1-900-Lover. Rhonda Nelson
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An exasperated huff sounded. “Don’t you want to know who it’s with before I cancel it?”
He wasn’t remotely curious. “No,” he said flatly.
“Fine,” his mother replied. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t have seen the need to meddle—”
Ha! Will thought.
“But,” she sighed, and a curious, almost ominous quiver had entered her voice. “I just thought that, given this ph—phone bill, that desperate m-measures should be t-taken.”
More guffaws, more laughter from her end, and he could have sworn he heard his brother, Ben, say, “Hell, yeah! An inflatable woman would have been cheaper.” But that couldn’t possibly be right, Will thought, thoroughly confused, because it didn’t make any sense. And his phone bill? What was wrong with his phone bill, and what did that have to do with her finding him a date?
Will developed an eye twitch. He shoved the key in the ignition and started the truck. “Make sense, Mom. What are you talking about? What’s wrong with my phone bill?”
“Nothing…if you don’t mind that it’s five times more than last month.”
“What?” But that would make it—Will did the mental calculation and blinked, astounded—right at a thousand dollars. His jaw all but dropped.
“You sound surprised, dear,” she continued blithely. “I guess you didn’t realize how long you spent t-talking to y-your 1-900-Lover.” She dissolved into a fit of whooping, wheezing laughter that made his face burn. “At any rate, a real date would have been cheaper, which is why I can’t in good conscience call Rebecca Hillendale and cancel on your behalf. There are times when a mother simply must intervene.”
For the first time in his life, Will Foster knew what it felt like to be literally struck dumb. Not dumb as in he couldn’t speak, but dumb as in stupid, as in he had a brain, but couldn’t for the life of him make it function. Several thoughts swirled simultaneously through his head, but they were disjointed and dim, and he lacked the cognitive ability to put them in any sort of order, much less get them out of his mouth.
The best he could figure out, somehow—and God only knew how—1-900-charges, presumably for phone sex—had ended up on his phone bill. Apparently—and much to his immediate, unwarranted humiliation—his mother had broadcast this at the office—where she’d seemingly forgotten that she worked for him—and then had taken it upon herself to find him a date.
Meanwhile, Rebecca Hillendale was a humpbacked harpy with the disposition of a constipated porcupine and he’d rather die a slow painful death or have his testicles removed with red-hot pincers than to sit through a meal with her. These were the thoughts roiling through his tortured mind, but when he finally managed to speak, it was in short staccato sentences devoid of any emotion except outrage.
“Mother, I’ll be there in a minute.” Will slipped the transmission into reverse, backed into the street, then dropped the gear shift into drive. The truck shot forward. “Nobody leaves.”
“But—”
“Nobody leaves.”
AN HOUR LATER Will’s mind was in order, but his temper was not.
According to the phone company, the calls Will insisted that he hadn’t made, had, in fact, been dialed from his number. Curiously, during hours that he was at work. Another look at the bill—at the dates the calls were placed, specifically—had shed a new light on the situation.
The calls had coincided with his nephew’s visit.
Scott, his sister’s eldest son, typically spent every spring break with Will. Usually Will put him to work, but a four-wheeler accident the week before Scott’s visit had foiled that plan. Scott had been forced to spend the holiday playing catch-up on his studies, and Will had decided it would be shitty to cancel the kid’s visit simply because he’d lose the labor.
Given the make-up work situation, he’d had to plead with his sister for the ungrateful brat to even come, and now as thanks, Scott had put him in a horrible position—he’d left him with a whopping thousand dollar phone bill and the unhappy task of telling his sister that her child had been having phone sex on Will’s watch.
Which led him to his present errand.
Before he called his sister and shared that little tidbit—before he paid the bill, even—he intended to directly contact the author of his misery—the phone sex operator. Over the top? Probably. But what the hell—his normally sedate life had been knocked off-kilter today and he had to do something proactive to put it back on the right path. He couldn’t help it. It was all part and parcel of being a professed control freak. Will took exception to the unflattering term, but couldn’t deny his nature. He liked to do things his way, liked having his way, and ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time he could say with confidence that his way was the right way.
Will’s first impulse had been to call the 1-900 line, but he’d quickly changed his mind. The unscrupulous witch wasn’t bleeding another friggin’ nickel out of him. Instead, he’d called a P.I. buddy to do a little snooping for him. The best Will had hoped for was a toll-free line, but what his friend had found had been considerably better. A name and address, and, wonder of wonders, a local one at that. What were the odds?
He’d been destined to blast her.
Given the morning from hell he’d had, to be honest, Will didn’t think he’d ever looked forward to doing anything more.
When he’d learned that the woman lived here it was as though Christmas had come early. Rather than taking out his miserable mood on Doris—who he resignedly admitted he would be forced to continue to work with—or his well-meaning but meddlesome mother—whom he’d live to regret pissing off—Will had found out that he could verbally assault a perfect stranger who really deserved it, and finally blow off the steam which had been steadily building since early this morning.
What better person to verbally eviscerate than a woman so lacking in morals that she’d have phone sex with a teenager? A minor? A mere child?
Granted, Scott was seventeen and, given the way the girls followed him around, the kid was most likely getting laid more frequently and with more furor than his uncle. Will nevertheless thought the woman should have used better judgment. But she hadn’t. She’d crossed the line in order to pad her own pockets—with his money, dammit—and for that, she would pay.
A Jackson native, Will had been at once familiar and surprised by the supposed address of the woman. According to his buddy, she lived in an old but affluent neighborhood on a street one wouldn’t normally expect to find an unsavory phone sex operator in residence.
Wisteria Court was located in the historical district. Huge antebellum homes reminiscent of a bygone era, with aged boxwoods, magnolias, weeping willows and tulip trees stood sentinel on the manicured lawns. The neighborhood was rife with the scent of mint juleps and old money, and he found the idea of a phone sex operator in residence among Jackson’s so-called hoity-toity set perversely funny. Ordinarily, the idea would have drawn a smile.
But not today. Today, he was too pissed.
He slowed the truck to a crawl as he checked house numbers, then finally hitting pay dirt, he wheeled the vehicle into the appropriate drive. Anticipation spiked. Finally, Will thought. He purposely stoked his ire on the way to the door by alternately imagining writing the check to the phone company, and telling his sister about Scott’s foray into the seedy world of phone sex—Reach out and touch someone, indeed, Will thought darkly. So, by the time he plied the knocker every last particle of irritation he’d had that morning set ready on his tongue. He’d pulled back the hammer, so to speak, and was ready to unload.
It was to his vast disappointment then, when an elderly woman with pink foam curlers in her hair answered the door and he was forced to put on the safety.
Again.
He stifled the burgeoning