by K. Webster
“You look beautiful,” he says with a grin.
I smile and bat my eyelashes at him but his cum in my belly makes me almost gag with disgust. Just biding my time until the moment is right. My smile grows larger as I imagine the day my father finds out that it was him who stole me. I’ll watch with delight as he beats Gabe before the cops take him to prison for the rest of his life.
And then I’ll crawl into bed between my parents—let them soothe my scarred heart.
Then, Brandon will heal me with his sweet mouth and gentle words.
I can do this. Just play this game a little while longer.
We slowly make our way to the front until Gabe is reciting his name and his girl, “Gardenia Lee.” We’re then ushered into a lobby with high ceilings and white marbled floors. It’s beautiful and open. The crowd buzzes with excitement and my stomach flops with worry. What if I don’t get someone nice? What if I can’t escape?
Gabe’s gaze meets mine and behind the possessive glint is a promise. I will come back for you. The thought should nauseate me but it’s a good backup plan in case the person who buys me is another psychopath. Like Gabe.
“Zucchini and goat cheese tart?” A server, dressed neatly in black tie attire, offers us a tray of stunning edible artwork. We both take one and for a moment I can pretend I’m on a date with some rich man who loves me.
I almost snort at the ridiculousness of my thoughts and stuff the tart into my mouth instead. This is not love and I’m not going to pretend for one second that it is on either side. He may say that he loves me but people don’t hurt the ones they love.
“The bidding will be silent this time as we have a very special guest tonight. He’s donated to the pediatric cancer ward that my wife heads up and wishes to participate, but in an anonymous way.” A voice booms from a loudspeaker at the stage. “So for tonight, I will announce the women in the program and they will each take a walk across this stage. If you’re interested, please come to the front and place your bids via a slip of paper into the black box that has that woman’s name on it. All bids will be sorted and determined shortly after the last lady walks across. Let’s be gentlemen about this. However, please be generous in your bids as some of the competing ones will surely be substantial. There will be no opportunities for bidding wars as we’ve had in the past. Good luck, sirs.”
I turn to see Gabe scowling. His jaw clenches in fury. For a moment, I hope he’ll give up and take me back home. But then I recall the way he shoved that cucumber into my body. The many times he’s struck me. On more than one occasion made me bleed. The humiliation he loved to deliver. The painful anal sex over and over again. Everything about my time with him was sick and perverted. The fiery burning hate I have for him will never be extinguished. Ever.
“Number One, Daisy Love.”
My attention is drawn to the podium where the announcer has called the first name. The crowd buzzes as a woman, probably nineteen or twenty, shyly walks the stage in her sparkly evening gown, high heels, and forced smile. Her dark hair has been twisted into a chignon and she’s pretty enough to be walking a runway instead of a path to slavery. Several men hurry to the first box and start scribbling bids. She’s beautiful and seems strong despite our situation. Of course every man would want her.
I watch with growing anxiety as many women cross the stage. All with some variation of rose, lily, or daisy. They’re all wilted in some way. Broken and abused—all hidden behind makeup and pretty hair. When I’m called, I flinch.
“Number Seventeen, Gardenia Lee.”
Gabe pats me on the bottom, rather forcefully, and I stumble toward the stage. All eyes are on me as I climb with wobbly legs up the steps. Anxiety threatens to rip apart my chest and the zucchini goat cheese tart rumbles in annoyance in my belly.
I clutch onto the side rail for support and attempt to keep my shaking at bay. I can do this. Just count the steps—no more than twenty is all it takes to make it across. Don’t look at them. Just go.
One.
Two.
I mouth each step, cast a nervous glance at the crowd, and keep walking.
Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.
“Slow down there, Gardenia Lee,” the announcer says with a wolfish grin. “Take a spin for me. You’re quite lovely. I’d like to have you for myself.”
