by Ana Sparks
“Tell her ‘yes,’” I said, with a hang-up for goodbye. If Carla wanted to keep her job, she had better learn to keep her opinions to herself.
I wheeled back to gaze out the window. After all, who else in my position would behave any differently? I was the billionaire CEO of a booming company; I didn’t have time for girlfriends. Just a quick meeting here and there, a nice night of luxury for us both—and I was generous, wasn’t I? Really, what red-blooded 28-year-old would do anything differently?
Frowning, I stepped out of my office and made for the elevator. I could always ask Carla to get me the chocolate bar I was craving, but I wasn’t in the mood for her. Yes, it had been my express request that Eugene find me a homely, unattractive sort for my secretary, so history wouldn’t repeat itself, but that hadn’t meant I wanted an actual gargoyle.
Downstairs, the café was out of my favorite snack.
“One question,” I told the skinny dweeb behind the front counter, “Who owns this building?”
“Uh, you?” he asked.
I nodded. “Right. And so, who, out of everyone in this building, who would you say is the most important?”
He gulped.
“You?”
Another big nod, a flash of a $40,000-veneered smile.
“Exactly. So, if this person has a favorite chocolate bar, wouldn’t you say it was pretty fucking important that you got it for him?” My voice has lowered to a deadly hiss and the skinny dweeb looked like I was holding him by the throat.
“Y-yes,” he choked out.
Leaning in, my face inches from his, I continued.
“So if I came back here and it wasn’t here again, I wouldn’t want to be whoever was responsible for that.”
Turning and walking away was the period to my sentence. In the hallways, people parted, the men nodded and the women smiled. Busy, busy. I walked over to my personal elevator, which came faster than theirs, naturally. I was the only one riding it after all.
Back upstairs; I stopped at Carla’s desk.
“Has my mother called?”
She shook her head, her brown perm ruffing with the movement.
“Do you want me to call her?” The question was innocent enough, and yet that tone, coming from that self-satisfied face, told me exactly what she thought.
I stormed off, back into my room. Flopping back on my chair, I had a dozen or so things to do, but found myself plagued by the one thing I didn’t have to.
Really, why should I call my mother? She and I had been on and off for years. The pattern was like the seasons, inevitable and expected. I gave her things, she asked for more, rinse and repeat.
My brother’s voice echoed in my head: She just wants you to spend time with us.
I smiled as I remembered my response: “Eugene, don’t I spend enough on you all?”
Because really, I did. Who’d bought the big house on Sunnydale Avenue they all enjoyed? Who bought them that trip to Hawaii? Sure, maybe I hadn’t visited the house quite as much as I’d said I would, but couldn’t they see that this was all for them? Ever since that night of the prom debacle, all of this work, this empire building, it was all for them, for us. So we could breathe easily for once and enjoy some success for a change.
“It’s Eugene on the line,” Carla’s voice buzzed from my phone.
“Put him through,” I said.
A click, then “Clark?”
“Eugene! What did she say?”
A sharp intake of breath, then “Well, she doesn’t really want to talk to you.”
“What? Doesn’t want to talk to me, my own mother? Ludicrous, put her on the line now!”
Silence, then “I’m sorry, Clark, I… I’m not at home. I promised her I wouldn’t talk to you anymore.”
“Eugene, seriously. She can’t be serious. I mean, it’s my birthday.”
“I know, Clark, I know. But this latest thing…this not coming to Sam’s birthday party.”
“Pfft, that was a busy time, I told you all that. And, truth be told, I’m pretty sure Yvonne already hated me, let’s be honest now.”
A sigh. “Maybe she would if she ever saw you. As it is, Clark, it’s been months since any of us have seen you.”
“Oh, come on now! I just saw you a few weeks ago.”
“Yes, for fifteen minutes in between meetings so you could ask me to find you a good, but unattractive secretary.”
“And I took your suggestion, didn’t I?”
