BABY FOR A PRICE

by Kathryn Thomas

  “Alright.” I reach into my pocket and take out his pay, with a little extra. “This is important, Denton. I need to find him because…” Because I find myself constantly drawn to his daughter. But I just let it hang, and then stand up. “Thanks for the beer.”

  “Stay safe, Hound. See’ya later.”

  I’m on the sidewalk when my cell buzzes again. I think it’s going to be Martin, but it’s Mac, his voice as no-nonsense as ever. “Come to The Red Room,” he says. “Now.”

  Sometimes, the way Mac speaks to me makes me want to reach through the phone and crush his throat. I hate the sound of my own voice when I say, “Yes, okay.” Yes, okay, like I’m some kind of sniveling rat. As I drive to the strip club, I try and work out when exactly I stopped respecting Mac and started resenting him. It definitely has something to do with Daisy, that’s for sure. As I walk through The Red Room, I hear the start of some song that’s popular at the moment, some woman singing about how she killed a guy and it’s his fault, or something.

  The place is empty, which means they must be holding auditions. I know that Mac likes to come here when they’re holding auditions so he can get a good look at the women. Sometimes he even has Ripper or Hitter go and tap them on the shoulder afterward and say, “The owner wants to see you.” And the old pervert gets most of them into his car with him. I nod to Jack and sit next to Mac, who doesn’t so much as look at me. I remember a boy who wanted to hear the word “Son” on Mac’s lips and feel like a rotten idiot. Then I look at the stage, and for a few moments I’m sure gravity has stopped working. Everything shifts, floats around, changes, and I’m left not knowing what the hell to do.

  My first instinct is to be the Hound I’ve been my whole life, which would mean I’d go into Violence Mode and think about the consequences later. I’d smash Mac over the head with a bottle, glass anyone who got in the way, and get her off the stage. But then I see the moment where Daisy sees me, lit harshly under the too-bright lights. Her eyes go wide for the fraction of a second, locked onto me, and she shakes her head in such a subtle way I’m sure I’m the only person who notices. All the while she’s still dancing, gyrating her ass for these fucking perverts. She’s mine, I want to roar. She’s mine and you have no right to look at her.

  Once I’ve swallowed the rage, I start thinking. If I fight now, what do I achieve? If I attack Mac now, Ripper and Hitter will jump on me. Fine, then I’ll kill them, too. But then what does that achieve for Daisy? Even if I can get her out of here for the time being, against her will, that doesn’t mean she’ll miraculously change her mind. Last week, when I dealt with that creep in the Shack for her, she wasn’t pleased. She was pissed. As stupid as you look…I realize I’m gripping my knees too hard, causing them to ache. It takes a surprising amount of effort to unclench them, sit back, and pretend that this is having no effect on me. As I sit here, I know I only have one real choice, and that’s just to sit still and let this happen. It’s what Daisy wants. It’s the only thing that ends this peacefully.

  And so the torture begins.

  I didn’t truly realize how much I cared about Daisy before now. Even if that makes no sense, I don’t give a damn. I care about her, I know it now, because listening to the men beside me grunt approvingly at her moves is driving me crazy.

  “Good, isn’t she?” Mac says, finally glancing at me.

  I think my face is composed enough to hide my recognition, but I’m not sure.

  “Yeah.” I swallow. My throat’s dry. And these assholes haven’t gotten me a drink.

  “Look at her move,” Mac says. “Smooth, sexy. I’m sure I don’t have to go into detail about what I’d like to do to her!”

  “No,” I say, “you don’t.”

  The song seems to be coming to an end. Daisy reaches her hand around to her bra strap. This is the moment where everything could turn blood-red. This is the moment where I won’t be thinking about the next hour, or even the next ten minutes. This is the moment where my mind will hone down to one instinct: stop her before these men see her breasts. I can’t let that happen. I tense up, all my muscles burning the way they often do before violence. Daisy sees this, hesitates, and then lets her hand drop.

  “She isn’t showing her breasts?” Mac says, the disappointment loud and cloying in his old man’s voice.

  “They don’t always show them,” Jack says, but I can hear he’s caught off-guard.

  The song winds down with Daisy bouncing her ass on the pole and then coming to the front of the stage and waiting for the men to pass comment. This is fucked, this is really fucked. I think about smashing Mac’s face into the table, but I have to repress this urge. I have to just sit here. Man…this is fucked.

  “So, Daisy Dunham,” Mac says, looking at a clipboard on the table between him and Jack. He pauses, turning to me. “Dunham. I wonder if there’s any relation.” He talks quietly, so only I can hear. I know the bastard is certain there’s a relation. I know he’s just watching to see how I’ll react. So I keep my face composed, don’t say a thing. I just shrug. Mac turns back to the stage. “That was a very enthusiastic performance, sweetie, but what happened at the end there? Shyness isn’t something valued in your kind.”

  Your kind. I wish this man was dead. Out of the life. I thought he’d gotten out of the life. I was a blind kid, that’s what I was, just a blind over-trusting kid. I want to go back in time and throttle the moron who once tried to see this man as a father.

