by Ada Scott
But me? I’ve never been much of a morning person. Especially if I’ve stayed up late the night before. I groan, remembering how terrible last night was. What an awful first shift.
“You okay in there, Janie?” Granny chirps.
I hurriedly hop out of bed and pull a cardigan around my shoulders, running over to open the door. “I’m awake. Just had kind of a late night,” I tell her, hoping she won’t ask questions. The last thing I need is for her to find out what kind of job I’ve accepted.
“Oh no! Did you have trouble falling asleep? Your grandfather has some old contraption called a white-noise machine or something that might help—”
I shake my head and give her a reassuring smile. “No, no. I’m fine. Just, uh, stayed up late reading. Like I used to do when I was little.”
She looks relieved. “Oh, good. You know, your grandpa thought he heard you leave last night. He nearly got out of bed to go check, but I told him he was just hearing things. Must be getting hard of hearing in his old age, I guess.” She chuckles and shuffles off to the kitchen.
“I’ll come join you in a minute,” I call after her, gently closing the door and pressing my back against it. I shut my eyes and heave a deep breath. That was close.
I thought I’d been quiet enough sneaking out last night—after all, both my grandparents are heavy sleepers and always have been. But from now on I’ll definitely need to be quieter. Under no circumstances can I let either of them find out what I’ve been up to. I wouldn’t know how to explain myself, and my grandmother’s heart would break if she found out I’m taking a break from college to work.
I get ready for the day, sweeping my hair back into a ponytail and putting on a tank top and jeans. In the bathroom mirror, my eyes look puffy, with purplish bags underneath them. It’s pretty obvious that I didn’t sleep much.
“Oh well,” I mutter, heading downstairs for pancakes. Granny is daintily cutting her stack into tiny pieces, her maple syrup neatly contained in a little puddle not touching the pancakes at all. On the other end of the scale, Grandpa’s plate is a scattered mess of soggy bits while he sits reading the paper, his bifocals resting on his nose.
I dig into my breakfast, my stomach yowling. Grandpa glances at me through his reading glasses, lowering his newspaper for a moment to say, “Morning, Janie. Sleep well?”
Nervously, I nod. “Had some trouble falling asleep but nothing too bad.”
“Good, good. Oh, before I forget—you’ve got a letter in the mail. Doesn’t have a return address. Probably just someone trying to sell you something, but I’ll leave that to you,” he says, going back to his paper.
“Could be a secret admirer confessing their love,” Granny says, laughing. “You don’t have to always assume the worst, you know.”
“More like some marketing agent professing their love for your hard-earned money,” Grandpa teases gently. “Letter’s on the end table by the front door, Janie.”
I finish up breakfast and, after helping clean up, I go pick up the plain black envelope and take it to my room, plopping down on my bed to open it. The letter inside is more like an advertisement and at first I’m tempted to just toss it.
But then I catch the title: Innocence For Sale.
“What the hell does that mean?” I murmur to myself, frowning in confusion. I read on, raising an eyebrow as the ad describes the bizarre market of selling one’s own…virginity?
“What?” I mumble, shaking my head. Clearly this is some kind of prank. “Gross.”
But then I scan down to the bottom of the page and my eyes focus in on a number.
A long number. With a lot of zeroes.
This “industry” or whatever it is seems to be offering as much as six figures in exchange for a girl’s virginity. This cannot be real. This kind of thing surely doesn’t exist. And if it does, it certainly doesn’t present itself as an anonymous letter in the mail. Who could have sent this to me?
None of my friends at school know me well enough to have my grandparents’ home address. And none of them know I’m a virgin. I mean, it’s not exactly like I share my intimate personal details with everyone I meet. I’m a really private person. I don’t talk about stuff like that. It just never comes up, and I’m sure as hell not going to bring it up.
So how could some stranger—genuine or prankster—possibly know to target me for this kind of business exchange? Who on the planet would consider me for such a position?
And is it even legitimate?
