by Zoey Parker
Mom hated that I dressed that way for work, but there was nothing I could do about it. I had a decent body, and I had to use it if I was ever going to get her into a hospice. She needed it as soon as possible. Then I could worry about the soul-sucking debt collectors.
“I’m heading out, Mom. Janet’s just next door, she’ll be over in a minute.”
Mom shook her head when she saw my t-shirt, jeans, and boots. I wore heavier makeup than usual, too—all the better to be seen in the dim lighting at the bar. “Are you sure it’s all right for you to wear an outfit like that?”
I grinned. “Mom. If it weren't okay, I wouldn’t have a job. And I wouldn’t be making a couple of hundred bucks a shift. Don’t worry about it.” I gave her a kiss before hurrying out the door.
Thirty minutes later I was knee-deep in prep work. The idiot who worked the afternoon shift hadn’t replenished anything for me before he left, so I had to refill the ice, wipe down the bottles, replace a few empties, and fill the beer fridge. I could have killed him. I barely made it in time to be ready for happy hour.
The place filled up fast, giving me no time to think. That was for the best, though. When I did have the time, I always compared myself to the young people who came in after long days at work. They were roughly my age, some a little younger. All of them had good jobs requiring suits or dresses. All of the girls carried nice bags, and every one of them had a big, shiny smartphone at the ready for an impromptu selfie or shot of their drinks and apps for Instagram.
What would it be like to live that sort of life? Not living every day in fear of what would happen? When I woke up in the morning, my first thought was of my mother, and she was my last thought before I went to sleep. Would she make it through the night? Would she be in even more pain when she woke up? How much longer would it last? Was it wrong for me to wish her suffering could be over?
But I put on a big smile and poured drinks and served low-priced appetizers to the post-work crowd. Pot stickers. I would have presented them differently—the chef behind the line didn’t understand the concept of putting a little effort into the happy hour crowd. Just because they were paying lower prices didn’t mean they didn’t deserve a little flair. Same thing with the eggrolls, and the fried mozzarella, and the bruschetta. The choices were all boring and sedate, too. Nothing the customers couldn’t get at any chain restaurant in America. Another concept the chef didn’t quite understand.
I would have done things differently. It was a game I sometimes played when there was a lull in the action. How would I have shaped the menu? How would I present the food? While I was at it, how would I have laid out the restaurant just beyond the bar? What sort of experience would I want my customers to have?
I didn’t have much time to think about that, though, not with a Friday night crowd on my hands. The place was jammed, and I was thrilled as the pocket in my apron got fatter and fatter with cash. What a relief, having money in my apron.
At one point, after what felt like only minutes of work but was more like hours, I saw Mac waving feverishly at me from the doorway. I grinned, waving back. She was like a jolt of energy, that girl. The tiniest little thing, not even five feet tall, with a head full of almost white-blonde hair all curled up in corkscrews. Her hair had always reminded me of her personality, even when we were kids. Bouncy.
She’d brought roughly a dozen women with her. I was relieved to see that she’d kept her word, though it wasn’t like I had been worried. She was generally pretty good at that.
She introduced me to all of them, acting like the bar was hers. The funny part was, anybody who saw the way she acted and heard her confident, strident voice would have believed her. For a girl as tiny as she was, she could command a room. There was no missing her.
“Drinks all around!” she cried out. “And don’t forget to tip my girl heavily! She deserves it!” I laughed, pouring rows of shots for the cheering women. I had the feeling a lot of liquor would be flowing.
Once I’d finished and they settled into their regular drinks, Mac gave me the eye. In all the rushing around I had forgotten that there was something she wanted to talk to me about. I called over to my partner, working the other end of the bar, and told her I needed to take fifteen. It was the first time I was leaving my station since I walked into the place.
“Walk with me, talk with me,” I said, hurrying to the ladies’ room. “It’s been all night and all of a sudden, I really have to go!”
Mac laughed. “Okay, but I can only talk if we have privacy in there.”
I eyed her suspiciously. “What the heck is this all about?”
“It’s pretty personal.” She looked dead serious.
“All right. We won’t use the public rooms. Come here.” I led her to the private bathroom reserved for management. The manager wasn’t in, so I knew I’d be able to get away with it. I bundled her in and shut the door behind us.
“Wow, it’s nice in here,” Mac said, surveying the comfortable room. “Nicer than the public rooms.”
“Because the public doesn’t use it.” I laughed. Women were the worst sometimes, especially when they were drunk and didn’t care if they left toilet paper all over the floor. “Okay, so talk.”
She turned her back to let me do my business in a little more privacy. “I heard something at work today. Some guys were talking about it. And I thought of you.”
“Um…okay. Could I have some more details?”
She sighed, fidgeting. I knew that fidget, even when I was only looking at her back. She had something to say but didn’t know how to say it. She didn’t think I would like it. I braced myself.