  Daisy clears her throat and mumbles something I don’t hear.

  “Speak up!” Mac snaps.

  Ripper—or Hitter—snorts laughter.

  “I just wasn’t sure,” she says. “Can I go now?”

  Mac looks annoyed, but he waves a hand. Jack says: “Of course you can, Daisy. We’ll talk after all the auditions are completed. We’ll, err, have our verdict then.” He keeps glancing at Mac, nervous, as anyone shorter than seven feet would be around Mac.

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  Daisy turns on her heels and clicks away, and I know that Mac is staring at the way her ass shifts around her thong, and I know that it would bring me great pleasure to go into Violence Mode. But I have to be smarter. Even if all my books have been turned to kindling.

  “Jack,” I say, leaving it until the next girl is getting ready to dance. “I reckon I’d like a private audition with one of your girls. You don’t mind, do you?”

  I asked Jack on purpose, knowing he’d hesitate—it’s an inconvenience—and knowing that that’d piss off Mac. Just need to wait and let it happen.

  “Well, Hound, you know…these aren’t exactly our girls.”

  “If he wants to go back there and see what he can see,” Mac says, “then he can. I’m owner too, Jack.”

  Being careful not to smile, I stand up and walk toward the changing room.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Daisy

  “You used your real name,” Sarah is saying, but it sounds like her voice is coming from across a large gap. He was there, watching me, and there was a look in his eyes. It wasn’t judgment, that’s the most confusing part. “Why would you do that, you silly girl? Oh, Daisy Dunce! That’s a new name for you!” No, it wasn’t judgment in his eyes. It was just expectation; expectation that I’m worth more than this. What freaks me out so much is that it was a look not all that different to Mom’s, or the one I imagine Mom would give me. Does Hound think I can do better, just like Mom did?

  But then I start to get angry, because I don’t know who the hell he thinks he is. The audition was going fine. I’d carefully stowed myself away in the back of my mind so that I could dance without thinking about anything but the money. And then he had to walk in, expecting more from me!

  The lady with the clipboard comes in, but this time she doesn’t call out some ludicrous stripper’s name. This time, she calls out: “Miss Dunham. You have somebody outside waiting for you.”

  “What did you do?” Sarah says, looking at me as though I’ve just slapped her across the f
ace. “Did you suck their dicks, or what? Why are you being called out?”

  I ignore her and go to the door, ignoring, too, the way the girls look at me. I’m wearing sweatpants and a hoodie now, looking out of place amidst all the bikini-clad princesses. When I get to Hound, he doesn’t say anything, just gestures for me to follow him. He leads me to a storage/break room, with a couch and a small TV, a few magazines, coffee rings on the table, boxes stacked to the ceiling, and a lock on the door. When we’re sitting on the couch and the sound of the music is pounding dimly through the walls, he talks.

  “I almost went crazy out there,” he says quietly. “Really crazy, Daisy. Unhinged is probably the word for it. If you’d taken off your bra…”

  We’re sitting side by side, so we’re not looking at each other. Or, he’s looking at me and I’m looking at the blank TV not looking at him on purpose. If I look at him, I might have to admit that I like this protective attitude, even though it’s presumptuous, even though he has no claim to me, even though we’re just strangers pretending at real affection—I think, that must be it, must be.

  “You have no right to get angry,” I say. “You ruined my audition.”

  “Ruined your…Daisy, why the hell do you want to be a stripper?”

  “For fuck’s sake, Hound!” I yell, without meaning to. “Who ever said I wanted to be a stripper? Is that really what you think, that I sit around daydreaming about being a stripper? Just think about it for a second and you’ll get your answer.”

  “Money.”

  “Money!” I agree. “That’s all it ever comes down to, and since I didn’t even finish school, I can’t even get a job fucking filing, or, or—typing or anything. Because the second I walk in there, they’re going to laugh at me, laugh right in my face, and demand to know what sort of an excuse of a human being hasn’t even finished school!”

  “I never finished school,” Hound says. “I started work when I was fifteen. I never graduated.”

  “So you understand, then, don’t you? It’s about money.”

  “It’s always been about money for me.” He nods. “Until recently, anyway.”

  “With your online course?”

  “No.”

  I turn to him and see that his lips are twisted. Not a grin, not a scowl, an uncertain in-between look.

  “Since I met you.”

  I roll my eyes, pretending that his words have no effect on me. “Don’t try those lines on me, Hound. I’m not about to melt when you look at me. I’m not that sort of girl.”

  His ice-blue eyes don’t waver. “I wouldn’t want you if you were that sort of girl. Listen, I’m not trying to reason anything out. I’m not trying to make some logical argument. All I’m doing is telling you what my reaction was when I saw you up there. And it was this: If she doesn’t get down, I’m going to hurt somebody.”

  “You’re not my real husband!” I snap, jumping to my feet. “I think you forget that, Hound. You’re not my real husband and I’m not your real wife! I agreed to this fake marriage stuff because I thought you could help Dad, but you can’t help Dad if he’s not here, can you? So why am I wearing these rings? Tell me that!”