I mean, the look and feel of the advertisement and envelope it came in seem really professional, like some Fortune 500 company is reaching out to offer me a job. The print job, the graphic design—everything looks flawless. And expensive. If this is a prank, it’s a very, very elaborate one, and I cannot think of a single person who would do something like this.
But somebody obviously chose me on purpose. It’s not like I’ve ever signed up for a mailing list that has anything to do with sex. It’s not that I’m a prude, I’m just…cautious. And I’ve never met the right person. “And I doubt I’d meet the right person by selling my virginity to him,” I admit softly, folding up the letter and stuffing it back in the envelope.
Even if this is a legitimate business proposition and not some stupid joke, it’s not the kind of thing for me. I haven’t been saving myself for the highest bidder. I’m still a virgin because I want my first time to be with someone I truly love and feel comfortable with. If I sell out now, I’ll be betraying myself, won’t I?
Yes, it’s a lot of money. And yes, I am absolutely in desperate need of a lot of money. My grandpa’s hospital bills are reaching sky-high numbers by now, and I know that angioplasty is hovering on the horizon. If I can’t get the money in time for the surgery…well, I hate to think what will happen to my grandfather.
I bite my lip, staring down at the envelope in my hands with trepidation. Six figures. I could save my grandfather’s life.
But at what personal cost? Surely this is a dangerous operation to run. And besides, I have no way of knowing that this isn’t just some scam to get me into a treacherous sex trafficking ring or whatever.
My phone chimes with a new text message. I lean over to pick it up off the bedside table and read the message. It’s my boss, Mack, telling me to show up at ten o’clock again tonight for my second shift at the club. I groan, rolling my eyes as I flop back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling blankly.
“Between a rock and a hard place,” I mutter to myself. “That’s where I am.”
I head to my room, pulling up the website on my screen. The dusty pink-and-white page stares at me, along with the blurred image of a woman. A woman for sale. I feel a shiver go through me, self-consciousness making me bite my lower lip.
I navigate to the section for the girls.
My hands tremble as I scroll down, my fuzzy head barely comprehending what I’m reading. I just get bits and pieces. The buyers would be verified, whatever that means. They’d provide me with hair and makeup and a new wardrobe. I’d have a security team.
I bite my lip harder as I read over the screen again and again until it all sinks in, and then immediately erase my browser history.
I measure the pros and cons in my head.
At the club, I have to fend off skeezy guys. But with Innocence For Sale, I would have to sleep with one. At the club, I barely make more than minimum wage, and the tips aren’t exactly overflowing. With Innocence For Sale, I would make a lot of money for considerably less work. Wham-bam-pow, it’s all over and done with, and I walk away with a fat check with which to save my grandfather’s life.
The answer, when I really think about it, seems pretty clear.
“Am I really going to do this?” I wonder aloud as I heave myself out of bed and over to the en suite bathroom, slipping into the shower. My heart races at the thought of finally being able to stop worrying about money, about my grandpa’s health. I could fix everything. I could make it all okay again. All on my own, with no
body else’s help.
And I’d never have to set foot in that awful club again. I certainly wouldn’t miss it.
Except for…well, that guy. The bouncer with the ocean eyes. The one who stepped up and kicked that nasty patron’s ass, who defended the dancer’s honor easily, without hesitation. The bouncer with the towering height and the muscles bulging through his black button-up shirt. His full lips. His sharp cheekbones. I don’t want to forget him. I don’t think I could, come to think of it.
I reach up and take down the detachable shower head, turning it to a pulse setting as I lean back against the slick tile wall of the shower. I close my eyes and hold the stream of water over my mound, spreading my thighs to let the jet stroke against my clit.
A tingle of pleasure runs down my spine as I think of the bouncer. I imagine him defending my honor. Swinging me over his shoulder and carrying me outside to the parking lot. I can almost feel his powerful arms lifting me, then setting me down on the hood of a sleek, classic Corvette.
