by Skye Warren
She laughs softly. “Do you really think that will happen?”
“No,” I admit, but it doesn’t have anything to do with confidence. I had been to enough charity auctions to know that rich old men would buy anything—broken furniture that was owned by the Queen of England, the golf ball that lost a crucial championship. “I know someone will buy me. I just don’t know whether it will be enough.”
There isn’t an insurance policy on something like this. If someone buys me for less than the balance of that real estate bill, I’ll lose the house. And I’ll still have to sleep with him.
“Stand up,” Candy says, her command so effortless—and so kind.
When I stand, the silk robe falls open. I gave up on modesty around the time she ripped hardened wax off my most private places, but it will be very different with a roomful of men.
She picks up a small pot of pale pink shimmer. She sweeps the brush into the powder, every move almost sensual. I’m already wearing blush, and I didn’t have to stand up to apply it.
Her gaze goes to my breasts, still partially hidden by the sides of the robe.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
Her expression turns sympathetic. “It might seem over-the-top, but those men are used to over-the-top. And those lights will wash you right out. This is the palest color that will work.”
Her hands are gentle as they push the silk aside. The cool air brushes over my nipples, turning them into hard points. I’m shocked—in part because I wasn’t sure the men would see my bare breasts during the auction. And in part because my body responds to her gaze almost with arousal.
As if I’m a work of art, she applies the brush to my nipples. She’s right that it’s not a drastic effect. They actually look kind of pretty like that, something I never imagined I could think.
“Men are very simple creatures,” she says without looking up from my breast. “They like to feel important, to feel smart. They like to feel strong.”
I wasn’t sure women were so different when she put it that way. Those things sounded great to me, especially after feeling so inordinately weak. “How do you make them feel that way?”
“Not by giving in. That would be too easy.”
The caress of the brush sends strange arcs of energy through my body—my chest, my sex. Even my lips seem to tingle. Every careful stroke echoes across my skin as if I’m hollow. As if there’s nothing inside me but air. “So I should fight him?”
She bites her lip, concentrating. Then she stands back, examining her work. My nipple looks perfectly pink, perfectly circular. Definitely more plump than before.
One nod, then she moves to the other side. I force myself to stand still, not to demand answers, not to beg for them. “Not fight, either. I like to think of it as a dance. He steps forward, you step back. Then you step forward, and he must step back. There’s a symmetry to it, a rhythm.”
I blink, feeling out of my depth. “Do you mean sex?”
“That has a rhythm, but I’m talking about something more. Any woman can fuck him, any woman can spread her legs. There’s nothing special with that.”
“I’m a virgin.” My voice comes out flat. I’m not bragging. What I so carefully protected has actually come to mean more to me than I would have expected—saving my family home. Saving my father.
I would have preferred a safe marriage. A safe life.
If I could magically change fate, I’d never want to know this desperation.
“They aren’t paying for your hymen,” she says. “They’re paying to teach you things. They’re paying so much money because the push will be greater—but so will the pull.”
The rhythm. I hear what she’s saying, but I’m missing it too. She’s trying to explain something to me, something important. And I know that she understands it—I know because she has a very dangerous man wrapped around her finger. I know because of the age-old wisdom in her blue eyes.
“I’m afraid,” I whisper.
She gives a half smile. “That’s part of the pull.”
And the greater the pull, the greater the push. “The more afraid I am, the more money I’m worth?”
“It’s not just fear that pulls them. Innocence and fragility and grace.”
I picture the old men, smoking cigars and drinking whiskey. “Everything they’re not.”
Her expression turns sly. “Don’t fight him, oppose him. Make him desperate for more.”
I’m staring at her, wondering if she’s taking her own advice—because I’m the one desperate for more. I want something concrete, some trick I can do with my hand or my tongue to make this work. Some universal safe word that will make sure I don’t get hurt. Instead she’s giving me philosophy.
And I’m so focused on it, so deep in it, that I don’t hear footsteps in the hallway.
Don’t hear the turn of the doorknob.
Then Gabriel Miller is standing in the room, his golden gaze on me. On the eyes that Candy made large and doe-like. On my pink nipples in hard little nubs. On the sensitive place between my legs, stripped bare of any covering.
The low sound he makes, almost a growl, snaps me out of the trance.
I pull the silk fabric over me, feeling exposed, abraded. I wasn’t willing to examine the idea of Gabriel Miller at the auction, even though I knew he would come. He enjoys seeing me humiliated, the daughter of his enemy. It isn’t enough to watch my father’s fall.
He wants to see mine too.
“Damon is downstairs, holding court,” he says. “Is she ready?”
Candy glances back at him, looking amused. “Of course. I was just telling her how to control whoever buys her.”
His voice is bland. “Do you think he’ll swing that way?”
She laughs. “Control isn’t kink, darling. It’s a way of life.”
The way he looks at her isn’t sexual, though. There’s something like respect in his eyes. Maybe it’s only there because she’s with Ivan Tabakov, but I don’t think so. She has a way of earning it herself.
The way she leans close to me is almost regal. Her lips by my ear, she whispers, “All you have to give them is your body. Your mind, your soul—that’s your leverage.”