“Okay, so, like, here it is. Keep in mind, I don’t mean anything by this and if you don’t wanna do it I totally understand. I’m only bringing it to your attention since you were the first thing I thought of when I heard about it. But I’m not saying you should. It’s just I know you need the money.”
My eyes narrowed. “What did you have in mind?” I stood, crossing to the sink to wash my hands. “You can look at me now, you know.”
She turned slowly, and from the way she frowned, I knew she was serious. “Well, it’s a way to make money. A lot of money, actually. The guy who was talking about it, he said he heard of a girl making twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“The only way for a woman to make that kind of money is either by selling drugs or herself. Which one is it?” I crossed my arms, smirking.
“Herself. Actually, her virginity.”
My mouth gaped open. “Virginity? You can’t be serious.”
“Hear me out! Please!” I had been two seconds away from pushing past her and ripping the door open, but she stopped me even though with my boots I came in nearly a foot taller than she was. She took a deep breath. “It’s an auction. Girls auction off their virginity for a ton of cash. Michelle, I know you’re not that kind of person. But I know how much you need the money, too. I wouldn’t bring it to you if I didn’t know how much trouble you’re in.”
I was furious. Auction off my virginity? I wondered if my best friend knew me at all. “Why would I wait twenty-six years to have sex only to auction it to some loser who has to pay for a woman to sleep with him?”
“That’s the thing. It’s not like that at all. These are discerning men. Usually pretty well off. I don’t know how they find out about it—I’m not sure I want to. It has to be some underground grapevine sort of thing. They can get a woman, easy. But they don’t want an easy woman. They want a different sort of experience.”
I shuddered.
“I know, I know. It’s gross as hell. It skeeves me out, too. But it’s a way to make money. I’m just saying. It might be worth thinking about. I know the sort of shape you’re in.”
I sighed, turning to the mirror. “Thanks. But I can’t imagine this,” I gestured to my body, “pulling in the kind of money I need.”
“Um, are we looking at the same person? Jeez, it’s like you’re blind or something.” She stood behind me. �
��You’re tall, stacked, slim. Gorgeous hair, gorgeous eyes, gorgeous skin. Pouty lips. I mean, come on.”
She saw that. I saw tall, gangly, clumsy. Too pale, too skinny. Boring brown hair.
“I just don’t see it,” I said. “And I don’t want to humiliate myself for nothing.”
“Sweetie, even if you were some tragic dog—which you are most definitely not—it wouldn’t matter. I hate myself for saying this, but these men don’t care. They want a virgin, which I know you are. They want that thrill. Which you can give them. And your looks will only pull a higher price. That’s it.”
I shook my head. “God, I can’t tell you how tempting it is. I’m at my wits end with the money situation. I just can’t get over the idea of selling myself like that.”
“The auction is tomorrow night. I managed to weasel the info out of the guy I heard talking about it. The dude who hosts it is a motorcycle gang leader. Reign of Chaos, I think it’s called.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, that gives me a lot of encouragement that this is totally above-board.”
“I know, I know, but I got it on scout’s honor that it is.”
“Scout’s honor from somebody who goes to virgin auctions. Funny, but it doesn’t inspire confidence.”
Mac grimaced. “You know what I’m saying. I wouldn’t put this in front of you if he hadn’t already sworn that it’s all legit. Classy. Not dirty. I promise.” She handed me a slip of paper with the information, as well as a few tips on how to dress. “I can come over tomorrow night if you decide to do it and help you get ready. If I know you, you’ll show up in sweats because you don’t know how hot you are.”
“I have a little common sense. Or else I wouldn’t dress like this for work.” I didn’t even like showing off cleavage. How on Earth would I auction off my virginity?
It wasn’t like I was trying to be a virgin. It wasn’t an active choice like it was for a lot of people. It just hadn’t happened for me. Yet. I could have hooked up with random guys in college if I had wanted to—just about any girl could. I didn’t want it to be that way. I always wanted it to be special. “Special” hadn’t come along yet.
What kind of person would I be if I went back on everything I had ever believed and gave it away to the highest bidder? How hypocritical would that be? I would hate myself.
But I already hated myself. I gave myself one more look before leaving the bathroom. I hated myself for not being able to take care of my mom the way she needed.
“How much money did you say?” I asked Mac.
“One girl got twenty-five thousand,” she said. “I think the guy who runs it takes ten or fifteen percent off the top. The rest is yours.”
Even if I got that much, even with fifteen percent taken out, that would be over twenty-one thousand dollars. What I couldn’t do with that sort of money.
I promised Mac I would think about it, that I would call her in the morning with my answer. I had to get back behind the bar.
The rest of the night was just as busy as the early stages, and Mac’s group came through with a ton of tips—over four hundred dollars in all. It was insane, and I couldn’t thank them enough. But four hundred dollars only made a small dent. It wasn’t hospice money. Twenty thousand dollars, on the other hand, put me a lot closer.
