Chapter Twenty-Seven

Meg woke from a deep sleep to the sound of her phone vibrating and ringing as it slid across the tabletop. She must have dozed off watching TV, now her neck and shoulders ached.

With a gruff, “For fuck’s sake, I’m coming,” she reached out and answered the phone. Happy the caller wasn’t her mother, she didn’t bother to check caller ID.

“Yeah.”

A male voice whispered down the phone. “Meg, is that you?”

Irish! The damn caller had an Irish accent. How the fuck did he get her number? And how dare he hound her when she had been considering a lifelong calling to chastity and prayer?

“Michael. I don’t know how you got my number, but I don’t think novice nuns should be speaking to the likes of you.”

“Don’t hang up please. I need your help, you have to save me.”

Save him, her arse. Let him seduce her, more like. “I’m not playing your sick games today. Goodbye.”

A plaintive wail reached her ear, “Jesus, don’t leave me here with her, please. If you have any Christian compassion in your soul, please come and get me before she comes back.”

The tone of his voice scared the bejesus out of her. He sounded genuinely terrified, and anything that scared Michael Monaghan would sure as hell scare her.

“I have no idea what’s going on but I can’t help you. Your issues are not my problem.”

“Don’t go. Please hear me out. This is your problem. I tried to call Laura but she’s not answering. I can’t call anyone else. I’m doing a job for Male Order and a nut job has handcuffed me to the bed. You have to come and get me before she comes back and carries out her threat.”

Had some crazed ex-lover finally caught up with him and now planned to whack off his wedding tackle with a machete? If that were the case, the lecherous man whore probably deserved it.

“Still not my problem, you took the job.”

“How about if I tell you the crazy is your Aunt Maud?”

The phone fell from her fingers, a dark fog swirling in her head.

“Meg, Meg, are you still there?”

* * * *

Why did the traffic only snarl when you were in a hurry? And why the hell did he have to be at a swanky downtown hotel? If he had booked into one of the dives that hired rooms by the hour there would be no chance of drawing attention to the situation. Instead, they had holed up on the third floor of a place she would usually be too scared to even visit, never mind stay at. The Plaza was the sort of place her mother loved, all marble tiles, gilded hand rails, and immaculately turned out doormen.

Meg pulled into the parking lot, next to the same Porsche Laura had parked beside the night before. Hard On must belong to Michael. No wonder he was a male prostitute, he lacked class. A black and white standing over by the entrance drew her eye. She didn’t like to stare and draw attention to herself but the cop car appeared to be unoccupied. The thought of the police being involved left a sinking feeling in her stomach. Determined not to think the worst until it happened, she shrugged off the air of doom and gloom. There was always a chance they had left their car in the lot while they went to eat doughnuts. There was a Dunkin’ Donut stand across the street next to McDonalds. At least that was the story she was telling herself.

After entering the hotel with a cursory nod to the doorman, she crossed the lobby toward a bank of elevators. When push came to shove, she was her mother’s daughter. The secret to fitting in was looking like you belonged. Head held high, she ignored the strange glances. So what if she was dressed in well worn purple trackie dacks and sunshine yellow running shoes? She might be a rich eccentric.

Finally safe inside the elevator, she let out a long slow breath. So far so good, now she just needed to talk Aunt Maud down, rescue Michael, and make a run for it before anyone was the wiser. She didn’t think the hotel would appreciate a temporary brothel using their rooms.

The elevator bounced to a stop on the third floor and the polished steel doors slid open. Happy no one was waiting for a ride, she stepped out onto the deep red, plush pile carpet, emblazoned with the hotel’s golden swirling logo. Not a sound. No screaming. No yelling. Was this the right hotel? He’d only said the third floor, he hadn’t said which room. She could only hope something would give her a clue about which door to knock on. The consequences of rapping on the wrong one could be catastrophic. Unless she came up with a great story, and she was a crap liar at the best of times, all hell would break loose. Slowly, she made her way down the spacious empty hallway. Turning the corner, she realized why she hadn’t heard anything. The elevators had been too far away. The begging male voice that drifted through the door to room 335 was definitely Irish, and on the verge of hysteria by the sounds of it.

Tapping on the door, Meg called out, “Aunt Maud? It’s Meg. Let me in.”

Footsteps approached, and the door swung open. Meg’s vision blurred at the spectacle in front of her. Aunt Maud in all her glory, five feet two of old, packaged in a fur trimmed red silk negligee and matching four inch heels. Her makeup was immaculate, if a little garish, and the way her cheeks caved in she had obviously removed her dentures. The blonde Marilyn Monroe wig added a little extra something to the illusion. She looked like some ancient escapee from the Playboy mansion.

Over Maud’s shoulder she could see Michael, handcuffed to the bed head, lying naked, in a fetal position. Meg stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. “Michael, are you okay?”

He lifted his head and glared at her. “Do I look fucking okay to you? Laura tricked me. She knew what she was getting me into, otherwise she would never have told me to wait in the room naked, handcuffed to the bed.”

Meg couldn’t stifle a giggle. The great Michael Monaghan brought to his knees by a woman in her eighties, if only she had a camera. “You handcuffed yourself?”

Aunt Maud put her hands on her hips and glared at both of them. “I don’t know why you came or what’s so funny. I paid Laura good money for sex and he can’t perform. His ding dong must be faulty.”

Michael shook his head. “I never said can’t. I said won’t.”

“How can you not want to perform? You do this for a job. I think you’re just having trouble getting it up.” She glanced at Meg. “Muriel says she blows Joe when he’s out of Viagra. I offered to blow him. I even took my teeth out so I could get better suction.”

She took a step closer to the bed and Michael squealed in terror.

The idea of Aunt Maud sucking Michael’s cock was too horrible to contemplate. Did she even know how to give head? Meg shoved the vision aside before she retched. Some things were better left unknown. A throb grew at the base of her skull; she needed a neurosurgeon, not a terrified newbie prostitute and a horny pensioner.

Taking a deep breath to clear all negative thoughts, she formulated a plan. All she had to do was placate Aunt Maud by offering her an alternative, then find her clothes, make sure she was dressed, and send her back to St. Andrew’s Old Folk’s Home before anyone realized she’d gone missing. Then she could unlock Michael and send him on his way. Easy! She grabbed Maud by the arm and dragged her back from the bed in the hope it would stop Michael’s screaming.

The sound of footsteps outside the door required a change of plans. Letting go of Maud, Meg leapt on the bed and slapped a hand over Michael’s mouth. In the ensuing struggle she ended up pinned beneath him. A knock rang out. She wiggled in an attempt to free herself and stop Maud crossing the room, but the handcuffs snagged in her hair, adding an extra degree of difficulty she was having trouble overcoming.

A male voice boomed in the corridor outside the room. “This is the police. We’ve had complaints from other guests. Open up.”

Meg hissed for Maud not to answer but, chin out, she grasped the handle and swung the door wide.