Out of Service: Service Girl Chronicles, #3

By Heidi Lowe

Following her bust-up with the people she loves, Erica is left picking up the pieces of her broken heart. London and drama school were once her sanctuary, but while there, she makes a startling decision and heads back to Chicago with a new objective.

Determined to make a success of herself, she reaches out to one of her favorite clients for help. She'll need to work her butt off, literally, in order to finance her brand new venture. This means one final stint as an escort, something she's more than happy to do. 

When the opportunity to make amends with her estranged friends and family comes along, she's prepared to take it. The chance to start afresh with someone unexpected might also be on the cards, but first she'll have to get over Dana, once and for all. Which proves difficult, not just because they keep bumping into each other, but because it's no longer clear who can't keep away from whom...

Out of Service is the third book in the Service Girl Chronicles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heidi Lowe Books
• Release date: Dec 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386136620

Heidi Lowe

Heidi Lowe writes steamy lesbian fiction.

Book preview

Out of Service

(Service Girl Chronicles, 3)

by Heidi Lowe

Published by Heidi Lowe Books, 2018.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

OUT OF SERVICE

First edition. September 14, 2018

Copyright © 2018 Heidi Lowe

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CONTENTS

Title

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

After Service Preview

Books By Heidi Lowe

Blurb

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ONE

The blinking text cursor on my laptop screen silently taunted me, while all around me the coffee shop patrons chattered away merrily, not a care in the world. No pressure. No deadlines. No hungry fans to satisfy.

Perhaps choosing a seat by the window wasn’t the best idea. No, it definitely wasn’t. Too much happening in the busy streets of Stratford to focus my attention on my task: Extremely camp man walking a poodle; teenage twins dressed identically, ogling a passing woman with what could only have been a fake butt (I’d seen enough real ones in the flesh to know a fake when I saw it); a man in a suit dropping his change everywhere and scrambling to pick it up. Vibrant, bustling London and all its drama!

I groaned, turned back to my screen, back to the blinking cursor, then groaned again. Four in the afternoon and I’d written just one paragraph in as many cappuccinos. With my funds running dangerously low, one coffee per day was all I could afford. A small price to pay for good, free WiFi access.

I bit my lip and typed a sentence, just to see how it sounded: Diane jumped off a cliff and no one missed her. Yeah, that wouldn’t have gone down well with the readers, no siree, despite how I felt about it; how I felt about her — the real Diane, aka Dana. A cliff, a building, it was all the same to me. She didn’t want anything to do with me, so what did I care what happened to her?

You finished with that? the barista, a slightly chubby but cute girl with pigtails said, snatching me from my reverie. She picked up my cappuccino mug, which had been empty for over an hour.

Yeah, thanks.

She smiled. Can I get you anything else?

Sure, if it’s on the house, I joked.

She laughed. I think the idea of a shop is that people pay for things.

I shrugged. Well, it was worth a shot. I searched through my pockets, knowing full well I had no more money with me. That was how I avoided overspending: I budgeted for just one medium coffee each day, and left my purse at home. After a few moments, I sighed. If I don’t buy anything else, does that mean I have to leave?

She chuckled. We’re not Starbucks! Stay as long as you like.

Thanks.

I expected her to move on, but she continued hovering, trying to get a peek at my screen.

What you working on? A novel?

Usually I took pains to keep what I was writing secret from those around me, for no other reason than my first drafts were utter trash, and I wanted to spare myself the embarrassment. But seeing as she’d done me a solid by letting me stay, I indulged her.

Something like that. I’m writing this serialized story for a site called Wattpad.

Her face lit up with recognition. Oh, I know that site. There’s this story my mates put me on to that I binge-read the other day. It’s about this girl who becomes an escort, but only sleeps with women, and ends up falling for one of her married clients.

I felt my whole face burn up. What were the odds? Of all the coffee shops in town, I'd walked into the one with a barista who read my story.

All the women are filthy, stinking rich, and married... she continued animatedly.

I’m familiar with the story, I said quietly.

You’re a fan too? It’s actually pretty good. I mean, it does get a little graphic, but I mostly skip over the sex scenes.

Good to know, I mumbled to myself, now a little disheartened. The sex scenes were hardly graphic. I mean, they could have been much worse. Prude!

Who do you think Carmen will end up with?

Carmen was the name I’d given my character, along with a new personality. Carmen was everything I wasn’t: cool, funny, and had supportive parents and friends. She lived in New York, hadn’t been disowned, nor did she have a best friend who’d betrayed her. We were identical when it came to love, however. She’d loved and lost, just like me. But I still hadn’t decided what her happy ending would look like.

No idea, I said, weakly. At least I knew who she definitely wouldn’t end up with. Diane. That was off the table... for both of us.

I’m with everyone else, I want it to be Diane. It has to be. Her passion when she spoke about my story — my life — about the happy ending I’d been essentially robbed of, made me queasy. Carmen could have, in theory, had the ending I’d dreamed of; but that would have been impossible for me to write without bursting into tears.

I slammed the laptop shut and packed it away.

If you ask me, I mumbled, the author should just kill her off. Carmen’s better off without her.

Catherine and Sheena, my flatmates, were arguing, again, when I got home twenty minutes later. A daily occurrence in our three-bed apartment. The space was so small, we were often under each other’s feet. And when you lived with someone — Catherine — who frequently forgot to wash up her dishes, and instead left them soaking in the sink for days, things got heated quickly.

