Client No. 6
Client Number 6
~Dial-A-Date Book 1~
© 2018
By Cassandra Dee and Kendall Blake
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© 2018 Cassandra Dee and Kendall Blake
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author’s imagination.
Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters are represented as 18 or over.
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ALSO BY THE AUTHORS
The#BABYCRAZY Series
#BABYMACHINE
#BABYMAKER
The Filthy Wrestling Club
Claiming His Virgin In the Ring
Standalones
His Captive
Buck Me Cowboy
Beg Me: Sold To My Dad’s Boss
Daddy’s Pretty Baby
Loving the Babysitter
Reverse Harem
Seven Brothers of Sin
Six Ways to Sin
The Billionaires Club
Sold at the Auction
Virgin for Sale
Serving Him
Buy Me
Anonymous Encounters
MFMM Ménage Romance
All the Best Men
MMF Bisexual Romance
Double Dare
Double Exposure
Their Secret
The Falling Series
Falling for My Dad’s Best Friend
Falling for My Boyfriend’s Dad
Falling for My Son’s Best Friend
The Virgin Series
Delivering the Virgin
The Princes Series
Double Princes
Triple Princes
Box Sets
Taking the CEO Home
Love Unbound
DEDICATION
To all the girls who dread their high school reunions.
This one’s for you!
NOTE FROM CASSIE AND KENDALL
Hi! Thanks so much for reading Client Number Six. I hope you enjoy the steam between Jennie and Jason!
Plus, be sure to join our Facebook group Alpha Males on Top to hear about new releases, discounts, and freebies.
Love,
Cassie and Kendall
ABOUT THIS BOOK
CLIENT NO. 6: A Dial-A-Date Romance
I never thought I’d turn to a male escort service.
Then again, I never thought Jason Morgan would show up to service me!
Jennie needs a date for her high school reunion. Ten years out, she wants to show that she’s made it – career-wise, looks-wise, and most importantly, relationship-wise. One problem: There’s no boyfriend in sight. Not even close.
Jason’s a former high school quarterback who works as a movie producer. He moonlights on the side meeting women and providing the “boyfriend experience.” Little does he know that his next client is the curvy girl from his past … who’s turned into a bombshell!
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Client Number 6
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
EPILOGUE
The Wicked Virgin
ABOUT THE BOOK
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
EPILOGUE
The Naughty Virgin
ABOUT THE BOOK
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
Delivering the Virgin
ABOUT THE BOOK
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
EPILOGUE
The Trashy Virgin
ABOUT THE BOOK
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EPILOGUE
The Dirty Virgin
ABOUT THE BOOK
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EPILOGUE
Beg Me
ABOUT THE BOOK
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EPILOGUE
Loving the Babysitter
ABOUT THE BOOK
CHAPTER
ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EPILOGUE
The Curvy Girl Takes Two Men
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
A SNEAK PEEK
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
MORE BY THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
CHAPTER ONE
Jennie
I look at myself in the mirror. Hmm. Not bad, especially considering that last year, I used to weigh a lot more. Not that it was so terrible. I’ve always liked myself, but now a few of the pounds have melted off and I’m … dare I say, cute? Maybe even beautiful if you squint into the mirror?
Because I’m someone who’s always had a terrible relationship with food. Everything clichéd is true when it comes to me. How you shouldn’t equate eating with love. How you should turn your energy outwards and feel balanced so that you don’t feel hungry.
But none of that has ever worked because after my dad left, my mom showered me with treats to fill in the emptiness. So there was candy. Brownies. Fudge apple pies (yes, they exist!). We even made peppermint bark together once a month even though most people only enjoy that stuff at Christmas. But not the Lake girls. Me and mom ate peppermint bark, not to mention candy canes and gingerbread cookies year round. By the time I was seventeen, it was hard to find any flattering clothes.
“Honey,” burbled my mom. “Do you want to lick the brownie spoon? It’s mm-mm good!”
I shouldn’t have, but I did. I know it’s gross, but it was just the two of us, me and mom together. Besides, licking the spoon is a tradition. I’ve been doing it since I was seven and first learned to bake.
“Thanks Mom,” I said with a smile. “This batch is going to be terrific.”
Trudie winked in return.
“You know it,” she said, leaning forwards to push the brownies into the oven. “We make the best team, sweetheart.”
So as you can tell, my mom and I bonded over food, especially when times were tough. We didn’t have much but at least our small home was always filled with the good smells and love.
The problem is that unexpectedly, my mom had a massive heart attack last year. There was no reason for it except that both my grandfather and uncle passed away from heart attacks years ago as well. But losing my best friend so suddenly shocked me, and I sprang into gear immediately.
“Oh my god,” I said with a panicky feeling in my heart. “I have to start running, walking, and biking all the time. I have to get my butt in gear otherwise the Grim Reaper’s coming for me too.”
So with determination, I started working out like a madman and the pounds slipped off. It was slow at first, and a lot of hard work. Plus, I was absolutely devastated by Trudie’s death, so there were many times when I was tempted to give up. It seemed easier to seek solace in a jelly donut or a pint of ice cream rather than to haul myself back to the gym for another tortuous session.
But it’s been a year now, and I’ve gotten some great results. I’m still big, but now it’s a nice kind of big. My breasts are huge and soft, and I have a giant rear-end, but at least my rump is toned and in shape. Yes, I still have thunder thighs and soft upper arms, but guys like a little to hold at night, right? It doesn’t seem fun to be in bed with someone who’s nothing more than sticks and bones, so I kinda like the extra heft on my frame.
