Selling Scarlett

by Ella James

  “Guilty.” I feel a little awkward, but there's nothing I can do to stem the flow of animosity I feel for anyone sitting in an armchair with their PhD on the wall behind them.

  “You've seen a therapist before.”

  “Dozens.” I cross my legs. “One of the things I dislike the most is the questions, so let me answer them for you. My mom's crazy with a capital 'C'. She's been a drug addict or an alcoholic, in and out of rehab, since I was a young child. She married into money and my dad was in love with her at first, I think. Over the years that faded, and at some point he started traveling a lot for business. One of the...plants—” that would be bottling factories— “he visited was in Salt Lake City and about thirteen years ago, or maybe before then, he started seeing Linzie. He has two daughters with her—at least I'm pretty sure he does because one of them looks like him and the other one looks a lot like me. When I went to college he left Mom, sold the controlling share in his family's company, which had been in decline for some time, and moved to Utah to be with his new family. Yes, I'm bitter about it. And it doesn't help that Linzie is a bitch.

  “My mom is in rehab as we speak; only it's not really a rehab, it's more like a spa, and it's costing us more money than we have. My oldest friend, Cross, got into a motorcycle accident after a party where he and I had a fight, and he needed help paying for his care. I knew—well, knew of—Marchant Radcliffe, and I got the idea to sell my virginity.”

  I think that’s a pretty tidy summation of what’s the what. The first half, about my family, I’ve given several times before.

  Dr. Bernard arches her delicate brows. “That's quite a story. Frankly I don't know which part is the most dramatic.”

  I wrinkle my nose. I'm not used to a therapist being this direct. It makes me feel like being direct, too. “I wouldn't call it dramatic as much as just...screwed up. Seriously screwed up. At least the part about my family. The part with my friend—” whose very distinctive name I should not have mentioned— “was just an accident, and the part where I sell my V-card is obviously an attempt to get money.” I purse my lips, looking for some levity. “At least it's not a kidney.”

  “Did you consider that?”

  I nod, smirking. “It's less profitable, crazy though that is.”

  “That is crazy,” she says. She looks down at her lap and makes a note on a pad. “Before we continue I want to make sure you are aware that I know your real name.”

  I gulp. “You do?”

  She nods. “I’m sorry, but it’s necessary. However, in my notes I’m referring to you as Scarlett.”

  I frown. “Do you know who I am? Like, my identity?”

  “Do you mean who your family is? Yes,” she says. “For most of my career I ran a center that specialized in the dynamics of financially privileged families. You're the DeVille heiress.”

  “Inheriting coal and switches,” I say drolly.

  “Tap water,” she offers.

  “Yeah. The kind with pollution.”

  “You've been through a lot, then, with your mother. And your father.”

  “I guess so.”

  “I think the answer is a resounding 'yes.'”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “You know it's not uncommon for the children of addicts to harbor some resentment toward the therapists who treat their parents.”

  “Why is that?”

  The good doctor shrugs. “You’ve watched therapists fail your entire life.”

  That's true.

  “Hope can turn ugly when it's dashed over and over.”

  Her words strike so true that I have I bite my lip to keep from crying. Feeling desperate, I change the subject. “Are you from the New Orleans area, by any chance?”

  She smiles. “How did you know?”

  “Accent. How did you end up here?”

  “I'm a child of privilege myself. I married a privileged man, a lawyer and later a politician. His last name isn't Bernard,” she tells me, winking. “By the time I divorced, I knew Marchant and his adopted New Orleans social circle well. He's been a client of mine since his college years. In fact, it's thanks to him that I relocated. When he decided to bring a psychologist on board at Love Inc., he wanted it to be his own.”

  “Really.” That surprises me. Marchant doesn't seem like the type of guy to admit weakness.

  But Dr. Bernard nods. “He came to me after he lost his parents. In fact, we still talk. Maintenance therapy. I'm not sharing anything with you that he would mind. He's very open about it.”

  I nod, because I'm not sure what to say.

  “I've got a question for you, Scarlett.”

  My stomach flips. “Okay.”

  “Why are you still a virgin?” She smiles a little. “Let me rephrase. There's no reason not to be a virgin, if that's what you so choose, but you're a pretty girl, and judging by your plans, I assume there are no religious or ethical qualms about experiencing intercourse.”

  I swallow hard, wanting to die. Does she actually expect me to answer this?

  “I was curious, that's all. If you don't want to discuss it, we don't have to.”

  Well, dangit. Now I feel like I should discuss it. I play with my fingernail, then realize I'm doing it and force myself to look into her eyes.

  “The question makes you uncomfortable?” she asks.

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Does sex make you uncomfortable?”

  I sigh. “That's not why. I guess it's just a little further than I like to go.”

  “With therapists.”

  “With anyone,” I say. But, hey, I'm here. Why not? I chew my lip and then just jump in head-first. “I used to be fat,” I tell her. “And I have trust issues.”