“Clark, I’m not calling you to argue. I’m just calling to tell you to stop calling the house. It upsets Mom. If you want to do anything, show up for a change, but don’t call. Not anymore.”
“Eugene, I think this is a bit over the top, don’t you?”
“Sorry, but I’ve got to go. Bye, Clark—”
“Eugene—”
Dial tone.
I stared at the little black phone, anger flaring within me. I chucked the box at the wall. The crash of the electronic device as it hit the wall spurred my secretary into action, and Carla’s voice buzzed over the intercom.
“Mr. Denton? Mr. Denton? Is everything all right?”
I wheeled back on my chair over to my view of the city.
Why was my family so insufferably stubborn? I could negotiate with any other businessman, millionaire, billionaire or otherwise. But not them. No, a quick Christmas video chat wasn’t enough; I had to be curled up in front of the fire with them, literally bleeding bills out of my ass in the process. They didn’t understand because they’d never been successful.
I took the family portrait, the one taken when we were kids, out of my desk drawer: Eugene, Yvonne, Mom and me. Our happy faces stared back at me.
And why did they think I’d even want to see them, when every time it was the same questions, the same insinuations: “So, anyone special yet? Eugene says you’ve been seeing someone, so give us details!”
I shoved the picture back in my desk drawer. A bunch of bleeding hearts, the lot of them. So what? Let them abandon me. Let’s see how they did without their yearly trips and ski-doo birthday presents. They had just been dragging me down with them anyway.
Striding over to the corner, I picked up the phone, whose flashing green light indicated that it wasn’t quite broken. Pressing the button on the top, I told Carla “Tell Sandra to come at 8. And then text Jane and have her come at 10.”
I strode back to the window to look out at the city once more. Let everyone judge me all they wanted, I would still have my fun.
The rest of the afternoon was a write-off. My family and their selfish rashness distracted from any more tangible productivity. On the drive home, there was more traffic than usual and the driver kept choosing stupid radio stations. When I sarcastically informed him that the only station I wanted to hear was a Hungarian one, instead of snapping the thing off like I had expected, he actually found one, which he then subjected me to for the rest of the trip.
Dinner was peach-glazed rabbit with a slightly unsettling arrangement of baby tomatoes, but Ursula had already left for the day, and I was in no mood for one of the drawn-out yelled phone calls her considerable deafness demanded that I employ.
Luckily, I only had to pace around for an before Sandra arrived. She turned up wrapped up in blue and gold like a present. One which I wasted no time unwrapping. She moaned during it, about how good it felt, and moaned after it, about how I never responded to her text messages.
I glanced at the clock. It was 9, I still had some time. I made a mental note to fire Carla and then I consoled poor, poor Sandra. I confessed that I was busy, I didn’t always know what to say, I was sorry, horribly sorry, I was going to make sure it never happened again. Then, I showed her a pretty dress that I’d bought her, and that shut her up. Hell, I got her out of the house at 9:30, still with thirty minutes to spare.
So, I returned to my room to find my cat Nala lounging on the bed. At the sight of me, she jumped up and walked away. I watched her go with a weird pang of regret. Mother had bought h
er for me, convinced I had needed a “companion” of some sort, but would it kill this scrawny tabby to stay in the same room as me for more than five seconds? I’d had her for months and I hadn’t so much as touched her. Cats were notoriously independent, sure, but this was a bit much.
I flopped on my bed and waited for Jane to arrive. She was ten minutes late, of course, full of excuses (“The traffic was horrible, darling, you know how it is”) and blame (“If you didn’t always tell me last minute!”), but when I got that shirt off her she quieted down soon enough. It was nice, good—I think it was always nice and good with Jane. It had been weeks, but I couldn’t be sure. Lying in bed afterwards, she looked up at me and said “How long has it been since we saw each other?”
I smiled, patted her head.
“Too long, my darling,” I replied, but she slid away and sat up, surveying me with a lipstick-smeared half-smile.
