I would find out soon enough. I’d experience them firsthand.
“I’ve done things,” I say even though it feels like a lie.
“What kind of things?” he says, and I wonder whether it’s prurient interest or concern that compels him to ask. “Making out on the couch when Daddy isn’t home? Letting a boy feel under your shirt?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Have you ever been kissed?”
I manage to nod. That was as far as I let Justin go. He pushed me for more in the darkened back hallways at parties, in the empty storage rooms outside hotel ballrooms.
And I always told him no.
“What are you afraid of?” he murmurs.
The way he asks, I know he doesn’t mean the auction. He’s asking why I never let a boy go further with me. He’s asking why I’m still a virgin.
Our position makes it feel more intimate, as if there isn’t a stranger only a few feet behind us, as if I’m not being forced to do this. The wavy lighting adds to the effect, as if this is only in a dream. I can tell the truth because this isn’t even real.
“Daddy caught me once,” I say as if in a trance. “I was sleeping in on the weekend, or he thought I was. But I was actually touching myself.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me it was wrong. He said that it wasn’t ladylike, that that kind of behavior would disgrace our family name.” The intense shame I felt then hits me like a blow to the stomach, almost doubling me over. It’s only Gabriel’s steady presence behind me that holds me up. He hardly touches me, only the lightest brush of his hands on my arms, but they might as well be made of iron.
“And then he was the one who disgraced your family name.”
“He put chili juice on my fingers every night for a month.”
The irony is enough to make me throw up. For years I resisted what the other girls were doing, refused what the boys wanted from me. The only boy willing to wait until marriage was Justin, and it turned out that was only because he viewed our relationship as a political stepping stone.
“Stay here, little virgin.”
He moves away from me, and I feel his loss like a wintry wind. I’m alone, bereft.
The camera clicks behind me, invading my privacy, reminding me of just how public this will be. I can’t even touch my body without feeling guilt, but some stranger will soon have the right.
“Look at me.” Gabriel’s voice comes to me from near the camera.
I turn to look at him over my shoulder. Most of my face is still hidden by my hair, but he can see more of me. Is my turmoil visible in my posture? Can they read the pain in my eyes? Everything that I believed was a lie, but the truth hurts enough that I want it back.
“Touch yourself,” he says.
My heart stops, because if he wants me to do this for the camera, I’ll falter. I’ll fail.
“Tonight. When you’re in bed, alone. In the dark. Lock the door if you need to. No one will walk in on you. Touch yourself and make yourself feel good. You remember how to do that, don’t you?”
The memory comes like a tangible caress, a stroke on my private place. My lips part on a soft sigh. Heat suffuses my cheeks. I squeeze my legs together, seeking more.
The click of the camera captures my illicit pleasure.
“That’s it,” the photographer says.
Gabriel studies whatever is on the view screen, his expression enigmatic. “Yes. That’s the one.”
Chapter Six
Both men step outside to let me dress. It only takes a moment to slip my sundress over my head. I use the privacy to gather my composure. I can’t believe I told Gabriel about that time with my dad.
And then he was the one who disgraced your family name.
Maybe it’s crazy to stand by my father, but I’m all he has left. Bedridden, barely able to breathe. He raised me from the moment my mother died. If I were to abandon him, he’d die. Whether from his injuries or from men coming to finish the job. I put my hands to my cheeks, feeling lingering heat.
How will I face Gabriel Miller now that he knows my secrets?
Except I need to confront him to find out if he sent the men to my house yesterday. Part of me wants to believe that he wouldn’t do that, but the timing is too coincidental. And he has the most motive to want my father dead.
Taking a deep breath, I open the door and step into the small hallway.
It’s darker than I remember, darker than it was in the dreamlike bedroom, and I blink while my eyes adjust. I realize that someone has turned off the overhead light in the hall. And I’m not alone.
“Gabriel?” I say, my voice wavering slightly.
A low laugh fills the space, darker and with more grit than I expect. “He went downstairs,” says an unfamiliar voice.
Fear spikes in my chest. “Oh. I’ll go look for him.”
“You should be running the other way.”
I take a step toward the stairs, backing away. I know that Gabriel isn’t safe. He has a reason to hurt me. But something about this man makes my blood turn to ice.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, squinting to make out his features. All I can see is pale hair and pale eyes.
“In fact, you ought to be running far away. The James family isn’t welcome in this city anymore. Or haven’t you figured that out yet?”
Old loyalty sparks anger inside me. “I’m very aware of my family’s standing in Tanglewood. That’s the reason I’m in this mess.”
“Sex for money. I guess it’s more honest work than your daddy did, but just as dirty.”
I flinch in the darkness. Something in his voice sounds personal. “What do you know about what my daddy did?”
“Your father stole from Gabriel Miller, and nobody gets away with that. That’s why he got knocked down. But Gabriel wasn’t the only person he stole from.”
And all those men would want to hurt my dad. “He isn’t stealing from anyone anymore.”
In the shadows I see a broad shoulder shrug. “Doesn’t make people whole again, does it? Though I suppose if they had you in their beds, taking the money out on your skin, that might make them feel better.”