It was completely insane, and it ran through my mind all night long. The idea of standing up in front of a bunch of strangers, all of them bidding for my virginity, made my skin crawl.
But the money was worth thinking about.
Chapter Three
Eric
I woke up when the beams of sunlight hit my face. “Fuck. Why didn’t you close the curtains?” I rolled over, which knocked the girl in bed beside me off my arm and further away. I didn’t care. I didn’t even know her name. I just wanted to sleep off a hangover.
“I’m sorry, baby.” She jumped out of bed and pulled them shut. The room was dark again.
“Thanks,” I muttered. I felt the bed move, heard the springs squeak. She got back in with me. I laid still, didn’t say anything else. I wanted her to take the hint that I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. The one thing I hated more than anything after a one-night stand was a woman who wanted to get to know me. Didn’t they know if I wanted to do that, I wouldn’t have picked them up at a bar?
I must have fallen asleep again, because the next time I opened my eyes, I was alone. She wasn’t just out of bed, she was out of the house. I didn’t bother looking around to see if she took anything. Another man might have needed to do that. Most people knew better than to screw with me.
Maybe it was the murder rap.
I checked out the clock as I stumbled, half-blind, through the house. My head was only pounding a little, so I tossed back a few aspirin and chased it with orange juice straight from the bottle. There was bread and peanut butter in the cabinets, so I made a couple of sloppy sandwiches and ate them, chasing it all with more orange juice. I started feeling more human.
It was three months since I got out of prison, but a lot of things still felt new. Like being able to eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted it. If I wanted to drink a gallon of orange juice a day, I could. If I wanted to eat nothing but peanut butter for a week, nobody could stop me. Or I could order a pizza, or go for tacos at two in the morning. There was nothing in my way.
So I’d been partying a little harder than I should have. I knew it, too. But after seven years in prison, I had a lot of catching up to do. I had missed the best years of my life, locked up like an animal. Worst part was some of the people I was with were real animals. If I hadn’t gone in a man, I had come out one. I had seen things nobody should ever have to see, and I’d done things I never thought I would just to survive. Partying helped ease all the shit going on in my head.
Everybody expected me to be happy that I was out. I was happy—no doubt. But I wasn’t gonna walk around with a goddamned smile on my face all the time. I wasn’t that sort of person before I went in, so why the hell would I start?
My house was a mess. I needed to have somebody in to clean it. I needed to do a lot of things. But it all fell under the number one item on my list: revenge.
Seven years is a long time to think about getting revenge on the person you know set you up. And I knew exactly who had in my case. Gareth. The son of a bitch leader of the Reign of Chaos MC. It was one of his guys I killed. I found out later on that the guy had been expendable—if I hadn’t done it, Gareth would have. A weak little nothing who had ratted on the MC to the cops. He tried to ambush me in my clubhouse on Gareth’s orders since I was next in line to take over the club once the president stepped down. He had thought he was gonna make things right, I guessed. Gareth would accept him back into the club.
Only he didn’t. Gareth knew I’d kill the pathetic fucker.
And he knew I’d go to jail for it.
Over the years, I had fantasized over all the ways I wanted to torture Gareth for what he did to me. Sometimes the images of a screaming, writhing Gareth were all that got me through. I would flip through the images in my mind when I couldn’t sleep. It was better than a bedtime story.
He was the only thing I cared about. Finding him, killing him. Making him pay for what he had done. He would regret it before he drew his final breath, and everybody else would know I wasn’t the sort of man to be fucked with. I wasn’t the type to let go of things easily.
I shook myself to keep from going too far into my fantasies. I had shit to do. This wasn’t prison, where thinking was one of my only activities. The only safe one, anyway.
I went upstairs and got into the shower, and by the time I finished I felt more human. I dried off quickly, thinking how much nicer it was to shower alone. I could take as long as I wanted, too. I didn’t have to look over my shoulder. I had people to protect me in prison, and they’d done a good job. But there was nothing like being in my own home, doing things my way again.
I dressed, slid on my kutte and got on my bike. That was another thing I had
missed. The first time I straddled my bike after all those years, I almost had tears in my eyes. It felt that good to be back with my hands on the grips. I felt human again, like myself. It was easy to lose who you were when you were doing the time. There, you were just a name and a number, trying to stay out of the way of people who wanted to hurt you. The club had more than a few enemies in there with me, so I needed to keep an even closer watch.
It was all good, though. When I woke up in the middle of the night, I wasn’t staring up at the bottom of the cot above me. My house was silent. There were no guards walking around, there was no noise from other cells. I could breathe.
Every time I woke up with my heart pounding, thinking for the first split second that I was still behind bars, I would think of Gareth. He had done this to me. It was his fault. He might not even have known I knew—that was good. I didn’t want him to be on his guard. I wanted him to think he got away with it before I tied him to a chair and cut off his dick. One of my other ideas involved scooping out his eyeballs, but then I wanted him to see what I was doing. So the eyes would have to stay in.
