Tigeress: Escortesses, #1

By L. Grubb

I used to be bullied and it broke me down but it also built me into the ruthless bitch I am today. 
I don't take no prisoners and I don't beat around the bush. People call me mean, heartless, and that's exactly what I am; I'm not going to deny that. But what's the alternative? A broken little mouse who walks along the side-lines? The one ignored and picked on for being quiet? The one excluded from activities because I just don't fit in? Nah, that's not me. That's the old me.

Jemma Jade Jackson transformed her life after high school, now three years on and attending college, she's changed her whole persona and lifestyle. She's no longer the beaten but the beater. She's no longer the cowardly tramp that sits in the corner. She's ruthless, badass, and she doesn't take no shit from no one, much less from bullies.

She's nicknamed Tigeress; her roar is almost louder than her claws, but she embraces it. She embraces the fear she puts into people when she walks passed them. Covered in tattoos with bright purple hair, she makes herself as unapproachable as possible. Jemma is so full of hate that her aura is red and visible to everyone. She throws warning signals just in the way she carries herself and it's taken three years to perfect.

Long gone is the goofy teen who let people hurt her, she's a spanking new person inside and out and uses her assets to ruin men's lives. She's paid well to honeytrap stupid idiots who hurt their woman just because they can. Just like what happened to her. 

But is her perfectly put together life about to be shook? Is her ice-cold personality about to be thawed? More importantly… is he ready to play her games?

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. Grubb
• Release date: Aug 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386974383

Book preview

I wasn’t much of a looker throughout high school. Not only did being a spotty, frizzy-haired red-head single me out by the ‘mean girls’ of the school, but often enough, the boys would join in with ridiculing me as well. My self-confidence was next to non-existent but I also found solace in self-harm; the release as the blood seeped through the top layers of skin helped me from losing my mind and from biting back, which would ensure the constant barrage of insults would get worse; unbearable.

I never told a soul about the bullying in fear of the repercussions. I didn’t have a single friend at school to have my back; I went it alone and, to me, that gave me the backbone that I have three years later. Shit doesn’t dent the armor I built around myself. When high school ended, so did Jemma Jade Jackson, the timid, burnt out, freckled girl who spent all those miserable years at Grovedale High.

The new Jemma is a confident, purple-haired, acne-free college student. Large breasted, slim, curves in all the right places and sensual. Really, I should thank those bitches for pointing out my flaws; it made it easier to fix them when my dear old grandfather suffered a fall that killed him almost instantaneously. The hefty inheritance he left me was enough to pay for four years of college, as much cosmetic surgery as I wanted plus enough to keep me comfortable for life. I took the bull by the horns, so to speak, and made myself feel more comfortable, more secure in myself. No one can trample all over me no more. That’s a promise to myself that I tend to keep for life.

Tigeress

Octavia? Where the fuck are you? I slam the front door behind me and chuck my keys in the dish on the entrance table. I stand there, silent, listening for any signs that my roommate and best friend is home. Don’t fuck about with me, girl. I need to talk to you.

Why didn’t you just walk further into the apartment to speak to me? she says, her head poking around the door-frame of the den. She rolls her eyes when I raise an eyebrow at her and she retreats.

Following after her, I enter the room to see Desperate Housewives of New York on the large plasma screen on the wall and groan. My ass hits the sofa and I sigh in relief. You have a new booking. Been trying to call you all afternoon.

Really? She frowns before picking up her iPhone from the coffee table. Huh, so you have. Must have hit the button turning it to silent, sorry. She tosses it back to the table before turning her head to me, her pink hair swishing over her shoulder. When for?

Tonight. Mr. Abu-Dhamine again. You must have left an impression. I smirk; I know she did. She does with every guy she has to accompany to dinner; they always book her again. Seven sharp. His driver will be picking you up. Dress to impress, not that I need to tell you that.

You tell me every fucking time I have an appointment, I’m not an amateur no more, Jem. She rolls her eyes again and it makes me want to throat punch her. If she wasn’t my best friend and business partner, I would. That’s the sort of girl I am. Actions speak louder than words is my motto and it’s served me well the last three years. Anyway, I have a favor to ask.