That’s my ball of string, I realize. A lifeline, so I can find my way out of the maze at the end. She was playful before but dead serious at the end. Because this is life or death, my ability to move on from this. It could devastate me. It could break me.
Then she’s sweeping out of the room with a little wave for Gabriel.
We’re alone.
I’m insanely focused on the fact that there’s only a piece of silk protecting my body from him. So thin, so vital. He doesn’t stare at my body. His gaze meets mine, but I feel more vulnerable this way. He sees every doubt, every fear. “Did you touch yourself?” he asks, almost mildly.
Heat rushes to my face, and I know I’ll be bright red. “That’s none of your business.”
He studies me, thoughtful. “I think you did, little virgin. I think you touched your hard little clit and made yourself come, your eyes squeezed shut in the dark.”
I hate how well he can read me. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know I could make you come in two minutes.”
A step back, my calves bumping the small chair where I sat. “You wouldn’t.”
“No, but you wish I would.”
“I hate you.”
A low laugh. “Do you really think you can control the man?”
My fists tighten in the silk, covering my breasts. “Better than the other way around.”
“Would it be so bad?” he asks thoughtfully. “Giving up control for a month? Letting someone else guide you? Letting someone teach you?”
Part of me yearns for that, but not with a stranger. Not for money. “I don’t care what happens to me at night. They can touch me, teach me, whatever they want. That won’t really be me.”
He walks to the window, looking at the city’s skyline. There are people working late in
those offices, climbing the corporate ladder, sleeves rolled up for the paycheck. A few of those penthouses are empty, their occupants downstairs, waiting to bid on me.
Without turning he murmurs, “What makes you think it’s only at night?”
I stare at him, unaccountably surprised. I hadn’t really reasoned it out loud or I might have guessed the obvious. My knowledge of sex is so limited that I only imagine it at night. That goes doubly so for a strange old man. Uncertainty vibrates through me. “He’d want me during the day?”
Gabriel turns back, his eyes fierce. “The auction is for a month, Avery. Your days, your nights, your everything. He will own you.”
A shudder squeezes my body. I’m starting to understand what Candy meant about the push. His intensity, his demands. And what would be the pull? My acquiescence. No, she told me not to give in. Innocence and fragility and grace.
I lift my chin, meeting his eyes. “I have to take care of my father. Someone has to feed him, to wash him. Several times a day.”
Gabriel turns back to the window. “The buyer will pay for his care.”
“I can’t—” My voice breaks, and I suck in a steadying breath. I can’t afford to pay for a full-time nurse for a month, not after paying the tax bill and Damon’s percentage. What will we eat when it’s over?
“He’ll pay for his care,” he says, his tone hard. “On top of the auction amount.”
I take a step forward, strangely drawn to him. “Why would he do that?”
A large shoulder lifts. “The men down there have more money than they know what to do with. Whoever buys you, use him. Take what you need from him.”
In the window I can see his reflection, the bold features of his face. But I can’t read him. I could never read him. Is that part of the push Candy told me about? Or is that just the impenetrable mystery of Gabriel Miller? “Why are you helping me?”
“I’m not your friend,” he says gently.
He’s my enemy. When we’re alone, it’s easy to forget that. In a few minutes we’ll be downstairs with the wealthiest men in the city, maybe even the state. Men who would purchase me like an object. Men who Gabriel taught a lesson by ruining my father.
“Fifteen minutes,” he says before leaving the room.
Chapter Twelve
Fifteen minutes feels like fifteen hours when you’re awaiting your fate. The dress that I’m to wear is diaphanous white, almost reminiscent of ancient Greek clothing. It makes me feel more like a sacrifice for the gods—or for the Minotaur in the maze.
I’m relieved that Candy has left undergarments as well—a white bra and matching panties, made of the same satiny material as the dress. At least if someone moves the dress aside, if Damon demands that I take it off, I’ll have something else to cover me.
Except if that were true, she wouldn’t have bothered to paint my nipples.
I pace the room, frustrated that I can’t ask her more questions, that she didn’t give me more direct answers. At this point I’d even take Gabriel’s company over the shameful silence.
A buzz comes from my small clutch, the one I planned to wear with my evening gown. Now I see how foolish that would have been, as if I were a guest at this party. No, I’m the main course.
The screen blinks with a new text message.
Avery, I need to talk to you.
My heart pounds. It’s Justin. I haven’t spoken with him since he broke up with me. There were some things I left at his apartment near campus, but none of that mattered once Daddy got hurt.
My fingers feel clumsy against the screen. I’m busy.
This is important, he writes. I miss you. I made a mistake.
Anger. Denial. Heartbreak. I felt all those things in the wake of his breakup. I have no idea how to handle this text weeks later, especially as I stand in the Den, about to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.
It’s too late, I type back.
Don’t say that. We can talk about this. Where are you?
Suspicion reaches for me like a cold, dark hand. I’m out. Where are YOU?
Your house, he says. No one is answering the door.
Oh my God, he’s at my house. In the listless days following the breakup I would have given anything to hear that knock, to see his face. To have him say that it was a mistake.