The weight loss has been good timing too because next week’s my high school reunion. Ah, high school. It was ten years ago but the memories are still fresh. Jennie Bong Bong was one of the names I was called, not to mention Ring-Ding, Ring-Dong, and Big Dong. The sad part is that the names don’t even make sense. I don’t have a dong, nor do I use bongs. But trust the mean girls to come up with nonsensical monikers that can make you cry.
So I want to triumph next week at my reunion. I want to waltz into the hotel ballroom and show off my new shape with a sassy swing to my hips and a sparkle in my eye. I want to show them that there’s a new Jennie Lake in town, and make all those bitches twist with jealousy as their eyes go green.
The only problem is a date. Most girls from South Carolina get married early, and I know for sure that Savannah Sherman, my worst tormentor, married some hot guy with a cleft to his jaw and a preppy-sounding name. What was his name again? Reginald? Reggie? It’s something annoying yet uppercrust at once. Exactly the type of guy who never saw me.
And I know what you’re thinking. My desire for a date is so old-fashioned and backwards. But that’s the thing. This isn’t New York City where Carrie from Sex and the City goes to cool art parties and bars lit up with fluorescent lights. This is Charleston, South Carolina, and below the Mason-Dixon line, people still judge a woman by how far you’ve come in life. Or more specifically, whether you’ve landed a husband by age twenty-one. Doesn’t matter if he’s a loser who’s never worked a day. Doesn’t matter if he guzzles beer and never takes a shower. Just so long as you have that ring on your finger.
So desperation courses through my veins. Aaron, my gay friend had promised to feign being straight for the event, but now he’s sick with a severe case of bronchitis. I’d make him come anyways, except that he looked really bad last time I saw him. His usually sparkling blue eyes were faded and cloudy, and his slick brown cut looked like a rat’s nest when he opened his front door.
So what am I going to do? Frankly, I have no idea. In desperation, I flip open my laptop and surf to Facebook, browsing idly. Oh shit. Here’s a pic of Savannah Sherman herself, and the air in my chest grows tight. Because not only is she happily married according to her profile, but her husband is gorgeous. Male model type of gorgeous with a strong jaw and a flashing, bright white smile. I almost want to throw up because I can see it now. Me, striding into a hotel ballroom with my head held high in a stunning cocktail dress. But they’ll be there too, gathered in a corner and casting sly looks my way.
“Jennie thinks she’s so high and mighty, moving to the big city after high school,” they’ll whisper maliciously. “But bless her heart, she doesn’t have a man. Doesn’t she know how hard it is to find a guy in New York City? She should have stayed down here in Charleston. Big mistake,” they’ll sneer while shielding perfectly lipsticked mouths.
Uck. Screw them. I hate the mean girls, and the rage makes me see red. So with a vengeance, I click over to the Craigslist classifieds. I know it’s a bad idea because Craigslist is filled with scammers and thieves allegedly. The only thing you can use it for is to sell furniture, and even then you have to be careful not to get ripped off.
But I scan the personals section while holding my breath. Maybe I can find someone within the next week to take to reunion. We’ll meet on Monday, go out again on Tuesday to make sure we’re compatible, and then by Friday, we’ll jet to Charleston together and wow the old crowd.
But I know this is pure folly because the ads are pure ridiculousness. Things like:
Sixty but you must be thirty or under. Young ones only. I can promise a lifestyle that you won’t regret.
Or:
Looking for a live-in housekeeper. No rent necessary, but you’ll have to do your chores in the nude.
What the hell? Who answers this kind of stuff? I can see that some of the ads have been posted multiple times on multiple days, like they’re hoping that some girl who’s desperate will respond.
But the thing is, I’m the girl who’s desperate, so with an exasperated sigh, I click over to another section. Maybe if I look at some furniture for sale, I’ll be able to take my mind off this drivel before me.
But my mouse slips and instead, I click on the women for men section. My eyes pop open because this section is even crazier than the men for women. In fact, these ladies are straight up prostitutes. The ads run the gamut from:
$$$ SWEET THING AVAILABLE $$$ Call-in or meet-out.
To:
You got the cash? Then I got the booty! Dial 555-5555 for fun timez!
I’m not one to judge. After all, this is the oldest profession in the world, but at the same time, my eyes bug and I gasp as seeing the pictures the girls have posted of themselves. Most have their head cut off, but some leave them on on, and it’s photo after photo of beautiful girls with amazing bodies in skimpy bikinis. They all have perfect skin and narrow waists, and all of them invariably have a come-hither gaze that would make even the sturdiest man melt.
Suddenly, inspiration strikes. These women are for sale. They’re clearly offering a service for money, and as a woman of the world, I should use my brains and leverage this to my advantage. After all, the times in the past when I’ve felt outraged at some injustice or other, it never turned out well if all I did was fume and sit on my butt. Instead, the times things got better was when I used my brain and made something of the situation.
So taking a deep breath, I open a new browser and hesitantly look at the screen. What should I say? There’s no delicate way to phrase it, so I type out: MALE ESCORT.
Immediately the browser responds with dozens of sites. There’s one for escorts available in the Caribbean, the model on the page a bronzed god with tribal tattoos all over his arms and chest. Oh, me likey. A cut guy with tats always makes me salivate.
Then there’s NYC Gentlemen, where a man in a suit greets visitors digitally. He’s dapper with a gleaming white smile and black suit, but when I click on the site, warning lights start flashing and a pop-up informs me that my computer has been infected with a virus. Hurriedly, I close the window before who knows what pops on my screen.