at Paris’s sour
smelling potion, attempting to dispel the foul odour that
has crept up into my nostrils.
“Please don’t tell me you’re still on that fermented avocado diet, Paris?” I ask. “That shit smells horrific.”
I lean against the head chair at the twelve-seater banquet table. In the centre sits yet another arrangement of
pink flowers. This time the flowers are different varieties,
in every shade of pink. Miss Stephanie takes a great deal of
pride in the agency and always ensures we have fresh flowers
throughout the penthouse.
“I only have two days to go, Randy,” Paris says. “I’ve lost
seven kilos in two weeks! Isn’t that amazing? You should
try it.”
She smiles with pride as she slides her hands down her
scrawny torso. I can clearly make out both of her clavicles
resting below her shoulders.
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TJ Hamilton
“What … and lose this ass that men just love to grip onto
so much?” Sally says, slapping me on the behind as she wanders past me.
I squeak at the sudden sting on my rear end from Sally’s
veteran dexterity and then turn back to Paris. “Thanks. But
I quite like my body as it is, Gay Parie.”
Paris’s eyes narrow in frustration at my name-calling. She
can dish it but she can’t take it.
“I’m only gay when I’ve seen dollars, Randy.”
“Well I’m only Randy when I see the money, honey.”
“Oh bullshit! You’re a toey bitch and you know it,
Miranda,” Sally affirms Paris’s position in the debate as she
struts back past the dining room.
If only that was the case. Little do they know the truth
of the matter. I only ever had one brief boyfriend back in
high school, and my first experience with sex ended with
me waking up to an empty hotel room and a wad of cash
on the bedside table. I wasn’t even a prostitute at the time.
I wouldn’t know how to have sex with someone who wasn’t
paying me.
“Ha, told you,” Paris spits back and then pokes her tongue
out in playful defiance.
She reminds me of a teenager. But I guess she wouldn’t be
much past nineteen, so she could very well be.
Kelly, a five-foot-three pocket rocket in her mid thirties—
and our beloved hair and makeup artist at the agency—
bounces down the stairs behind the dining area. No doubt
Kelly has come from our purpose-built salon on the upper
level of the penthouse. She’s in her uniform of black skinny
jeans, black sleeveless see-through blouse and six-inch
heels, almost making her reach my height. Her silky hair
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9
is unnaturally crimson red, unlike Paris’s beautiful natural
red hair. She has the most perfectly cut fringe and is the
quintessential hairdresser-type with way too much makeup
for my liking.
“Come on, girly, get a wriggle on. I’m waiting.” She raises
her brow. “Let’s get you dolled for … what’s his name?”
“Michael,” I finish for her.
“Oooooooooooh Michael,” both Paris and Sally tease in
unison.
I shake my head and sigh. “Seriously, girls.”
Following Kelly up the stairs, I begin to prepare myself
mentally to become the temptress within.
“There. Transformation complete.” Kelly stands back
and admires her handiwork. I feel routinely plucked and
primped within an inch of my life. I admire the stranger I
see reflected in the mirror in front of me, mentally thanking Kelly that I don’t look like me anymore. Not the real
me anyway. My shiny wave of brunette hair flows past my
shoulders and down my back. My eyes look bigger than
their usual almond shape, and the unnecessary addition of
eyelash extensions accentuates my amber eyes. My deep red
lips look full and fuckable for once with their high gloss
finish. I never know how Kelly manages it, but I’m glad she
does. Somehow my lip colour never moves all night either.
My bottom lip starts to twist as I mentally prepare myself. I
inhale and hold my breath … Showtime, girly.
I head to my room and then lie back on my bed and pour
each leg into the lace top stay-up stockings, deciding to go
with midnight blue lacy La Perla lingerie with Brazilianstyle panties. I look down as I pull my underwear up and
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TJ Hamilton
quickly realise I have more hair growth down there than I
thought. Shit! How did I miss that important part in all the
primping and pulling?
“Hey, Kel. Do you think you could give me a quick Brazilian wax?” I poke my head around the door.
