by Sky Winters
He said nothing to Nora, instead beckoning her to follow him with a flippant over-the-shoulder gesture that made her feel like a troublesome child. But, having no other options, she complied, following him into another long hallway, struggling to keep up with his long strides.
Chapter 7
After a time, they reached a set of massive, wood double doors with ornate gold handles and flanked by two of the men that, by now, Nora had grown accustomed to. A long tapestry of swirling red, black and gold patterns seemed to reach out to them before terminating at the door. The hallway was lit with hanging wall candles and lined with tall portraits of stern-faced patriarchs clad in clothing from various periods of history.
The men nodded to Mr. O’Brien as they approached, reached for the door handle on their respective sides, and pulled the doors open.
As they opened the doors, the hall that she recognized from the bidding was revealed to her. Though now, instead of being filled with tables of men in a strict arrangement, it was a scene of a lively cocktail party. As Nora and Mr. O’Brien entered, she looked up and around herself, feeling small and vulnerable amidst the vast expanse of the room.
Men clad in suits stood here and there in clusters beneath massive chandeliers, which hung from the seemingly endless height of the ceiling. The men were all engaged in conversation and taking sips from glasses that they all held. The mellow sounds of jazz flowed through the room and over the low din from a quartet of players on the same stage where Nora had recently stood. Waiters all in black darted here and there, removing empty glasses and placing fresh ones in the hands of the men, who didn’t deign to turn and acknowledge the help.
At the men’s sides, most of them, at least, were young women in various stages of undress, many of whom Nora recognized from the dressing room. Some of the girls looked wide-eyed and fearful, others remained statue-still and compliant, and others looked to be taking to their role of arm-décor for their purchasers. It seemed to Nora that it was the buyer’s choice whether to take the girls out of their hypnotized, entranced state. And something else struck Nora as well: The girls’ skin, in comparison to the men. The men, like Mr. O’Brien, were all of wan complexion, ranging from gray ash to ivory white. But the girls, like her, had radiant, healthy complexions. Normal, but a sharp contrast to the skin of these strange men.
Nora stayed close to Mr. O’Brien’s side. Though she barely knew him, it was still more familiarity than she had with any of these other men. As they moved into the room, a young-looking man in a crisp, dark suit hurried over to Mr. O’Brien, an eager, excited look on his face as he weaved through the crowd.
“Aye, this is her,” he said, his accent a lilting brogue that stood out to Nora immediately, “Mrs. Three-K, in the flesh.”
“This is her,” said Mr. O’Brien, the slightest hint of a smile drawing up one of the corners of his mouth. Though Nora was still desperate for any explanation of her current situation, she couldn’t help but feel herself drawn to this strange, handsome man. Sexual heat seemed to radiate from him like a roiling fire.
The other man looked her over. “Yeh, she’s a beauty; you don’t see many girls in this part of the world with this kinda look,” he said, extending his hand and taking one of the tight, coiled braids of Nora’s crimson-orange hair between his index and middle fingers.
Mr. O’Brien shot out his hand with what seemed to Nora to be inhuman speed, and took the other man’s hand away from her hair in a manner that was firm and insistent.
“Hands to yourself, Ian,” he said in a chiding tone.
“Aye, as ye like,” Ian said, raising his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “By the by,” he said, leaning and speaking in hushed, conspiratorial tones, “did you, ah, can she hear us?”
“You could just ask me,” said Nora, growing irritated at being spoken around like she was a dog, or a child.
“That answer your question?” Mr. O’Brien looked away and held up three fingers to one of the serving staff, who nodded in acknowledgement.
“Aye, I supposed it does. To each his own,” Ian said, his eyes lingering on Nora’s curves in a manner that made her feel self-conscious, “though if I were paying what you did, I’d be sending her home with an armed guard.”
“I suppose I’m a little more trusting than most,” Mr. O’Brien said in a sardonic tone.