  “What kind?”

  “The because of my mom kind. The kind you get when you grow up in an unstable home. You know the story.”

  “I don't know your story. How does that go?”

  I shrug. “My parents never had sex very much. A few times I over-heard them talking about it. Their relationship was just the surface. Probably because, with an addict, it's impossible to get any deeper than that. So we were all...I don't know...like, roommates. I made friends with Suri and Cross, my two best friends, when I was young, so I grew to trust them without meaning to. But everybody else...” I bite my lip as the truth finally dawns on me with crystal clarity. I spit it out in a froggy voice. “I guess I just never considered that it was possible to have a good relationship with a man.”

  Her face is sympathetic. The kind of sympathy that almost hurts. I raise my hand to my chest. It kind of does hurt. “Geez, that's new to me. I didn't even know that until just now.”

  She nods. “That's one of the reasons people—non-addict people—come to therapy. To learn more about themselves. How much time have you spent learning about Scarlett? Not Mom, not Dad, but Scarlett. Her issues. Her fears.”

  I press my lips together. The answer is none, of course. “I never had time.”

  “That's very common for a young woman with your history. And it's not your fault,” she says with a reassuring smile. “The great thing about getting older is, you change yourself. And what's healthy and appropriate, you nourish.”

  I nod, relieved. I'm not a freak who doesn't want a relationship. I just never really thought that one was possible. It makes sense!

  She looks up at the clock behind me, and I'm surprised to find an hour has passed since I walked through her door.

  “Do you find yourself in Vegas very often?” she asks.

  “Sometimes,” I hedge. I sigh. “Not really.” I feel my cheeks flush, and I tentatively say, “I wish I did. It was kind of nice talking to you.”

  She smiles. “Well I asked because I have an office in Los Angeles. I know it's not a speedy drive, but it is in driving range.”

  I nod, and she asks, “Would you like to talk again sometime?”

  “It depends on how much money I get,” I say, smirking, though honestly, it's embarrassing having as little money a
s I do.

  “I work on sliding scales at times. Perhaps that would work for you.”

  “Maybe.” She hands me her card, and I put it in my purse. “I'll call some time.”

  “I'd like that. And Scarlett?” I turn with my hand on the door-knob. “Don't hesitate to come back if you'd like to talk again before you go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ~HUNTER~

  Even as I'm playing, I know Lady Luck is with some other guy tonight. I imagine the headlines, stupid puns arranged in that kind of cadence that journalists and bloggers like.

  West doesn't know which way is up in tourney

  Bourbon heir floats in first-day tourney

  What-the-fuck-ever.

  I screwed up last hand, and I'm screwing up again this time. A Zen master couldn’t play with all the shit I’ve got bouncing around in my head. I want to tell that to the annoying blonde holding the camera. She looks a little too much like Priscilla for my liking, and I'm having trouble not snapping as she pushes her mic into my face.

  Today has sucked. Scratch that. Everything has sucked since the other night at the Joseph. Priscilla didn't really go to Ontario. Today she rode down to San Luis and Julie tailed her, but she didn't seem to do anything except have dinner with a client at a swanky hotel.

  I’m obsessed with her now. Priscilla. Obsessed with bringing her down. I go over every detail of her conversation with Lockwood at the gala again and again, and the worst thing is, without a recording, we’ve got no proof. Zip.

  Doesn't help that Lisa from the FBI stopped by this morning to ask if I have ever been to Sarabelle's house. I don’t say a word. I’ve got nothing to hide, but I’m not dumb enough to cooperate when I’m clearly emerging as suspect número uno. There are a million ways your words can be used against you once they leave your mouth.

  Then there's Libby. Libby, Libby, Libby. I know she's been in Vegas, but Dave hasn't been able to find her. I finally broke down and texted Loveless an hour before play began.

  'Elizabeth DeVille still with you?'

  She texts me back near the end of the second hand, and I read her messages between the second and third hands.

  'Who?'

  'Elizabeth.'

  'I don't know who that is. R u ok, Hunter?'

  'Elizabeth,' I punch furiously. 'You were with her the other night at the Jo.'

  When Loveless doesn't text me back, I take a few minutes during a commercial break and call Marchant.

  I was right about my luck tonight. I lose the game.

  I'm so furious I don't even give a damn.

  *

  ~ELIZABETH~

  The big day is a busy one. So busy, in fact, that I have almost no time to think of what's coming. I'm grateful for that as I am waxed, worked out, fitted, and eventually sent to my room with a red lingerie set I will wear when I lie on the bed for bidding.

  I review the contract, which is a lot longer than I anticipated but appeared to contain everything that Richard and I worked out. The winning bidder is paying for six hours of my time, either at Love. Inc. or at another location. I can bring guards. I will provide vaginal intercourse. OH MY GOD, it sounds so technical this way! But luckily, I am only required to do this once to fulfill the contract.