“Yeah, doll. Just let me heat the pot up. Give me ten minutes,” Kelly calls back from the salon.
My bedroom at the agency is adjacent to the salon. It’s one
of six that lead off of the main circular landing to the top
level. Each bedroom has its own marble en-suite that looks
like it should be attached to a luxury day spa. There are usually only five or six girls on per night, so more often than
not, we have our own room. This bedroom at the agency is
my home for the next four nights while I’m working in and
out of bookings. I found out very early on about the pecking
order with the bedroom selections. If you choose someone
else’s room, prepare for an all-out bitch attack. I love these
girls, they’re like family to me in this lonely city, but get on
their bad side and they can be your living nightmare.
An involuntary quiver rolls down my body as I recollect
the time I found a dead rat in my toiletries bag. I’d just
started at the agency and had accidentally taken someone
else’s room. I couldn’t bear the thought of that stinking,
decaying vermin on any of my personal products so I’d
thrown out the lot. Including my beloved but now nauseating Louis Vuitton makeup bag. I’d known exactly who
had done it. Mega-bitch Carmen. She’s been at the agency
the longest, and she’s at least thirty-eight, the old hag, but
looks more like she’s in her forties … and probably is. You
never can tell anyone’s real age in this game and you never
can tell if the game’s what aged them. Carmen, with her
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raven-black hair cut to perfection in a harsh bob that falls
silkily around her head. It’s too bad her haggard face doesn’t
match the nice look of her hair. Unfortunately men still
book her. Who in their right mind would fuck that old bag
of bones? She must have some amazing tricks up her vulva;
that’s the only conclusion that I can come up with. Miss
Stephanie knows not to put us on the same shift anymore.
Not after I decided to attack Carmen head-on after I found
the rat. She is the only person who has brought out the dark
side of me like that. I think I had to do it when I first came
here. The other girls wouldn’t take me seriously if I didn’t do
what was necessary with Mega-bitch.
She was on the treadmill in the agency’s gym when I entered
the room. I knew immediately that this was the opportune
time to strike. I quickly left the room to retrieve what I
needed to fix that bitch. Sally was on the elliptical bike next
to her, later telling me that Mega-bitch was quite smug when
I hastily left the room. Apparently she muttered, “That rat
got you, you silly little bitch. Don’t cross my position in this
place again.”
Sally told me she stared at her, having no idea what she
was talking about. When I re-entered the room, both of
them were completely absorbed in their cardio session and
the flat screen in front of them. My weapon of choice in
hand, I stared that Mega-bitch in the eye, grabbed her hand,
and before she knew what had happened, I’d secured her
left wrist to the side of the treadmill. Thanks to my favourite shiny handcuffs, she had nowhere to go but forward. I
casually strolled around to the other side of the treadmill
and grabbed her other weak, bony wrist. Her brief struggle
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TJ Hamilton
against my grip was futile. Her bright blue eyes widened
with astonishment before fear swept across her ashen face.
“Now what am I going to do with you, you old hag?”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Sally move from her
bike. Unbeknownst to me at the time, she too had the same
sentiments about Mega-bitch, so gladly stood watch at the
gym door.
“Let’s take this pace up a notch, shall we?” I smiled
through my teeth and increased the treadmill’s speed up to
sixteen. Mega-bitch’s toes briefly touched the conveyer belt
before they were violently spat off again.
“You wouldn’t …” she panted, unable to finish the
sentence.
“Wouldn’t what? Keep you here like this?” I snapped back.
“Well …” I drew an audible breath. “That just depends if I
ever have to speak … or even think, about your haggard,
has-been, bony ass again?” I said, raising my voice over the
noise of the screeching conveyer belt.
Mega-bitch’s face progressively grew beetroot in colour. I
was sure the lactic acid build-up in her body was intensifying to an unbearable point. Her legs spun faster and faster.
I heard Sally chuckle over at the door. Mega-bitch stared at
me with a look I can only describe as utter panic, as if death
himself had come knocking. Her bony legs scissored wildly
out of control, scarcely holding her upright.