The waiter returned with three flutes of champagne, one of which Mr. O’Brien slipped into Nora’s hand without looking. Nora then watched something strange. From off the tray, Mr. O’Brien took two small capsules, both the same color of dark cherry red. With a pair of plops, he dropped one into his glass, then Ian’s. The capsules broke apart instantly upon touching the golden bubbly liquid, and spread into it, turning the color of their drinks from a sparkling, light yellow to a murky red.
“To new investments,” said Ian with a smirk as the two men touched their glasses. Nora wasn’t sure if she was invited to this toast, but Mr. O’Brien’s insistent, beckoning eyes let her know that she was.
The three clinked their glasses, though Nora did so with some apprehension.
“And not to mention Marcus scampering about here and there. You got him all cheesed off with that little out-bidding you did. You know how prideful the Booties can be.”
Mr. O’Brien responded with a small flick of his eyebrows as he took a small sip from his glass. Nora drank from her own, and the fresh sparkling wine flowed over her tongue, beginning with a subtle pear flavor and ending with the taste of rich baking apples and the lingering scent of summer grass. It was delicious.
But before the conversation could continue further, a trio of older, distinguished-looking men appeared from the nearby throng of party-goers, who parted like water around a stone as the men walked through.
The men looked strikingly different; one was tall, slim, with a pointed goat’s-beard, another was all brawny muscles under his suit, and the middle was trim, long-limbed and serious-eyed, but all had the same general aesthetic of class and sophistication amid their wrinkles and graying, balding hair. Like everyone else in the crowd, their skin was the same wan white color. They each held a small crystalline glass of the reddish liquid, and they looked over the three of them, paying special attention to Nora and Mr. O’Brien.
“Kieran O’Brien, is it?” asked the balding man in a light, melodic voice that flowed on an Irish accent.
Kieran! Finally, a first name.
“It is,” said Kieran. Nora noticed his body tense into a state that resembled readiness as the men spoke. Ian seemed to be shocked into silence.
“When we saw the events of the evening unfold, we made a little note amongst ourselves to stop by and speak to the man who could spend so very much money on one of the evening’s young ladies,” said the brawny man, looking over Nora as though she were a light snack.
“Manners, Simon,” said the middle man, his voice deeper but rich with those same dulcet, emerald tones. “Introductions first.”
A sly smile appeared on the red lips of the brawny man. “Of course,” he said.
“The tall gentleman is Mr. Murphy; the tough-looking fellow here is Mr. Kelly. And I’m Mr. Walsh,” he said, his hand moving in front of his chest in a swirling, formal gesture.
“Aye,” said Ian, his voice wavering with child-like excitement, “of course we know who yeh are.”
Kieran shot a quick, withering look to Ian, who noticed and responded with a look of embarrassment.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet the three of you,” said Kieran. No handshakes were exchanged among the men.
Nora wanted to speak, to blurt out the questions that were racing through her mind, but something about these three and their bearing, their formality, everything, instilled in her a sense of menace and dread.
A silence hung in the air as the three men looked at Kieran and Nora, sizing the two of them up.
“Well,” said Mr. Walsh, after tipping the last bit of his drink back, “I’ll let you three get back to it.�
�
The three turned to leave, but just before disappearing into the crowd of pale-skinned, suited men, Mr. Walsh turned back, his eyes closed and finger in the air, as though remembering something.
“One last thing, Mr. O’Brien,” he said, “do be wary about spending such, well, exorbitant amounts of money in such a pubic venue. You might attract the wrong kind of attention. Not to mention the fact that some of us are… sticklers, for proper protocol.”
And with that, they vanished into the crowd.
“Who were those three?” asked Nora, still afraid, and now keenly aware of how exposed she was.
“Very important people,” said Kieran, his voice dry and grim.
“Why, the three most important men in the Irish society!” said Ian, his voice charged with adrenaline. “They don’t talk to just anyone, especially newcomers like us!”
Kieran shot Ian another silencing gaze. Ian cut himself off, now aware of just how loose his tongue had become.
“I think I’m ready to leave,” said Kieran, finishing his drink.