  “I think only you can answer that,” he replies. He’s so tall that even sitting he only has to look up a little to stare into my eyes. “Why are you wearing those rings, Daisy?”

  “It’s not because of what you’re trying to imply!”

  “And what am I trying to imply?”

  “That we have some kind of—like some kind of connection. That we’re falling for each other or something! But let me tell you, Hound, I haven’t got time to fall for anyone, especially somebody who thinks he can barge in on my life whenever he wants and think he knows what’s best for me—”

  When he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me into his lap, I don’t fight him, because my anger isn’t just anger. It’s fueled by passion. And what he’s implying is right. I really do think I’m falling for this giant. He sits me on his lap, his groin, and I feel him grow hard the second my ass cheeks squash against him.

  “You’re mine,” he whispers, breath warm on my face. “Not theirs. Not those bastards. Not them.”

  Then he kisses me.

  I think about wrenching away from him, placing my hand on his chest and pushing away and telling him that he can’t just kiss me and make it all better. But when I put my hand on his chest I’m achingly aware of the bulging muscles, the power of him, and for some reason he feels safe, like home. He doesn’t feel like some man I once had wild sex with in an alleyway. He feels like a man I’ve had sex with many times and want to have sex with many more. I open my mouth, kissing him forcefully, moving my hand from his chest to his face, holding him as we kiss. And he does the same, cradling my face. Before I can summon the strength to jump up, return to the argument, I’m swiveling my hips so that my legs are split over him, grinding against him. For a moment I break off the kiss and look into his face. He’s staring at me seriously, intensely, without any hint of humor. He’s staring at me like he’d kill anybody who ever tried to hurt me.

  “Let’s not speak,” I say. “Let’s just—”

  I kiss him again. Grinding on him, I feel his cock, massive and engorged, struggling to break free of his pants. Both of us are panting through the kiss, the room a song of our combined voices, and both of us are roaming our hands over each other. I move from his face, down his torso, sit up and work my hand in between our groins, massaging his cock. He makes a growling noise and I rub faster, faster. Then all at once this giant has lifted me to my feet and he’s tugging at my clothes. I’m doing the same to him, pulling his shirt over his head, yanking his pants down. When we’re naked, he lays me down with surprising tenderness on the couch, leaning over me, rock-hard, ice-blue eyes watching me closely.

  I reach down and grab his cock, all the while my gaze locked on his, unable to look away. I’m still aware of my anger—I don’t think there’s been a moment since I was a teenager when I wasn’t angry—but it’s dim, faraway. Most of all I’m just aware of the heat emanating from his body. I stroke his cock until he’s bulging so much I can feel the veins pushing against my palm, and then I guide him toward my pussy. My body is humming with anticipation, my sweet spot pulsing as though it’s sending out an urgent signal, my lips tingling, wanting to be brushed against by his cock. I wrap my arms around his back as the tip of his cock pushes firmly against my hole, opening me.

  He’s big, he’s so fucking big. I’ll never get used to that. He thrusts slowly, splitting me open, and then he’s buried deep inside of me. But he doesn’t drill into me now. Neither does he bury his face in me so we don’t have to look at each other. I get the sense that sex is awkward for us both, usually. I know it is for me, when quick flings have been all I’ve known. But now he props himself up so he can look into my eyes, and me into his, and as he pumps his hips, sliding in and out, we watch each other. I watch his face as we make love—and make love is what we’re doing—watch his face and feel as though I know him better with each thrust. The pleasure is burning, captivating, and soon our moaning song is louder than ever. His cock sends the tingling in my lips into overdrive, my sweet spot feeling like it’s gathering all the heat in my body preparing for a final ultimate release.

  I smooth my hands over his back, watch as his eyes stare directly into mine. He loves me. I think he loves me. The thought comes in the midst of the pleasure like a powerful flashlight cutting through fog. I try and tell myself I’m being silly, but with the gentle rhythm of our passionate lovemaking, it’s difficult.

  My sensitive spot becomes warmer, denser, as though a week’s worth of energy is packed tightly in there, bursting to get free. I dig my nails into his back, lightly, and I see his lips twitch at the corner of his mouth and his eyes go wide for half a moment. A silent conversation, like at the house about the realtor: Come for me, he’s saying, without words.

  I resist the urge to close my eyes as the orgasm releases, a slow, leisurely r
eleasing taking as much pleasure from his face as from his cock, as much from the intimacy as from the mere physical act. Twisting my hips, driving up and down, forcing myself to keep our eyes locked together, I ride him as wave after wave of euphoric pleasure explodes in my lower half, making my legs tremble and my toes curl until they hurt. I writhe here and there, chasing the pleasure as it ebbs, find perfect burst after perfect burst of ecstasy. As I’m nearing the end of the orgasm, Hound pushes into me, deeply, so deep for a second it’s like we’re sharing one body. Then he comes, one loud grunt, eyes locked on my lips, my smiling lips. And he’s smiling, too.

  When we roll away from each other, I can sense it. I’m sure he must be able to as well. Something has changed. That was the most loving sex I’ve ever had, I’ve even come close to. Looking at Hound, I know it’s the same for him.