I can’t forget that Justin is a rich man, and unlike Harper, his trust fund isn’t tied up with a stingy stepbrother. No, he doesn’t need anyone’s approval—not legally. Though most of the time he asks his dad for advice. And his dad would have told him to drop me like a hot potato.
What would have happened if Justin and I were already married when my father got convicted? What if we’d had kids already? Would Justin have stood by me then? It doesn’t matter, because he didn’t stand by me when it counted.
The letters blur in front of me, but I force the tears back. I won’t mess up Candy’s beautiful work. I’m sorry, I type. It’s really over.
More than just my engagement. My life. My future?
I shove the phone back into my clutch. Did I make a mistake? My heart pounds. I imagine calling him, confessing everything, begging him to come rescue me from this tower. I can’t really trust him, can’t even love him, but maybe love doesn’t matter in the face of cold practicality. In the face of familial duty.
And if love doesn’t matter, then maybe I should accept Uncle Landon’s offer. Safety, security. Isn’t that worth something? God, that’s worth everything.
A knock comes at the door.
My gaze darts to the whitewashed panels, wishing there was a peephole. It feels like flipping a coin—on the other side, will there be Candy’s sensual advice? Or will there be Gabriel’s dark threats? I know which one is safer for me, which one I should want, but as the coin rotates in the air, as I reach for the doorknob, it’s Gabriel that I want to see.
Not Gabriel. And not Candy either.
It’s the man from last time, the one with pale reddish hair and pale eyes. He’s handsome in that stocky, filled-out way, but I can’t get past the coldness of his eyes. They’re light blue, but they look like ice.
He raises one tawny eyebrow, challenging me. “They’re ready for you. I’m to bring you downstairs.”
And I realize what his job is tonight, guarding me. Keeping me from leaving. It’s the same reason he was lurking in the hallway last time. Making sure I don’t run away before I fulfill my end of the bargain. They’re right to suspect me, because my doubts rise up like a black cloud.
And my father cheated Gabriel Miller. That’s how I got into this mess. They would doubt my word.
You ought to be running far away. That’s what he told me last time, but I know without trying now that he wouldn’t let me leave. Too late to call Justin to save me. Too late to accept Uncle Landon’s proposal. Fear is a cold grip on my heart.
“You’re wrong,” I tell him. “They won’t take the money out of my skin.”
They won’t hurt me. I won’t let them. I’ll play Candy’s game, like she taught me. I’ll make them desperate for more, even though I’m the one who feels desperate right now.
He gives me a cruel smile. “Be glad I’ve got no plans to bid on you.”
“What do you have against my father?”
His hand. My arm. He doesn’t grip me hard, not deep enough to bruise, but I’m trapped. “He fucked over a lot of people in this town,” he says. “Including me. He got his, though, didn’t he? Pissing through a tube now, isn’t he?”
My eyes widen. “Did you touch him?”
“I didn’t hurt the fucker, but I wanted to. A lot of people did. Be careful who you trust, girl. There’s plenty who want to do the same to you.”
* * *
Damon’s voice is loud and booming, the perfect auctioneer. I can hear him clearly from behind the velvet curtains. He greeted me briefly to make sure I was ready for him to introduce me. That was the word he used—introduce. Not sell or pimp.
Nothing dirty, even though that’s what this
is.
“Welcome, distinguished gentlemen—and a few lovely women. As people of discerning taste and elevated interests, I know you’ll agree with me that today’s auction is the event of the year. The object of our desires is waiting right now, but before I bring her out, I want to tell you a little bit about what your hard-earned money will be purchasing.”
The low murmur of voices, the clink of crystal. How many people are out there?
“This particular fruit is ripe and ready to be picked,” Damon continues, his tone far too pleased with himself. “I expect she’ll be the perfect color when you open her up, juicy and sweet.”
There’s laughter in the audience, male and drunk.
“It’s not only her body you’ll be purchasing, though, but her mind—her ingenuity, her spark. I have here a letter of recommendation from her high school English teacher.” There’s a pause with a shuffle of paper. “A student of outstanding merit and exceptional integrity. And above all, a fertile mind that begs to be filled.”
There’s a smattering of laughter, and I flush with shame. That’s not what Mrs. Stephenson wrote in my recommendation letter to college.
“Here’s another one, this one from the faculty advisor for the National Honor Society.” Another pause, lengthier this time. Expectation fills the air, thickening it. “Her thirst for learning is surpassed only by her desire to help others. I’ve never had a student with such a large…heart. And the absolute sweetest…temperament.”
More laughter. I’m not sure what’s more humiliating—the sexual innuendo in the fake letters? Or the fact that he’s mentioning the real faculty members at my high school academy who wrote recommendation letters for me.
Damon isn’t reading the actual contents, but he must have read them himself to know who they’re from. My teachers were so supportive, so encouraging. And for what? So that I could stand in the center of rich men and be sold like cattle.
Of course I know who’s next.
Mr. Santos was the world history teacher and the sponsor for the chess club. Chess is a game of status and power. Of war. It’s a game of human nature, Ms. James.