Fear is a finger down my spine, making my whole body shudder. I spin away from him and fly down the wooden stairs, heart pounding wildly. Part of me expects him to follow, and I speed up in anticipation of a hand on my shoulder, a fist in my hair.
Then I’m in the wide foyer, warmly lit by lamps along the wall. Safe.
Except safety is only an illusion when I’m in the Den.
Gabriel waits for me in the cozy leather chair where Damon was sitting last time. There’s a glass in his hand, half-full, and he watches me with an unreadable expression.
I meant to question him carefully, but all my caution has evaporated. “Did you send someone to my house last night?”
For a moment he’s so still I think he hasn’t heard me. Then he leans forward, setting the glass on the table. “Someone came to your house?”
Of course a man like him would be an accomplished liar. I have to be smarter than him. Except if he did send someone, what could I do about it? The police were useless. “I surprised him when he was tampering with my electrical box. He left before the police came. Was it you?”
He speaks slowly, as if wondering the answer himself. “Why would I tamper with your electrical box?”
The shame of undressing upstairs mixes with my fear of the unnamed man. Something inside me snaps, pooling tears in my eyes. “To scare me. To hurt me. For the same reason you turned my father in.”
His expression darkens. “Your father stole from me.”
“Did you get your money back?” I ask tightly.
“No, but it wasn’t about that. I made an example out of him.”
My heart squeezes as I remember my dad’s rasping breath. “Right, except I’m the one giving up my friends, my future. I’m the one who’s going to be auctioned off.”
He frowns. “Did you get a look at t
he man’s face?”
“He was wearing a hoodie.” I did get a feel for his build, his gait. Could he have been Gabriel Miller? Could he have been the man upstairs? Even if he wasn’t either of them, he could have been sent by them.
“Someone will guard the house tonight,” he says casually as if I should take his innocence for granted. He’s anything but innocent. “If he comes back, we’ll catch him.”
My eyes narrow. “Why would you do that for me?”
One dark eyebrow rises. “Damon is going to make a lot of money on your auction. He’s going to want to protect his investment.”
Of course. I have become a product. My security would be a safe around a diamond, meant to keep me away from other men. Only, the most dangerous men in the city have the combination. It isn’t protection at all. It’s a cage.
I leave without another word, stomach tight until I’m back in my house with the door locked. I take a shower, trying to wash away the shame of their gazes on my skin, the light touch of Gabriel’s hands on my arms. No matter how hard I scrub, I can still feel him.
Chapter Seven
Over the weeks since my father came home from the hospital, I’ve fallen into a routine. I check my father’s vitals in the morning and change his bedding, which he mostly sleeps through. Then at midday I come and bring him lunch. That’s the best chance I have to catch him awake. He can only handle liquids—warm soup and cold pudding. Sometimes he can stomach a few bites.
At school my major was classical studies with a focus on ancient mythology. It was fascinating for me, but far more suited for the wife of a senator than someone who had to measure medicine and administer shots.
By the time I fall onto my mattress every night, my muscles are sore. My body is tired, but my mind remains stubbornly awake—running over every weekly chess game of my childhood, every hour of the trial, every excruciating second of the breakup with Justin.
Since I met Gabriel yesterday, I have something new to obsess about.
After dressing in panties and a cami, my usual sleep clothes, I glance outside the window. A gleaming black SUV sits on the curb in plain sight. My heart lurches. What if someone’s come back? Except the car isn’t hidden at all. And when I squint, I can make out the silhouette of a man inside.
Damon Scott must have sent him.
He’s going to want to protect his investment.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
From across the room my phone blinks a green light at me. A voicemail. I reach for it with shaking fingers, not sure whether I want to hear from Damon. He couldn’t have set up the auction that quickly, could he? I press the phone to my ear.
My blood goes cold for a different reason as I hear Landon Moore’s voice.
“My dear Avery. I understand that you were shocked by my proposal. I realize now that you need time to process the change. I was surprised to discover that you had grown into such a beautiful young woman. I confess that I had considered our union before these unfortunate events, but I feared that you would never see me as more than your dear Uncle Landon. I can be patient during this difficult time and trust that you’ll make the right decision.”
My dinner threatens to come up, and I toss the phone across the bare wood floors. It’s harder to bear his patience because I don’t know if I’m making the right choice. I can’t bring myself to accept him, to bind myself to him for life, even though that might make things easier for me.
I also can’t bring myself to give up this house, the only remnant of my mother.
What would she tell me to do if she were here?
How would my life have been different if she were alive? I would have had someone to teach me about my body. About sex. I would have had someone to explain how my period works instead of the school nurse. I would have had someone to tell me about sex instead of chili juice on my fingers.
Touch yourself.
Gabriel’s words come back to me in a sensual rush, my heart pounding.
He didn’t mean it, did he? It’s just some stupid, taunting thing he said to get the right picture. And if he did mean it, it’s not like I have to listen to him. He’s a horrible man.