My eyes dart from him to the crowd growing around my box—probably forty men all milling about putting in their bids. Bile rises in my throat and I spin quickly before him. Then, I’m back to counting my steps to the other side.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.
I stare for a moment down at my feet. Just seventeen. Only seventeen steps, not twenty. I frown and make my way down the stairs. My mind reels with what-ifs.
What if an abusive man buys me?
What if a man buys me to kill me?
What if he wants to do more depraved things than Gabe?
What if Gabe is lying and he never comes back?
At this point, my mind is conjuring up nightmarish predictions that have Gabe seeming like an innocent boy in comparison. Truth is, in this room full of smiling, successful people, I’m terrified out of my mind. On shaky legs, I clamber down the steps of the stage in search of Gabe. He’s the monster in my life—but he’s the one I know—the one I’m familiar with.
“I bid one point two million,” an amused voice says from beside me.
I jerk my gaze over to a man who reminds me of Brandon. His dark hair is cut short and spiked on top. He has an easy, charming smile.
“That’s a lot of money,” I squeak out.
He winks. “That it is. And you’ll be worth it.”
I chew on my lip and cast another glance out in Gabe’s direction. Nowhere. My gaze falls back to the man who seems harmless in his nice suit and disarming grin.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
He steps toward me. “And so polite. You’ll be a great addition to my girls.”
“You have more than one?”
“I come here every month and buy more. It’s an addiction.”
I swallow. “What do you do with them?”
His eyes flicker with something dark and evil. He’s nothing like Brandon. “I hurt them. Just like I’m going to hurt you,” he says in a matter of fact tone. He winks and grins at me as if his words aren’t awful. “Your pale skin is so perfect and untouched. I’m about to come just thinking of all the nasty words I’ll carve into your skin. You’ll wear my name and other words like cunt and whore on your flesh for the world to see.”
I stumble back away from him and gape at him in horror. “You’re a monster!”
He sneers. “Where’d you think you were, sexy? A fucking fundraiser?”
“I, but, I…”
“You’re in the den with some of the biggest monsters on the West Coast. You are nothing but a meal purchased to be devoured with greed and no restraint. Some of us are into sex. Others are into more deviant acts. I’m into the deviant with a side of sex. They won’t recognize their precious beauty by the time I finish with you. But then, it’ll be too late. You’ll bleed out all over my Persian rug and I’ll drag your ass outside to dump you in the goddamned ocean.”
Tears stream down my face and I start to bolt from him. His tight grip is around my arm before I can move though. “The name’s, Edgar Finn. Remember it because you’ll take it to your grave,” he threatens. “See you soon, Gardenia Lee.”
He releases me and I push through the crowd away from him at breakneck speed. I need to make my escape now. There’s no way I’m going home with that lunatic.
As I hurry away from him, I try not to make eye contact with the leering men along the way. They’re all the same. Monsters just like Gabe. I’d been an idiot to believe otherwise. There is no finding the nice side of this world. The only thing I need to worry about finding is the way out of it. Now.
“There you are, baby,” Gabe’s deep voice both calms me and rattles me in
a contradictory mix of emotions. “The bids are insane!”
I shudder but let him tug me into a warm embrace. “P-Please don’t let that man buy me. I can’t go with him. He said he’ll kill me!”
Gabe pulls away and glares down at me. He’s pissed but thankfully not at me. “Who the fuck said that to you?”
“Edgar Finn.”
His fury dissipates and he smiles. “Too bad. You’ve already been bought. Come on, let’s go meet who owns that pretty little pussy now.”
I attempt to jerk from his gasp to keep him from dragging me to my horrendous fate. “No! I can’t go with him!” I screech and ignore the wide-eyed gazes of those witnessing my meltdown. Several of the women to be sold meet my stare with tears in their eyes and sympathy written on their faces.