“I’m serious, Clark. How long has it been?”
Avoiding her gaze, I shrugged.
“I don’t know, a few weeks?”
She laughed coldly.
“Three months, Clark. It’s been three months.”
My head whipped around. I studied her face but it was clear enough that she was telling the truth.
“You really had no idea, didn’t you?”
I slid my arm around her.
“Well, darling, you know even a week feels like a month to me, and are you really sure—”
Another laugh.
“Don’t bother, Clark. I gave up all illusions with you weeks ago.”
Silence, then she asked, “Have you ever really had a girlfriend?”
I pulled her closer to me.
“Darling, if you wanted to have this talk…”
She pulled away, but she wasn’t smiling. In fact, she didn’t even look angry.
Touching my arm gently, she asked, “Have you ever been in love?”
Now, it was my turn to laugh. “Come on, Jane, I—” But she was shaking her head.
“You poor guy.”
And then, with one pat of my arm, she was rising. She got up and dressed in silence. At the front door, she cast me one last look, one slight smile, a nod, and she was gone. I stared at the open doorway for a minute, then got up and slammed the door shut.
That look she had given me. I could have understood if it was pleading or bitter or angry or anything, really, except for what it had been. What she had said, the way she had looked at me, it has been sad, sure, but with a sadness that came from pity. Jane actually felt sorry for me.
I stared at the closed door for a minute, and then laughed.
Women and their assumptions of knowing what was best. I was perfectly fine—better than fine, I was fan-fucking-tastic, without a time-sucking demanding girlfriend or otherwise, so Jane could take her big fat pity and choke on it.
I took out my phone and started scanning through some news site. The news itself was pretty boring, rehashing old terrorist attacks and predicting new ones, and yet, wait—there was a juicy piece of news after all.
Sacramento Woman to Auction Virginity, the headline read. I stared at it for a minute, while the different possibilities slid through my mind. I was 28—it couldn’t actually be someone I knew, could it?
And that’s when I saw the picture.
Chapter Three
Kristin
I woke up to a splitting headache throbbing behind my eyes. My body was one crunched-up, crumpled-over ball of pain. One lunge to the bathroom got me some painkillers and, hopefully in a few minutes, relief. Back in bed, it took a good half hour before I could drag myself out from under the covers and into the kitchen.
It was a disaster-scene: practically every wine glass I had was scattered around the apartment, many of them filled with differing amounts of liquid. Meanwhile, my mint ice cream was on its side and streaming down into a sticky puddle on the floor, while chunks of cookies were sticking out of the dirt in my potted plant. The most insulting part of it all, sitting very primly in my dish rack, was my red lipstick.
And that was when I remembered the website.
“Shit,” I mumbled as I staggered back into my room.
I opened my laptop to find last night’s drunken activity staring back at me. The website was good, really good, there was no doubt about it. The background and font, that message, those pictures—it was all really, really good. Too bad I was going to have to take it down. My stomach lurched.
Breakfast first.
A look in the fridge revealed that raisin toast was what it was going to have to be. As I sat there, munching my partly stale breakfast, I flipped through the mail that had come in a few days ago. Flyer, flyer, oh no.
I frowned as I ripped open the letter to see, sure enough, another dental bill. I was sure the most recent one I’d paid had been the last, but no, here they were with another.
I tossed the thing across the room and sank back in the chair. The bill was for two hundred dollars, just like the last four had been. How was I going to pay it this time? I was already behind on my hydro, my rent. Hell, I was behind on every one of the three credit cards I had.
There was a knock at the door and my heart fell into my stomach.
“Ms. Blair. Ms. Blair, please open up.” I answered it to see Mrs. Hyacinth, my small but formidable landlady looking up at me.
“Ms. Blair, I hate to do this, but your rent is two weeks late.”
“I know Mrs. Hyacinth, but—”
She held up a bony hand and shook her head at me.