Except I find myself reaching for the sheet even though it’s a warm night. I’m alone in the house with the doors locked. There’s a man outside watching to make sure no one tampers with the electricity again. My dad is asleep, attached to his hospital bed, unable to walk in on me if he woke up.
When you’re in bed, alone. In the dark. Lock the door if you need to.
Still I pull the sheet over my body. The thin layer of fabric is my shield from the fear, from the shame that burns inside me. I want to pretend I never heard his words, to act like they don’t matter.
No one will walk in on you.
Except if I can’t even touch myself, how can I let some man touch me? If I have never had an orgasm, how can I expect some stranger to give me one? He might not give me pleasure, but it would be even worse if he did. I imagine being helpless in the arms of some cold, distant man.
He would own me. I can’t give someone that power over me, not even for money.
I start by touching my breasts because that feels less scary. They’re warm and firm, my nipples already hard from thinking about this. I close my eyes while my fingers toy with my nipples. They are little zings of pleasure, in my breasts, in my core, but not enough. Not enough to come.
Touch yourself and make yourself feel good. You remember how to do that, don’t you?
I never made myself come, but I remember where I liked to rub my body. My palms run across my stomach, down to my panties. I spread my legs, taking deep breaths. The conditioning runs deep with me. There’s already a faint burn, the long-ago memory of chili juice when I tested it against my sex.
For a horrible moment I hear my father’s voice telling me that I’m dirty, that I’m a disgrace. And I realize that it’s not just about some strange man owning me. My father owns me. All these years he’s kept me from my own body.
So is Gabriel giving it back? Or is he taking the reins?
I imagine his golden eyes watching me, knowing and sure. My inner muscles clench in response. There’s something dangerous about him. It’s not only what he did to my family, not only the harm to my father. There’s a threat inherent in him, like a lion stalking his prey. It’s mesmerizing even while it terrifies me.
There’s an ache, a feeling of tightness whenever I think about him. The dark hair long enough to curl at the ends. The jaw shadowed with stubble. The broad shoulders that suit a man of power. My body responds even if my heart shrinks in fear. It’s sickening, but God, so damned welcome. I’m tired of clenching my hands against my impulses, so tired of being ashamed.
My fingers are clumsy as they roam my sex, remembering where to stroke myself, finding the place where a touch feels too rough. I have to circle around it, and a sort of haze lowers over my mind.
Pleasure laps at my skin like gentle waves against the shore. I could do this forever, my finger slowly moving, my hips nudging up slightly. There’s no urgency. Only peace.
Then that strange man’s voice rises, unbidden, from the shadows of my mind.
I suppose if they had you in their beds, taking the money out on your skin, that might make them feel better. It should scare me, but in this sex-drowsed state, with Gabriel fresh in my mind, something else happens. Desire pulses through my body, a drop of liquid lust tickling my skin on its way down.
It’s not hard to imagine him doing something daring. Would he hurt me?
A man like Gabriel Miller would never be gentle. Even his words are sharp. They cut me, leaving my pride in shards at his feet. His eyes slice to the core of me. What would his hands do? His mouth? His cock?
Pressure builds in my sex, and I circle faster and faster. Harder, abusing the small nub of nerves until my body shudders and shakes, mouth open in a silent scream. Liquid spills over my fingers, dampening the fabric of my panties as my sex pulses for eternity.
In the aftermath my muscles feel stiff. Pulling my wet fingers up makes me blush. I rub them furtively on the sheets as if I’ll get caught with them, shiny and sex smelling in the dark.
“What are you doing to me?” I whisper to the hollow room.
I don’t know whether I’m talking to Gabriel or my father. I might as well be asking the question to myself. How could I climax thinking of Gabriel Miller? How could I come imagining being hurt?
Chapter Eight
The next morning I wake up to ringing of the doorbell. My heart leaps to my throat as I pull on a pair of jeans over my panties and tank top. In the bright light of day I’m more worried about some overzealous bill collector than a hooded man. Real estate bills with arms and legs, standing as tall as a skyscraper, have invaded my dreams. I’m half expecting us to be evicted for some unknown bill before we even get to the auction.
I open the door to a bright-eyed Harper, who’s holding up two steaming cups of coffee. “Good morning, sleepyhead!”
Embarrassment burns my throat like acid. She would have already seen the overgrown state of the yard. As soon as she comes inside, she’ll see the empty rooms where furniture used to be.
Even knowing she’ll find out the truth, I can’t help my joy at seeing her. I’ve been desperately alone since I came back from college. One by one all Tanglewood friends abandoned me.
I throw my arms around her neck, surprising us both by bursting into tears. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
She squeezes me back. “Oh, Avery. Tell me everything.”
Over her shoulder I spot a glossy black car with a man leaning against it, a cigarette in his mouth. He notices me looking and gives me a mock salute.
A shiver runs through me. “Let’s go inside.”
Sitting on the floor in the empty living room, sipping our soy chai lattes, I tell her about the horrible court dates, where reporters hounded us on the way up and down the marble steps. I tell her about the convictions, how my father seemed to age ten years overnight as the guilty verdicts rang out. And I tell her about the horrible night I got a phone call from the police telling me my father was in the hospital.
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