Gabe’s impatient stare assesses me, as though I were a petulant toddler causing a scene at the grocery store. He sighs in frustration and takes a step closer to me, snagging me by the elbow in a brutal grip. I’m yanked forward and enveloped by the heat of his angry breaths. Suffocating me. “Cut the shit, Baylee. Let’s go. These people won’t save you. I won’t save you. Come willingly or I’ll knock you out and drag you with me for everyone here to see. What’ll it be, baby?”
I sob in defeat and let him guide me through the throng of bodies. This is happening. Soon, I’ll be in the clutches of the man who bought me for one point two million dollars so he can get off on carving me like a pumpkin.
Gabe lied.
He’s not going to save me.
I’ll already be dead.
“Where are we going?” I demand once we make our way into an elevator.
Gabe pushes the button for the lower level garage and turns to face me. “Your buyer is waiting for you in his car.”
My heart flares to life and I start to panic. “Wait? Like I’m about to leave? Gabe, please don’t let them take me!”
He frowns and leans in. I cry harder when he kisses my lips. “Baby, I promise, I’ll be back for you. You’re strong now and you’re ready. You can hang in there until I come for you. Then it can be just us.”
His words only calm me marginally. Edgar was vicious and serious about wanting to hurt me. He seems the type to not even want to wait until we leave the parking lot. I’m paralyzed with fear.
The elevator dings and opens to the garage. Several expensive sports cars line the parking garage and we walk to the black, nondescript vehicle that’s running between two rows of cars. A man steps out of the driver’s side and walks toward us. He’s older—reminding me of my grandfather—and wears a tired frown. Gabe pats my ass and shoves me into the arms of the older man.
“Mr. McPherson needs for you,” he says in a whisper as if he doesn’t want Gabe to hear his boss’s name, “to wear this.”
Mr. McPherson? Not Mr. Finn?
My heart climbs out of the pit of my belly and reaches for hope. But when my eyes narrow on the black fabric in the old man’s clutches as he pushes me away from him, I begin to panic about the new monster I’ll belong to.
“W-W-What is that?”
“It’s a special-made respirator, a cloth face mask if you will. Nothing toxic gets in or out. You’ll get used to it,” he assures me with a small smile. It’s then I see he has one pulled down around his neck. Seeing him with one has me reaching for the one that’s mine.
Is the man I’m about to encounter ill? Is he old and frail? I try not to become too hopeful about my escape but these ideas could certainly help my cause.
“Such a good girl,” Gabe praises and discretely grabs my butt. “Always doing as she’s told.”
I slide the respirator over my face and wait for what happens next.
“The five million have been wired to the account you gave us,” the man says. “Thank you for your business.”
My eyes widen.
Five million dollars.
Holy crap.
If Edgar was willing to pay just over a million for me and had such warped plans for me, I can only imagine what sort of intentions this lunatic has.
“Goodbye, Baylee.” Gabe’s voice brings me back to my surroundings. He mouths that he loves me and rage explodes from me. Before I can stop myself, I flip him off and then trot after the older gentleman. Gabe curses from behind me but doesn’t try to touch me. His steps are right on my heels though and that causes me to shiver.
“My name is Edison. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he says over his shoulder, but doesn’t make any moves to shake my hand. It’s then I notice the black gloves on his hands—probably the easier to strangle me with. “Please, put these on too.” He hands me a smaller pair and I jerk them from him. Once I have them on, he opens the door to the car.
It’s dark inside and I can see the knee of a man sitting in the shadows on the opposite side of the bench seat. I expect to smell cigars or liquor or sex or blood, but am instead met with a clean, sterile scent reminiscent of bleach. Terror threatens to suffocate me and I turn, prepared to run.
Away from this hell.
Away from monsters like Gabe, Edgar, and Mr. McPherson.
Away from pain and impending death.
But Gabe’s thick chest stops me and he chuckles, the sound dark and malevolent. With a flourish of his large hand—a hand that has brought me to innumerable orgasms—he gestures inside of the limo.
“This is War, baby.”
“LEAVE THE SHOES outside of the car,” I bark.