“Aye,” said Ian, “I’m sure you’re ready to get home with that little number.”
“I’ll see you at the next gathering,” said Kieran.
With that, Ian raised his glass and nodded in farewell. Kieran then took Nora by the hand, turned, and began to lead her toward the door that they entered from.
Nora and Kieran weaved through the tight knots of the crowd, but when they reached the door, they encountered another group of men who stood before them, blocking their path.
These men were different from the elegant older gentlemen who’d spoken with Kieran. They were younger, dressed in flashy suits of jackets with paisley inlays and shirts of bold reds and greens. They wore watches and necklaces of gleaming gold, and black loafers all polished to a mirror-shine. One of the men stood in front of the group, his curled hair slicked back, and his face wearing the same impudent smirk as the rest of them.
Nora, after a brief moment, recognized the man: He was the other man who’d bid on her.
“Three hundred thousand?” he said, walking toward them with a short-stepped strut. “I don’t know about that. But a fine little chickadee nonetheless.”
“I don’t have time for this, Marcus,” said Kieran, his voice low, nearly a growl.
“Hey, no need to get hostile on me,” he said, moving in a loop around Nora, looking her over in a way that made her feel exposed and uncomfortable. “I just wanted to make sure to congratulate the man who so completely outbid me.”
But when he moved behind Nora, he stopped, moved in, and took a closer look at the side of her head. At her hearing aid. “Ah, but what is this? It looks like this girl of the night is, ah, defective merchandise.”
Nora’s hand shot up, covering her hearing aid with a cupped palm.
“Maybe if you talk to the daddies in charge, they might, ah, let you swap her out for store credit.” His voice was muffled through Nora’s covered hearing aid.
He opened his mouth to say something else, but he didn’t have the chance. With blinding speed, Kieran moved to Marcus, stopping only when he was mere inches from his smirking face.
“Last chance to get out of the way,” said Kieran.
The two men stood like this for what seemed like hours.
Finally, Marcus stepped back, his hands raised in mock defeat. “Always so serious, Kieran. I say you come out with us some night, enjoy the city. Maybe bring this little one along before, well, you do with her what will need to be done.”
Nora looked at Kieran, shock on her face. He said nothing, still glaring at Marcus, his jaw tensing and releasing.
What does he mean by that?
Not saying another word, Kieran grabbed Nora by her slender wrist and led her through the throng of Italians. This was the first time that Kieran had touched her since the auction, and the sensation of his skin, cool and smooth, against hers sent a surge through her body like electricity as they strode down the amber lights of the hallway.
Chapter 8
Eventually, after turning a few corners, they reached a small, steel door. Nora could feel the air grow colder as they approached it and knew that they had reached the exit. Kieran leaned forward and pushed the door open, and a whoosh of chilly evening air rushing into the hallway. Nora braced against the cold, which Kieran noticed. A twinge of annoyance on his face, he slipped off his suit jacket and draped it over Nora’s shoulders. The silk lining felt luxurious on her cold skin, and that same musky scent rushed up and around her face. The scent was so overwhelming that the discomfort of the cold slipped her mind for a moment.
When the intoxication from his scent faded, Nora looked beyond the door and saw that a sleek black car was waiting for them, another one of the suited men standing in front of the passenger’s side door. They stepped out into the parking garage, which was lit with long lines of soft orange lights that lit the area without giving the feel of a dirty concrete parking area. This was clearly, to Nora, the luxury edition of parking garages.
The man gave a soft nod as he handed Kieran the keys. Kieran unlocked the doors with a button press on the fob, opened the driver’s door, and, with a gesture to Nora, got in. She slid into the soft, leather seats of the car, and noticed right away that they were heated. The car’s dashboard was crossed with various numbers in soft, blue LED lighting and made of polished dark wood. It was a luxury sports car, and Nora wondered what was worth more, it or her apartment.
Kieran revved the engine before proceeding. As they made their way to the exit, Nora noted the other cars in the garage. All were expensive, sleek, and dark-colored.