I lick my lips, feeling the pulse of the water hard on my tight little bud of nerves, feeling the waves of bliss roll over me. I imagine the bouncer peeling my shirt off, then his. He yanks my skirt up my thighs, pulls my panties aside to reveal my glistening folds. He unzips his black pants, his massive cock springing free. I gasp, reaching down to rub myself in rhythm with the jet of water.
I imagine the bouncer penetrating me, shoving his full length deep inside me, popping my cherry in a rush of mingled pain and pleasure. He fucks me slowly at first, leaning over to kiss me and stroke my face. Then he picks up the pace, his hips moving back and forth as he slams into me again and again, striking that deep, dark, delicious core that makes me whimper with pleasure.
I imagine him growling my name. “Jane. Oh, Jane. I’m so glad you waited for me.”
I can almost feel him inside me, shooting his thick seed deep within me.
My whole body shakes as an orgasm shatters through me, and I drop the shower head, sending a wild spray of water as it clatters against the wall. I stand there for a moment, breathing heavily, my heart racing.
“Damn,” I mumble, shakily setting the shower head back in its dock and resuming my shower with trembling hands.
I know now—I can’t give up my virginity to just anybody. It has to be someone I care about. I’m simply not the kind of girl to trade my innocence, my purity, for a few bucks. Or, well, in this case, a lot of bucks. And a bouncer isn’t going to have six figures to blow on something like that. I have to get my head out of the clouds.
Besides, if I go back to work at the club, there’s a good chance I’ll see that bouncer again, and I absolutely don’t want to lose that opportunity.
After my shower, I blow dry my hair, get dressed, and spend the rest of the day running errands with my grandmother around town.
From time to time, my mind wanders back to the strange letter, but I force myself to put the thought aside. I’ve made my decision. I’m going to pay for Grandpa’s angioplasty the old-fashioned way—with good, honest work. Even if it takes a lot longer. I’ll work my ass off if I need to.
And catching a glimpse of that hot bouncer will help me get through it.
I’m much more careful when I sneak out of the house tonight. This time, I’m wearing black jeans and a low-cut black top, my hair in lush brown waves around my shoulders. I want to look pretty just in case I see the bouncer, but I don’t want to invite too much groping from the patrons. And I still need to fit the uniform as described by my boss. It’s a hard line to walk.
When I get to the club, I’m dismayed to find it totally packed with rowdy customers. It looks like there’s some kind of discount dance night going on, and the patrons are crowded in here like sardines. Boisterous, rude, handsy sardines.
The whole night, I have to fend off the advances of drunk, entitled men who seem to think there are no rules. And to an extent, they’re right. That bouncer, the handsome one, isn’t here tonight. And the other bouncers are usually more interested in checking their phones and chatting with the dancers than actually doing their job. It’s obvious that without my favorite bouncer here, the patrons can sense the no-holds-barred atmosphere. It makes them act like animals.
Twice during my shift, I rush to the bathroom to lock myself in a stall and force myself not to start crying. If I cry, my makeup will run, and then I won’t look pretty anymore. The only way I can have any hope of getting good tips is if I look pretty, worthy of these patrons’ money, if not their respect.
My boss yells at me for not being flirtatious enough, for not playing up my “assets” well enough. Apparently he would prefer me in a skirt to show off my legs. And he rudely tells me I should wear a push-up bra, even though I already feel like my cleavage is far too exposed. There’s just no pleasing these people.
When, around midnight, one of the patrons actually grabs my ass and yanks me down onto his lap to feel me up, I’ve had enough. Without thinking twice about it, I reach over and snatch a whiskey-and-coke out of a neighboring patron’s hand and slosh it into the grabby guy’s face before stomping on his foot with my heel and storming off.
I know I’m leaving a trail of destruction in my wake. The patrons are howling, shaking their fists, running after me to kick my ass. My boss is screaming at me from behind the bar, ordering me to apologize. The bouncers are nowhere to be found.