I don’t hand out favors, especially to you. They’re never fucking returned when I need them. I lean my head against the back of the couch and close my eyes.

Sometimes I wonder why I’m your best friend, she mumbles. I can feel her eyes staring holes into the side of my head and I grit my teeth.

Me too, Octavia. What’s the favor anyway? The women on the TV are bitching to each other in high pitched, whiney voices and I want to smash the fucking thing to smithereens.

I need you to take my one o’clock lunch date tomorrow. I have an exam, she says, sighing. Not sure why she ever frets over her tests, she smashes them every single time.

Who is it? I’m particular with who I agree to be arm candy for, Octavia knows this. If it’s a bald dude with a beer gut, I’m not interested.

Octavia chuckles lightly and I sense her shaking her head from side to side. No, he’s neither. It’s a new guy, booked through the website. He’s dark haired with brown eyes, slim, and apparently has a profession he can’t disclose. Mr. Mysterious is what I’ve named him but he put his name as Damon V., sounds hot but you know most guys use fake names. She shrugs and turns her attention to the TV briefly before her eyes come back to me. So, can you?

I mentally go over what I’m doing tomorrow, I don’t think I’m doing much. I wonder if I can get away with lying to her? Probably not. She fucking knows me better than I know myself. Urgh, fine. I have a lecture first thing so will be free then. You fucking owe me, Octavia.

Ah, see… I knew you loved me. She thumps my shoulder with her fist and my eyes open and my head turns to stare at her. Cheer up, grumpy.

I count to ten in my head before standing. I’m going for a shower. I have to appear at a charity function tonight. Black-tie. I pivot on my heel and leave the room, heading for the stairs just outside the lounge. I take the steps two at a time, leaving no time for Octavia to come rushing out to talk to me more. I have two hours to get ready for this black-tie event and I can’t be standing around shooting the shit with my best friend.

The great thing about coming into money, means Octavia and I don’t have to live in dorms or have a shitty, cramped, apartment that has one bedroom and one bathroom. No, we have a penthouse suite just off campus in a new block of high-rises. It has two master bedrooms with en-suites, a spare room we use as a guestroom and a bathroom for guests. Downstairs, the lounge is open plan with the kitchen sectioned off with a breakfast bar and we have a dining room which we use more as an office than a room to eat in, unless Octavia’s stuck-up mother decides to pay a visit.

I enter my room, decorated in deep purple and black walls and posters of 30 seconds to mars and Disturbed on one of the four walls, along with old concert tickets and small mementos that I’ve collected. My queen size bed dominates the room with its silk throw neatly made over the bed and my many pillows perfectly plumped. I smile, this is my space. A place where I can just be me instead of being some perfect little piece of arm candy for some sad-act that can’t get his own date. I sigh, it’s not fair to say that when it pays fucking good money to do it. Can’t say I do it for money though, nah, I have a shit load of that coming out my ass. No, I do it because it makes me feel on top of the world. I have posh women stare at me, wanting to be me, I have men drooling over my luscious curves. It makes me feel great. After years of suffering because I was a big girl who liked my food, my frizzy, untameable hair and plain face also got me bullied. I was an easy target and I took it; I never bit back. But now? One person says shit to me, I’ll bring them down so quick that they’ll not know what’s up or down.

My pulse starts to race as I think back to that time in my life, the anxiety builds in my chest making my lungs freeze. It’s been three years since I changed my life and became a different person, yet it still hits me hard at what I had to endure in high school. I take deep breaths, close my eyes and think about who I am now, who I vow to always be. My heart slows to a steadier rhythm and I continue to my personal bathroom, turning on the shower to hot.

One by one, my clothes hit the white tiles on the floor and the slight chill in the air has my skin prickling. I look in my oval mirror screwed into the wall above the sink and notice how pale my skin is, how my eyes aren’t sparkling like they did when I was a child. Will that sparkle ever come back?