“Now. Do I have to deal with you again, hag?”
She hesitated, then looked me dead in the eye. “No,” she
managed to puff. Each breath she drew became shorter and
shorter.
“What was that? I didn’t hear you properly,” I said, knowing full well I had her right where I wanted her.
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“No!” she yelled as loud as she possibly could in her state
of exhaustion.
“Good.”
I released my grip on her right hand and stepped back
from the treadmill, then chuckled at the sight of her struggling to keep up with the speed. Mega-bitch desperately
scrambled to stretch her arm out towards the speed button. When she finally touched it, the treadmill slowed and
she staggered across the conveyer belt, gulping in as much
oxygen as possible. The other girls in the agency had seen
it all. They’d been standing alongside Sally in the doorway, wide-eyed and gasping in disbelief at Mega-bitch still
attached to the treadmill by my shiny handcuffs. The treadmill’s conveyer fed her limp body onto the floor in one big
sweaty heap. I grabbed her water bottle out of the machine’s
holder and threw the contents at her already drenched body.
“Clean yourself up, would you? You look like fucking shit.”
I unlocked the cuff from her arm and it flopped to the
ground helplessly. With absolute defiance, I turned on
my heel and made my way to the door, only pausing for a
moment to glance back at the heap of skin and bones heaving and gagging on the floor.
“Remember. Never deal with you again,” I firmly reminded
Mega-bitch.
I continued on my way, stepping past the shocked girls
that slowly parted for me at the doorway. Smiling unapologetically to myself, I made my way towards the stairs … and
my newly claimed bedroom.
“Hey, crazy girl!” I heard Sally’s voice call out from behind
me. “That was some performance in there. We’ve all been
waiting for someone to put that evil self-centred troll back
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TJ Hamilton
in her place. Thank god you came along. You have to teach
me some of that crazy ninja shit! I’m Sally by the way,” she
said with a grin.
The girl’s attitude was vastly different from how she’d
been treating me since I started. I felt my cheeks tingle
from the flash of embarrassment that threatened to creep
across my face. “Thanks. Pleased to meet you, Sally. I’m
Mi - Miranda.”
I’m suddenly pulled from my daydream as the ripping sound
of my pubic hair being torn from their happy home in my
nether region startles me. I’ll never get used to that pain.
“All done?” I ask.
“All done. You barely had any hair down there, doll,”
Kelly assures me.
I return to my room and fussily choose an outfit for my
arrival to the hotel. I pick out a navy blue high-waist pencil
skirt, and a sheer white blouse with a navy blue collar with
gold buttons. I always like the arrival garment for my bookings the most. I prefer to look more business-like and less yesI-am-a-whore when I arrive. Although, most of the hotel staff
in the city know exactly who we are and what we’re there for.
Nonetheless, I love surprising my clients at the door. They
expect to see slutty, but receive sophistication instead.
Once dressed, I pack my small Louis Vuitton suitcase with
all my toys and outfits needed for the night and head out.
“Night, girls. See you later maybe?” I say to the three girls
still seated at the dining table.
All except Maricel look up to give me a farewell.
“Wow, chick. You never look the same when you
come down for a booking,” Paris says, admiring my
metamorphosis.
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“Yeah, feels nice to lose yourself, doesn’t it? So what jobs
do you girls have on tonight?”
“I’m still waiting for my favourite little politician to fly
in from Singapore. He said he would call when he gets
here. I just hope he does. I really could do with a nice fuck
instead of all the soft lovemaking bullshit that I’ve had to
endure lately!” Sally says, while twisting her hair between
her fingers.
“Well, let’s hope he calls for you then, babe.” I wink.
As I make my way out of the dining room I wonder what
‘lovemaking’ would actually feel like. I wouldn’t know the
difference. I remind myself how little I actually know about
making love despite what I do for a living. All I know is
some clients like it hard and some clients like it soft … and
some like it any way they can get it.
When it comes to love, well, I’m no pro there.