“I’m afraid this is the third time, Ms. Blair, and really, you’ve left me no choice. If I don’t have the money in another week, I’ll have no choice but to evict you.”
As I gaped at her, Mrs. Hyacinth nodded, then held up her bony hand once more. “Goodbye Ms. Blair.”
I watched her go with a sick churning in my stomach. How had she managed to come and make her ultimatum at the worst possible time? What was I supposed to do now?
I turned to look at my bed, where my laptop was sitting open. Maybe that website would be my ticket through this, the windfall that would get me out of this shitty apartment and my hamster wheel of debt. I strode over to my bed, took one last look at my creation, and then flopped onto my bed beside the laptop.
Maybe I didn’t have to worry anymore.
I slept the day and next night away, slept right until the next morning.
The yellow numbers of my electronic clock read 9:30am when I woke up. I smiled at it. I hadn’t slept this late in years, weekend or otherwise. I had always felt guilty for sleeping in while in debt; as if money was slipping out of my mattress the longer I lay on it. But this morning? I didn’t have a care in the world. In fact, I may have even made a bit of money in my sleep.
When I checked the website, my heart leapt. Four bids had come in, the first for $500, another for $3000, one for $3040 and then one for $11,000. I stared at the figure for a few minutes, imagining all the things I could spend that kind of money on. Most of it would have to go to my student loans and current debt, sure, but there would still be enough left over to take a vacation, maybe to Cancun like I’d always wanted to.
The rest of the day I spent cleaning the apartment and happily lounging about. Even Romeo and Juliet’s fervent cuddling didn’t dampen my mood. I could get some nice old lady to adopt them, hell, I could pay some nice old lady to adopt them, get myself a loyal dog and a handy vibrator. Or maybe I wouldn’t even need to. Maybe after I got over this little setback, this big pressure-sex thing, maybe I could date like a normal woman, find a nice, normal man who liked hiking and camping and sitcoms like I did. Maybe I could find a nice place in the forest, a nice little cabin for one or two. Maybe I could buy my parents a boat, my dad had always loved sailing. Maybe, just maybe, this was going to change everything.
Harmony called around 3 pm.
“Hey Kristin, have you checked the news lately?”
“No, why?” I chirped back.
“Just, you mi
ght want to. I mean, it might be a good idea to.”
“Harmony?”
“Got to go, Damien’s calling, bye!” And then she hung up.
I glared at the phone for a minute. Back when I’d first met her, Harmony had been the boldest of hippies, a brash tell-it-how-it-is firecracker. But once Damien had come into the equation, she had morphed into a soft-spoken little housewife who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Clearly, I was going to have to find whatever news story she had wanted to direct me to myself.
I clicked open a web browser, and then paused. I wasn’t really in the mood for whatever Harmony wanted me to see. The last time something like this had happened, she had suggested that I stop eating a donut for breakfast every day by linking me to a women’s health article she had found online. No, I wasn’t in the mood for anything but…dancing.
Throwing open all the windows in the apartment, I cranked up the music and got moving. I was dancing with some lame juvenile moves (I hadn’t danced sober since I was a kid), but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t dancing to impress anyone, I was dancing to dance, to groove out this joy coursing through my body, to celebrate without having to actually leave my house, to let my body do the celebrating for me.
By the time I was tired out, I only had enough energy to stumble back to my bed and collapse into its cotton depths.
I woke up in the early morning. Sitting up straight in bed, the realization hit me like a brick to the gut: what if Harmony had meant my website, what if…
I stumbled out of bed. Grabbing my laptop, I opened it, clicked on the search bar, and typed: auction virginity. Immediately a recent news story came up. It read: Local Woman to Auction Virginity.
My heartbeat rocketed up. I took a deep breath. This was just a coincidence, just a fluke, there was no way…
That was when I saw the picture of the woman I knew all too well. In a haze, I scanned the rest of the article, reading the words but understanding none of them, seeing only that the story had already been shared hundreds of times on social media.