What’s going on here? What the hell is this society? she wondered as they passed the rows and rows of toys for wealthy, elite men.
They exited and pulled out into the cool New York evening.
Not wanting to wait another moment for answers, she turned to Kieran, his handsome face in a tight, focused glower as they turned down the city streets.
“Tell me what’s going on,” Nora said.
“I’ll explain when we’ve arrived,” he said, still looking forward, his voice terse.
“Explain now,” she said, her voice a firm tone that she wasn’t used to hearing coming from her mouth.
Silence filled the air as Kieran drove down the Brooklyn streets. The orange lights of the city night went up and down the towering buildings on both sides of the road, and through the grid of the city Nora could occasionally see the twinkling waters of the East River as they reflected the light of the full moon above. The amber rows of the buildings around them were a soft blur as Kieran peeled through the lanes of Williamsburg.
“It’s a gentleman’s society,” he said, his voice calm atop buried frustration from the encounter with the Italians.
“Bullshit,” said Nora, “tell me what kind of society.”
Kieran said nothing, instead keeping his eyes forward as the sports car made the turn from the Williamsburg Bridge onto FDR drive. Now the East River was completely visible to Nora’s right, the Brooklyn skyline now fading into a mass of twinkling rows behind them. Driving was a luxury that she couldn’t afford in New York, and part of her wanted to simply sit back and enjoy the ride. But the need to know where she was, where she was going, and just who this man driving her was won out over any other desire.
“I’ll tell you when we get to my apartment,” he said, “but right now I need to focus.”
“Your apartment?” said Nora. “What makes you think that I want to go to your apartment? Or that you have any right to take me there?”
“Well,” he said, his voice lowering to a smooth honeyed tone, “in case the events of the last few hours were unclear to you, you’re now my property.”
“Well, in case what country you’re in is unclear to you, you can’t own someone as property. All I need to do is find the nearest NYPD officer and tell him that some psycho thinks he bought me and I’ll be back home, and you’ll be in jail.”
“
Try that, see how far it gets you,” Kieran said, with a condescending tone, as though speaking to a stubborn child. “You’d be hand-delivered by the city’s finest to my apartment within an hour.”
“What are you talking about?” Nora asked as they peeled off FDR Drive and entered the maze of glistening skyscrapers of Midtown.
“This isn’t some gentlemen’s club you’ve gotten involved with; this is something bigger,” he said, whipping onto 42nd Street and weaving around the slower-moving cars, who honked at him as he passed.
“Then tell me.”
“In time.”
Nora was brimming with frustration, but she sensed that continuing to press Kieran for more information before he was ready to give it would be like wringing water from a dry towel. Instead, she slumped back into her seat and crossed her arms over her breasts, feeling a combination of scared, angry, and ridiculous.
They went along 42nd until they reached 8th Avenue, which Nora recognized from the glittering marquee of the Majestic Theater.
Yeah, I could really go for a Broadway show right about now. Nora kept her thoughts dry in order to avoid sinking into the feeling of terror that bubbled like a swamp at the pit of her stomach.
“Can you at least tell me where we’re going?” she asked.
“Hell’s Kitchen.”
Nora didn’t know much about this part of town. She knew from stories her grandmother told her about the history of her Irish immigrant relatives that it was a hotbed for crime and violence back in the 18th century. Gangs like The Gophers and The Parlor Mob kept a strict, if blood-soaked, order around the area back when the police didn’t have the manpower to be everywhere at once. Though make no mistake, she remembered her grandmother telling her, this kind of order had nothing to do with the justice system.
But Hell’s Kitchen was a different story now, and Nora could tell this by the clean manicured look of the streets as they made their way into the neighborhood. The area was a different sort of hotbed now: One of gentrification. The few times Nora had been here, she’d seen that the gangs of her grandmother’s stories had been replaced by attractive young couples pushing strollers. It was a prime spot for the gay community as well; Nora sometimes wondered if there were more French Bulldogs and Shih Tzus here than people.
