Deanna Madden #1 The Girl in 6E Read Online Free PDF Page A

sticker indicating that it is from a client. While I wait for the microwave to heat vegetarian lasagna, I shake it, trying to guess what is inside. No rattle, and the package is soft. Probably clothing—a sexy outfit of some sort.
    The return address will normally tell me if the client is married. Married men don’t put a return address or use a work address. Married men skip over the hearts drawn next to my name or smiley faces on the box. Married men don’t want a returned package biting them in the ass. This package, with its pink mailer and a Maine return address, is probably from a single guy. One who has high hopes of stealing my heart and convincing me to be his, forever and ever.
    The microwave dings and I press the button, stopping the timer from shrieking incessantly at me. I open a drawer, pull out children’s scissors, and cut open the package.
    Hand towels. That’s different. I hold them up, my eyes examining the embroidered roses on the front, something that is more appropriate for an elderly woman than for me, but pretty just the same. I dig through the tissue paper for a card, find a white envelope, and pull it out.
    Hand towels are not normal gifts. Jewelry, lingerie, pajamas, stationery, porn videos, personal porn videos, sex toys, costumes, sports paraphernalia…those are the norm. I rip open the envelope and pull out a card with a golden retriever on the front, then open it to find handwriting in a neat script.
    Jessica,
    I just got a new machine and wanted to try it out. Thought you would like this design, as I have noticed you like pink.
    With love,
Lillian
    Lillian. I look at the return address, which has “L. Baker” as the sender. The hand towels suddenly make more sense.
    I don’t have many female clients, but they are there, and they do—in some ways—take up more time than my male clientele. Women require more nurturing, personal attention. They write longer e-mails, spend more time chatting and less time masturbating, ask personal questions, and expect me to remember personal details about their preferences, life, and stories.
    For women, our chats are more relationship building. Some are established lesbians, some are bisexual, some are curious. Some just seem to be lonely, while others want the physical exploration that can occur via cam. Some, like Lillian, are old enough to be my grandmother, while others are college students looking to experiment.
    I’ve “known” Lillian for about a year now. We chat about once a month, a friendly conversation where she occasionally asks me to remove my shirt or pull up my dress and show her the lace of my panties. We have never done sexually explicit activities, but she subscribes to my website and I have watched her web traffic. The older woman watches at least an hour of my feed per day.
    She is a very kind woman, always pleasant and curious about my day, my life, my general happiness level. Hand towels seem right up her alley, as does embroidery. I pull out some stationery and write her a quick thank-you card, the smell of lasagna reminding me of my lunch.
    After sealing the envelope, I address the front and stick it into the large envelope that gets sent back to the mail-forwarding company. Then I rip the plastic off my lunch and dig in.

CHAPTER 11
ANNIE
    AT FIVE THIRTY P.M. , relatives start arriving to the party. Uncle Frank is the first, taking off his worn baseball cap in the front doorway, smiling shyly at Annie, and holding out a small, yellow-wrapped present, which looks as if it has been wrapped with half a roll of tape. She jumps excitedly, wrapping her small arms around his waist, inhaling the cigarette and earth smells that always follow him. She beams up at him, grabbing the present and shaking it excitedly. “Thank you, Uncle Frank.” He squeezes the back of her neck and grins down at her.
    “You’re welcome, sweetie.” He crouches down so they are eye to eye. “You want to open it now?”
    Her eyes widen. “Can I?”