All of Me Read online

  All of Me

  A novel by

  Andrea Smith

  All of Me

  by Andrea Smith

  Meatball Taster Publishing, LLC.

  Copyright © 2019. All rights reserved Andrea Smith dba Meatball Taster Publishing, LLC.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) or stored in a database or retrieval system without the written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only licensed authorized electronic editions, and please do not encourage electronic piracy of sites such as ebook bike ebook bike is a web site where author's books are illegally offered for free. This is known as pirating. This is illegal. And there is currently federal litigation pending against the owner of this pirate site, Travis McCrae for which he could potentially face prison time and those who were involved in downloading this stolen copyright material may also face prosecution.) Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Flirtation Designs

  Editing: Ashley Blaschak Stout

  Formatting: Erik Gevers

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Playlist

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Social Media

  My Other Books info below.

  Maybe Baby Series

  G-Man Series

  Men Series

  Beyond Series

  Forbidden Series

  Black Balled Series

  NA Suspense

  Evermore Series

  Laurel Landon Novellas

  G-MAN Boxed Set

  Maybe Baby Box Set

  Tangled Hearts Box Set

  Playlist

  Fat Bottomed Girls by Queen

  Laid by James

  Satisfaction by The Rolling Stones

  Dirty Deeds by AC/DC

  I’m Too Sexy by Right Said Fred

  My Generation by The Who

  Crimson & Clover by Joan Jett & The Blackhearts

  Baby Got Back by Sir Mix-A-Lot

  Born This Way by Lady Gaga

  Fight Song by Rachel Platten

  F**kin Perfect by Pink

  Girl on Fire by Alicia Keys

  When a Man Loves a Woman by Percy Sledge

  Love Stinks by J. Geils Band

  Only Fools fall in Love by Life of Dillon

  Set Fire to the Rain by Adele

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to women of any size, any stature, any race, any ethnicity, any religious affiliation, any political persuasion, any age, any sexual preference, and any marital status.

  In other words, this book is dedicated to YOU!

  We are, after all, the Brotherhood of Sisters!

  One

  I’d just shoved my ear buds in and was rocking to some Kelly Clarkson while I ironed my black pencil skirt for my interview the following afternoon. I sucked on the mystery flavored Dum Dum, mentally registering my guess it was a mixture of root beer and cherry.

  It appeared the damn dry cleaner had once again shrunk one of my favorite business skirts. That made two in the last six months. It was my favorite though. The navy blue one that I’d purchased just last year. So, in a last-minute panic, I’d gone to my ‘I’ll keep it because it’ll totally fit again’ section of the closet and dug out the black one which was the only other skirt that would do for this interview. This job was one I desperately wanted.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the red light blinking from my desk phone. It was my official work phone. As in ‘non-cellular’ if you could imagine that.

  Shit. Not tonight. I had so much to do still. Manicure, facial, my tea and honey ritual to make sure my voice was flawless for the interview. But it was only eight o’clock. I was “on call” from seven to ten, four nights a week.

  I grudgingly parked the iron and pulled the buds out taking the three steps to the dresser where my phone resided.

  “Hey Dee, what’s your pleasure?” I said as soon as my finger pressed the speaker button.

  “Not my pleasure, doll. It’s Roland’s pleasure. Ramona’s got a newbie,” she replied feigning a Southern accent which couldn’t come close to the level of perfection mine did. But I had to smile and give her credit for trying.

  “Spill,” I continued, crunching on the remnants of my Dum Dum. “But, please, tell me you’ve screened this one better than that crazy ass Cowboy Pete I got last week.”

  She moaned audibly. “You’re never going to let me live that one down, are you girl? I keep telling you he kept his crazy well hidden during my screening. My record’s still nearly perfect, no worries.”

  I loved teasing Dee about Cowboy Pete, and I so wished I could have seen the look on her face when I’d filled her in what exactly he wanted Ramona to do over the phone in order to get a nut after I took his first call.

  “Darlin’, can you please get yourself naked and slather some Vaseline® all over yourself? Then I’m a wantin’ you to go to the top of your banister, straddle it, and slide all the way down screaming, ‘Giddyup Yahooo’ Fuck me Cowboy Pete! When you get to the bottom, I want you to hold the phone mouthpiece up next to your pussy and tell me to go on and take a big whiff of it, hear?”

  “Oh, Dear Lord!” Dee had screamed, breaking into a fit of laughter when I’d dialed her back and relayed this to her. “What the hell did you do?”

  “What could I do?” I replied, “I pretended to do it all. It’s not like we were video chatting. He was convinced, so my acting skills must be pretty damn good,” I said with a laugh. “But hey, he mentioned something about me spurring myself next call, so I think I want to draw the line on Cowboy Pete. My neighbor, Mrs. Silverman, asked me to turn my television down after that call.”