From my angle, all I can see are her silky pale legs that go for miles. She’s a vision. A vision I just paid five million dollars for.
“Please, come inside and sit. I can assure you I don’t bite.”
The disgust in my voice can’t be hidden. I suppress a shudder at the thought of having someone else’s blood inside of my mouth. Images flash through my mind of me tearing at her neck with my teeth—her blood spraying all over my face and expensive suit. If it were to get into my eyes, that would be the absolute fucking worst. There’s not enough water in the world to wash my eyes out with. I’d just as soon have Edison take me to a surgeon and have him remove them. Take my ruined eyes right from my skull. But those bastards might not have taken proper precautions. The news touts all the time of malpractice—surgical instruments not having been sterilized and thus have inflicted patients with fucking awful diseases and infections. Then it really would be time to put that bullet into my skull once and for all.
But where would I do it?
In the foyer?
There’s nothing the blood could ruin there. Surely, Edison could clean it all up.
And if he missed a spot?
Would that splatter of my blood grow and fester into something deadly?
Would my father become infected when he came to go through my things?
The very image of my father and his assistants rifling through my belongings has me pulling the brakes on the entire self-harming plan. They’d move my files. They would stain my carpet. Those motherfuckers would use my toilet.
I’m nearly in a rage when the young woman climbs into the car. Her presence drags me from my mental anguish, and I can’t help but gape at her.
“Meet your new master,” the man says to her.
She jerks her head and pleads with her eyes to him. Despite his satisfied smile, I don’t miss the regret in his eyes. He devours her with his stare for a brief moment before composing his facial expression. But it was there, hiding just beneath the surface. This man loves her.
Incredibly so.
Obsessively so.
I should know.
But he’ll never touch her again. Once I have her the way I want, she’ll never leave.
Edison closes the car door and I turn to regard the little thing I bought. Her wide blue eyes meet mine bravely—almost curiously—and I watch her.
“Seatbelt, please,” I instruct in a low, gravelly voice as soon as the car starts to move.
Her eyebrows furrow together in confusion but she dutifully obeys. Then, she folds her hands tog
ether in her lap. I like that she isn’t touching everything—especially me. That her eyes are remaining on mine. For a brief second, I wish to see her mouth, the same mouth that sold me from the video surveillance.
But what if she’s had that mouth on that man?
What if she ate something uncooked and her mouth crawls with something that could make me sick?
That mouth will have to wait.
“What’s your name?”
Her nose turns pink and she sniffles. “Baylee.”
I watch her blink one, two, three, four, five, six times in a row before I speak again. Her breaths are even and measured. I like the musical quality they make.
“I like that name.”
Her body relaxes at my words and my chest tightens. I like that too.
“Thank you, Mr. McPherson.” Her voice wobbles in fear and I straighten my back to appear more menacing. I need to establish that I’m in charge here.
“Call me War.”
She nods. “War, are you going to hurt me?” she asks, getting right to the point. Brave one she is—I admire that already about her.
Her ice-blue eyes shimmer with unshed tears but she lifts her chin to show strength. It mesmerizes me. I study her disheveled hair and the gardenia that hangs from it with a disgusted flare of my nostrils. My hands begin to shake. That man should have brushed her hair. He should have pulled all the hairs into a neat bun so that it wasn’t wild and unruly. I’ve read about how the human head sheds about thirty to fifty strands a day—even up to a hundred on rare occasion. A woman with unkempt hair like she has is probably shedding all over this vehicle. I make a note to have Edison vacuum as soon as we arrive home.
How many hairs would she lose between now and the drive to my beachfront estate?
I start calculating her hair loss. If she loses an average of forty hairs per day, then that means she will lose one point six seven hairs per hour. The drive is just over an hour which means she could potentially lose two point oh nine hairs. But, if she loses more along the higher end of that spectrum of fifty hairs a day, that would mean she’d lose—
“War?”