I shake my head and turn, stepping into the shower and letting the scalding water run over my skin. My muscles tense at the heat and I grit my teeth. I can’t stand having the water this hot but it’s the one thing over the years that has calmed my anxiety before it gets to the point of a panic attack.

As my breathing evens out, my eyes squeezed shut, I take a few deep, shuddering breaths before I finish up and get out, grabbing the over-sized towel and wrapping it around myself. The bathroom is so steamed up I can’t make myself out in the mirror.

My thoughts turn to tonight’s ball and having to mingle with the lavish and the rich, the beauty and the handsome. Not my idea of a good night, but it’s my job. Sighing, I open the bathroom door and enter my room, the chill in the air causing goosebumps to rise on my skin and I pull the towel tighter around me.

Getting ready for the night is the only part I love about these damn black-tie events. I get to dress up, make myself look rich and exquisite; make myself fit in. I love how it makes me feel about myself. After the shit I’ve been through, I’m glad to have that at least.

It takes a little over an hour and a half to finish up and by the time I traipse downstairs, a muffled horn beeps from outside. I’m off! I shout through the living room door as I waltz past. Back later!

Have fun! Is the shout I get back, that awful Real Housewives playing loudly. I have no idea what anyone see’s in those kind of reality shows, they’re boring, staged, fake and completely ridiculous.

Shaking my head, I open the front door and make my way to the elevator, spritzing myself with my purse-sized perfume; some expensive shit that some client brought me a few weeks back.

This client is one that comes back every other week; a politician. Though, I’ve never bothered listening to what he’s ever said about his job, it’s a bore and it’s always some sort of function that I have to attend with him to; a bit of arm candy to show off to his buddies. No sweat though, he pays good and travelling in a limo each time is pretty cool. I have to admit, I prefer traveling in speedy cars like a Bugatti or Lambo, even a Ferarri or a Porche 911. Hell, I’d even settle for a Nissan Skyline GTR.

I shake my head slightly, clearing all thoughts and focus on my job, transforming myself into ‘Tigeress’, the person the clients know. I smirk as I exit the apartment complex, and put an extra sway in my hips as I stroll to the limo. The chauffeur, looking all handsome in his suit and top hat, opens the rear door, tipping his head in greeting and offering me a hand to support me climbing in; such a well-trained gentleman, I must say. Thank you, I say, giving him one of my dazzling smiles. I climb in delicately as the dress is quite limiting; very snug around the legs, flowing with light ruffles at the bottom.

Good evening, Tigeress, my client’s smooth voice says as the door closes behind me. You’re looking gorgeous as always this evening, I must say.

Thank you, Mr. Fertiland. You’re looking rather dashing yourself. I give him a wink and he passes me a flute of champagne. To a good evening, Sir. I clink my glass to his and take a sip and let the sweet bubbles explode on my tongue. Mmm, expensive stuff.

Always a pleasure to have you on my arm, you certainly make me look good at these events, Tigeress, you’re very professional and discreet. I like that. His head tilts to the side as he gives me a proper once over with his eyes. Mr. Fertiland is creepy, a little pervy, and a whole lot of arrogant. He’s bald on top and a beer gut that spills over his black slacks; I usually turn down guys that look like him, but Mr. Fertiland has been hiring us since we opened. He’s recently divorced, has five children and is so career driven that none of his family even speak to him; unless they want money. Tonight, the charity is for America’s Unwanted Children. I support many children’s charities, this one is the one I donate the majority too.

Interesting. I’m glad there’s charities out there to help kids. These days, they go through so much. I should know, three years ago, my life was HELL.

Agreed. Ten years ago when I was still married, we fostered over fifty children within a seven year period. They’ve ended up strong-willed, educated young adults, some are teenagers now. He sighs. I’m guessing he’s missing his old life; his wife and kids. Family is everything, unless you’re me.

My family disowned me when I moved 2,316 miles away to go to college. My dad was strict, at times he’d beat rules and regulations into me and my brother. It was tiring, painful and I spent most of my childhood petrified of having a whip from the belt for not making my bed correctly, or even leaving the