  She laughed heartily. “Well, I think you have no worries with Roland. He seems nice, a bit lonely maybe, and not a crazy. His credit card went through first try!”

  “Fantastic,” I replied, turning off the iron, “Put him through.”

  I quickly flipped the switch on my surround sound and the first few chords of the Erotic Rhapsody floated out just as my Ramona ring tone sounded. “Hey sugar,” I purred in my throaty Southern drawl. “This is Ramona. Tell me all about it, Roland.”

 
; There was a slight hesitation, and my guess was that Roland was not only a newbie to our agency, but to the whole 900 phone pal thing. I was about to break his ‘900 cherry.’

  “Um, hi Ramona... I... well, how do I start this? Let’s see, how are you today?”

  I stifled a giggle. I needed to give the poor guy a break. After all, minutes were money in my pocket. Cha-Ching! I could drag the chit-chat out for as long as he wanted.

  “I’m feeling fine, sugar. How are you doing?”

  Another pause. I grabbed an emery board and started filing a snagged nail.

  “I’m okay. Just kind of new at this, I guess.”

  No kidding.

  “Well, no worries at all. Ramona is here, eager, willing, and more than able to rock your world, sugar. Want me to tell you what I’m wearing right now?”

  “Uh... no. I didn’t call for that. I called because I liked your profile.”

  “And what part of my profile did you like best, darlin’? The part where it says ‘Ramona is your wicked and wild wet dream?’” I drawled into the phone, rolling out a sexy purr at the end.

  “Err... ,” he stammered with a soft chuckle, “Actually, I liked the part where it said you were a Southern Siren with a voice that can soothe the bad out of everyone who calls this number, so I did. And your voice is everything your profile said... and more. Keep talking, please.”

  I pulled the wrapper off another Dum Dum, and let a soft, silky giggle escape, “Actually, sugar, I believe the exact words were ‘I can soothe and satisfy the bad boy in everyone who calls this number,’ now which is it with you?” I asked, popping the sucker into my mouth. “Bad boy or just bad day, sweetie?” I replied, my words laced with a soft sucking sound.

  “Both,” he replied succinctly, “And I’m tired of it, Ramona. I just needed to be able to say it... if only to a stranger. I needed to say it to somebody who’s beautiful and sexy... somebody like you because maybe, just maybe, you’ve been where I am right now. I’m sick of meaningless sex with pretty puppets.”

  What the... ?

  I spit my sucker out with a choking cough. “Hang on, sugar,” I said, covering the mouthpiece while I quieted my hacking. So not ‘Ramona-like’ to get rattled by anything one of my callers might say. Nothing can really shock me, but this guy definitely had me puzzled. Of course, he was only basing his assessment of me on the fake photo next to my internet profile. A blonde with thick curls, huge boobs, pouty lips, and candy apple red fingernails. So, my split-second assessment was that Roland was likely a hot, sexy stud who was coming to terms with his shallow, man-whore lifestyle by calling a phone hooker to validate what he already knew. What sense did that make?

  “Ramona? Are you still there?”

  I cleared my throat and pulled my hand from the mouthpiece. “Yes, Roland,” I replied, “You just kinda threw me for a loop there, sugar. I mean, you don’t actually have sex with... puppets, do you?”

  “Oh, no - no that was just a figure of speech. It’s just meaningless sex. Shallow. Like I don’t know, human blow up dolls. Do you get it?”

  I was wondering if Roland here had some borderline personality disorder going on in which case, he needed a shrink, not a phone sex operator. I cleared my throat again. “Now Roland, I’m sure you’re a good person with lots of friends. I usually don’t get calls like this. You must have some stuff you need to get off your chest. Take your time. Tell Ramona all about it,” I purr. And flagrantly stealing Dr. Frasier Crane’s line, I finished with, “I’m listening.”

  And for the next forty-five minutes, Roland, who I’m sure was not his real name, spilled his guts with polished articulation, cluing me in on just how tired he was of looking for love in all the wrong places.

  Two

  Autumn

  “Autumn Dey?” a female voice called out from the open door leading from the lobby to the offices at WQRK, Quirk-99 radio station. There were seven applicants awaiting their shots at nailing the open slot for the new night-time call-in show, “Midnight Caller,” which was set to debut in the next few weeks.

  “Right here,” I replied, getting to my feet from the extremely uncomfortable wooden chair. I smoothed my black skirt, the waistline digging into my flesh more tightly than was comfortable, and with as much confidence as I could muster, walked across the room. My heels clicked against the tiled floor, and I could feel the eyes of the six other female applicants appraising my full-figured ass as I did so.

  The tall willowy blonde smiled as she ushered me into the hallway, closing the door behind us.