“Turn your tight little ass around and tell that man you’re sorry!” Mack demands, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head with anger.
In an act of outright rebellion I didn’t even consider myself capable of, I flip him my middle finger and yell back, “I won’t turn around, I won’t say I’m sorry, and I quit!”
Thankfully, the bouncers finally do their damn job and stop the angry mob of men from following me out into the parking lot. I march straight to my car, get behind the wheel, and drive home in a state of fuming rage.
As I’m about to storm through the house, I remember that I still need to be quiet. I grit my teeth and carefully turn the front door knob, holding my heels in my hands as I tiptoe barefoot to my room. Once I’m safely inside, I go back to that website and hit Contact Us. I am a girl looking to sell. That’s it.
My name is Jane Appleton. I received your offer in the mail. After careful deliberation, I have decided that I would be honored if you would consider me for the position. I would love to join Innocence For Sale.
Caleb
Smoke hangs in the air of the big penthouse apartment, making the lavish decor look hazy in the dark corners of the room. I stand at the glass doors to the balcony, looking out over the city lit up in bright neon lights and the glow of the full moon.
In the reflection, I can see the men in suits gathered around the poker table. The game’s just getting started. The game I’m running security for.
One of the men is my boss, Artur “Junior” Gorsky. He’s been making waves in Vegas since his father got sick. He had to if he wanted to make it clear he’d be inheriting his father’s legacy. And that he did, when his dad finally died. He’s young for a don, which might be why the nickname stuck. Still, he’s a stout guy with a thick mustache, and the look in his eyes can’t hide the fact that he’s a hardened killer.
His right-hand man is in the game with him, along with a couple of private high-rollers he keeps connections with.
But the guest of honor tonight is Castellano, who sits across from Gorsky. He’s got a long, narrow face with a hooked nose. With a short and slim frame, he’s not much to look at or pick out from a crowd. But in stark contrast with Gorsky, Castellano’s got bright, fiery eyes that make up for everything else making him someone you wouldn’t think twice about.
Castellano’s polite, but he’s dangerous. You have to be, to stay on top as an art dealer in Vegas.
I hear three of the men check. Then it’s Gorsky’s turn, and he hesitates, keeping eye contact with Castellano for a few moments. Finally, he speaks to him in Russian—the language they’ve all been usin
g tonight.
To them, I may as well be a deaf security agent.
“When I showed you around, Mr. Castellano, I saw you eyeing the Sandys original hanging in my bedroom.”
“You have a good eye,” Castellano says with a casual air.
“It’s worth a firm $20k. I’ll put that on the table.” He looks around at the raised eyebrows surrounding him and says, “Come on, gentlemen, this is Vegas. You all look like you can appreciate a piece of fine art.”
Castellano gives a thin smile. He’s not exactly impressed with Gorsky’s flimsy tries at impressing him, but he’s been persistent all night, and he seems to be in the mood to humor the Russians.
“$20k it is,” he says, sliding his chips across the table, and the rest of the men besides Gorsky fold, leaving the two men with eyes locked on each other.
A tense few seconds follow before the men play their hands, and shortly after, the other players swear under their breaths as Castellano pulls his chips back in while Gorsky congratulates him gracefully.
Gorsky has been playing lavishly all night. They have unreasonably expensive vodka going around, they stopped for dinner at a five-star restaurant before the game, and the figures these men have been betting have been making everyone besides Gorsky and Castellano sweat.
That aside, I’ve been to this apartment before, and I know for a fact it’s been spruced up to the tune of many thousands of dollars. Gorsky must really be banking on this art deal. No surprise. It’s a high-stakes market, especially in a place like Vegas.
“You play for higher stakes than I’m used to, Mr. Gorsky,” Castellano says with a sincere smile, and Gorsky makes a show of waving it off as if it’s nothing.
“My men and I do very well in Vegas. We are used to a certain standard in our games. Shall we continue?”