  If I provide only oral stimulation the bidder will be refunded 95 percent of their bid. If my hymen is broken but I stop intercourse before the bidder reaches climax, the bidder receives a 40 percent refund. Love Inc. takes a cut of my final total.

  There’s also a list of nos. No photography or video or audio recording. No hair pulling. No name-calling. No spanking. And no contracting me in any way after—although, oddly, there is a provision for me to contact the bidder. As if. This isn't Pretty Woman.

  After eating a light lunch, I return to my room and have a last-minute freakout. I look in the mirror, at the stubborn bit of cellulite on the back of my thighs—it just won't go away, no matter how many lunges I do. I look at my not-quite-six-pack stomach and wonder if the winning bidder will want more. What about my breasts? They are nice, but they're just full Cs, not DDs. My fingernails are bare, but my toe-nails are painted red. I have weird toe-nails. The one on the big toe looks like a space helmet. And my voice... In third grade, Holcomb McVey said I had a stupid voice. I don't think I do, but—

  My cell rings, and I whirl around naked to face my bed. Suri.

  "Thank God," I answer.

  "What is it?"

  "I'm freaking out here."

  "Do you need a savior?"

  "No!" I laugh. "I need to remind myself that this was my choice and that I don't need a savior. Or anyone's approval.”

  So Suri talks me down, and she tells me about Cross—he opened his eyes again!—and when I get off the phone with her, there's a knock at my door and it's Marie V. She's wearing a pink robe and holding a small bag of lotions and perfumes.

  "Are you nervous?" she asks.

  "Um, hell yeah."

  "Let me tell you something: They won't be expecting much. Every man knows virgins are kind of clueless. As long as your hymen is still intact, the guy will have a great time."

  I scrunch my face up. "Um, thanks?"

  She laughs, and surprises me by leaning in for a hug. "I enjoyed hanging out with you, Scarlett. I hope you have a great night."

  "Thank you. I'm glad I met you, too."

  "Any chance we might see you again?"

  "I don't think so. I think if I do end up leaving the ranch to do the deed—"

  "You probably will."

  "You think?" I ask, wide-eyed.

  "Just a guess."

  My belly bats do a simultaneous dive. "Well if I do, I'll be picked up by a driver in my car, and I'll go home I guess."

  "We're going to miss you."

  "I'm going to miss this place, too."

  I put the things that Marie V. gave me in my toiletries bag and answer the door again when a man named Max comes to do my hair. While he's using some super-powered hair dryer on me, Brenda comes in. She tells me how good I look and offers me a small, black box of condoms.

  “The man should know to have his own, but just in case.”

  “Thank you.” I say goodbye to her, thanking her for my better-than-ever calves and biceps, and when the room is empty, I start zipping my bags. If I stay here to do the deed, I'll have to get my things out of them, but if I go, someone else will collect them for me, so I'll be glad they're packed. As I'm zipping my largest suitcase, there's another knock on my door.

  I open it hesitantly, trying not to mess up my pretty hair, but it's all for naught: Juniper and Loveless throw their arms around me, and the last thing I care about is my hair.

  "We came to help you dress!" Juniper says.

  I don't think I've ever laughed so much in such a short period of time. My nerves nearly disappear, and I know I'll be forever grateful to them.

  At nine-thirty, the girls walk with me to the showroom, where a huge king-sized bed is set up, all the bedding red to match my bra and panties. I lie out and they help pose me, spraying yummy scents in the air and lighting candles.

  "You're beautiful," they tell me.

  I thank them for their help, and they leave one at a time, each with a final word of encouragement. Juniper is last. “I remember my first time. Believe it or not,” she laughs. “It’s scary, and then it’s over. You’ll be fine.”

  I have about two seconds to myself, just enough time for my heartbeat to take off, when the door opens, and Marchant strides in. "Hi there, Scarlett DeVille."

  My heart stops. I stare at his smiling face, and the only thing I can say is, “Uh…you know my name?”

  He nods. “Don’t worry, though. Our secret.”

  I say nothing, mortified beyond belief. I want to ask him if he’ll be watching—I want to ask him to not watch. But of course he’s going to watch. I almost drop dead when another thought occurs to me. If Marchant knows, does that mean—

  "Bidding might get intense, but you'll only see the
numbers. These things usually don’t last but ten minutes or so.”

  I nod, still feeling totally panicked that Marchant Radcliffe—Marchant Radcliffe, Hunter's best friend, who knows my family—is here, and he knows what I'm doing. I tell myself it was probably inevitable, but I still feel ill.

  He must misinterpret my anxious look, because he steps a little closer, sticking one hand in the pocket of his pinstriped coat. "You'll be okay. Everyone I know who's bidding is good people. I wouldn't put you in bad hands."