If you’re going to be out of the country for a week, at least have the decency to not leave your crap in the washing machine! Sheena shouted.

Hi, I said to the room, and didn’t care that no one noticed me or replied. I stepped past the furious women, and boiled the kettle. January in England was like a day in Antarctica. I planned on filling up a hot water bottle, crawling beneath my duvet, and watching something on Netflix.

You can just take them out and leave them in my room, Catherine said, hands on her hips. Problem solved.

I thought about chiming in, telling her that it was kinda selfish to expect someone to do that, but kept my mouth shut until they were done with their argument.

When did you get here? Sheena said, moments later, once Catherine had called her a silly cow and stormed off.

About five minutes ago, I said. Can I use some of your milk? I forgot to get some.

She nodded, sat down at the table as I made myself a coffee.

You didn’t go to school today, did you? she started, as I knew she would. Now it was my turn to get reprimanded by Mother Sheena. At thirty-three she had nine years on me, six on Catherine, and took her role as authoritarian seriously, a role no one had tasked her with. She’d graduated from RADA a couple of years prior, and had bit parts in British TV shows, nothing major.

It took me a while to respond. I had stuff to do.

The only stuff you should be doing, Erica, is going to school. Do you know how many women would kill to take your place there?

I groaned. She meant well, I knew she did, but I hated getting the third degree, especially from someone whose womb I hadn’t popped out of! I already had one mother — albeit one who’d disowned me — I was in no hurry to get another.

When was the last time you went in?

I shrugged. A month and some change.

She folded her arms. They’re going to kick you out, I hope you know that.

It might not be such a bad thing, I said under my breath, but she heard anyway.

Is that really what you want?

I wasn’t sure. Since the new school year had begun, my appetite for acting had waned. Big style. It all seemed pointless. Seeing Sheena and many of the past drama school grads still struggling to find gainful employment, still trying to prove themselves, made the whole thing seem hopeless. As the actor, you had no control over your own destiny. I wanted to be in control.

There has to be another way, I said.

She frowned. What?

Nothing. There was no use talking to her about my reservations. She’d committed to the struggle; it was all she knew.

Were you working on the new chapter? Reprimanding over, I was back to being the housemate who had the popular story on Wattpad. Sheena, despite her objections to me skipping class, was one of my biggest fans. She'd loved the story from my very first chapter four months prior. I’d given it to her to read and she’d demanded a second chapter. It had been her idea to post it on Wattpad. Now, fifteen chapters, five million reads, and two hundred thousand likes later, I’d exceeded all of our expectations.

"Yeah, but I didn’t get much done. It’s been crazy. Since Fiona White mentioned the story on Wake Up, England and tweeted about it, the pressure's gotten to me. Nothing comes out naturally anymore. Now I’m worried I’ll offend someone, or anger my readers. It’s horrible."

Fiona White was a TV presenter on one of those breakfast shows no one sane ever woke up early enough to watch. Or so I'd thought. As it turned out, lots of people were tuned in the morning one of her guests asked her what she was reading, and she happened to mention my story. Her tweet with a link to the story was the tipping point, however. My reads had, up until then, been modest. Overnight, they exploded. That was three weeks ago. I’d been creatively constipated since then. Getting new chapters out now was like pulling teeth.

Sheena laughed. You’re the only person I know who complains about getting good publicity.

I’m not complaining, I’m just... It’s a lot of pressure, that’s all.

Get used to it. Someone’s bound to want to publish the story when it’s finished. Instant bestseller.

I shook my head. I don’t want to publish it as a book.

I had bigger plans, none of which I dared share with anyone for fear of being laughed out of the room. One other good thing had come out of Fiona White’s endorsement. I’d read over her tweet maybe one hundred times, with the biggest grin on my face, and dollar signs in my eyes. She’d said, among other things, I would love to see this on the silver screen. Something sparked inside me. Books, nope. But films, now that was a medium I could get behind. Since then, I’d secretly been watching YouTube videos on indie film-making, trying to learn everything I could. It made perfect sense.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. My face lit up when I read the text that had come through. Video chat? 11pm your time. Wear something sexy... or nothing at all. Xx.

The view from Algebra's hotel suite in Tokyo was breathtaking. I was still picking my jaw up off the floor when she returned to the bedroom moments later with a glass of champagne. The woman drank champagne like it was water.

This stuff is so rare it has to be escorted in armored vehicles by men with samurai swords, she said, then took a sip. The story's complete nonsense, I'm sure, but this is divine.

I chuckled, wishing I was that drink touching those plump, red lips. That good, huh? Best thing you've ever tasted? I knew where this line of questioning was going, and I was ready.

Her lascivious smile gave me goosebumps all over, as though she would climb through my laptop screen and devour me. Her eyes threatened to do so.

Nothing tastes better than you, Erica. She licked her lips at the thought. Two-thousand dollar champagne has nothing on you. Remind me again how long it's been since I last ate you out.

I was never as prepared to hear those words as I thought I was, and felt my cheeks light up. I checked behind me to make sure the living room door was still shut,

Reviews for Out of Service

[andrea · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Page turner... Didnt want to stop reading so i finished in 1 day. Fabulous read! Great job author!

[winnie · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I actually wanted Erica and Algebra to be together.. really good piece of contemporary lesbian fiction to add to the canon