  “Hi, my name is Bridget. I’m Mr. Sexton’s executive assistant. Follow me. He wants to meet with you first in his office to detail his vision of the show, ask you some background questions, and review your resume prior to your audio audition,” she explained, walking ahead of me down the carpeted hallway. She stopped at the third door on the left, which was open, and turned, her outstretched arm directing me to step inside.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Autumn. Mr. Sexton will be with your shortly. May I offer you coffee, or maybe a water?” she asked as I took a seat in one of the over-stuffed black leather chairs located in front of a massive mahogany desk, polished to perfection. I quickly took note that his desk bore no clutter whatsoever. There was a leather planner opened with his daily schedule from the looks of it, and a marble pen holder full of black pens.

  “Water would be great, thanks,” I replied, thinking this was no time for my nerves to give me dry mouth. Not for a position on radio which I’d been dreaming about from the moment I knew my voice was my greatest asset.

  Once alone I gazed around the plush, but definitely masculine office. No family pictures on the matching mahogany credenza against the wall. A lone laptop, phone, and pewter desk lamp were the only objects placed there. His desk chair was a black leather swivel. The canvas wall art consisted of five black, white, and gray abstract depictions of radio towers with their call letters and branding. I saw the one for WQRK, Quirk-99 with the Indianapolis skyline in the background.

  The only other one I recognized was Louisville, Kentucky. Apparently, Sexton owned multiple stations. Probably an old stuffy curmudgeon I thought to myself, dropping my gaze to the brass nameplate on his desk. Dirk R. Sexton.

  Bridget returned with my water just then. She set a coaster down on his desk before placing a crystal glass with ice cubes and sparkling water on it.

  “Mr. Sexton apologizes for keeping you waiting, Autumn. He’s been detained on a conference call with one of his station managers. Sticky situation having to terminate somebody by phone, but he didn’t want anyone else conducting the screenings for this position, you see. He’s very hands-on with these businesses. They are his passion.”

  She was telling me more than I needed to know, but it served to confirm my original assessment that Sexton was likely a grouchy old dude. “That’s fine, Bridget,” I replied, “I totally get it. Thank you for the information—and the water,” I finished, taking a sip.

  “Good luck, Autumn,” she replied heading out, “And by the way, I love your name. Quite catchy and unique,” she finished with a wink before closing the door behind her.

  Ten minutes later, the door opened and the man who stepped over the threshold was by no means a stuffy old curmudgeon.

  On the contrary.

  It was all I could do to keep my jaw from dropping to my lap as he took several long strides and stood behind his desk, his gunmetal gray eyes doing a quick perusal of me as I struggled to get to my feet to extend my hand to show my professionalism with a businesslike greeting. It was in that awful moment as I rose, that the metal button on the waistband of my too-tight black skirt popped and skittered noisily across the smooth polished wood of his desk.

  His hand shot out to catch it and my face warmed with embarrassment as he held it out and dropped it into my outstretched hand.

  “Thank you,” I croaked, taking it from him and tossing it into my handbag. “You kn
ow what they say about making a first impression,” I continued, “Bet you won’t forget this one.”

  A crooked grin made an appearance, and I noticed the straight white teeth which made his smile perfection. He had a rakish appeal despite his tailored business suit. But the shock was yet to come.

  He held out his hand, and his voice was deep and silky smooth, “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Ms. Dey. Thank you for your patience.”

  That voice.

  The rich baritone.

  My eyes met his as our hands clasped in a handshake.

  “Please be seated and get comfortable,” he said as our hands parted. “We need to see just how well you might fit with our Quirk-99 team.”

  As I lowered myself back down into my chair, my eyes once again flickered to his nameplate.

  Dirk R. Sexton

  My inner Ramona was rolling on the floor laughing.

  It was him. There was no mistaking it. Voices were, after all, my area of expertise.

  Roland...

  The shallow manwhore. Dirk Roland Sexton.

  OMG.

  Three

  Autumn

  (The audio test)

  I was ushered into the sound booth, which ironically, looked a lot like the ones I’d seen on sitcom television.

  I was introduced to Neil, the producer, who took his place on the other side of the glass window after handing me the script and running down the instructions as to how to operate the panel buttons, and explaining the hand signals he might use to guide me through the faux call-ins I’d receive during this screen test.

  Neil was sixty-ish, and I could tell he’d been in the business forever, his instructions given rapidly, as if he’d given them a million times. He just might have, I thought to myself, glancing at the script.

  “Any questions?” he asked, as I was still scanning the script.

  “Whoa, wait a second,” I replied, a shot of panic shooting through me, “this script only shows the caller’s questions. Where are the answers?”

  He gave me the once over, as if I’d asked a stupid question, which maybe I had, but I’d been under the impression this was simply a voice audition to narrow the field of applicants.