Chapter Three
In which we are reminded that if an offer seems too good to be true, it usually is.
“Ivy…”
After my part-time job at the flower shop on the corner but before my next shift at Club Vice, I enjoy a luxurious twenty minutes to brush all the pollen out of my hair and squeeze myself into my server’s dress. It takes more of a struggle to zip up than I care to dwell on.
“I don’t know how you can still be squeezing into that dress. It looks like a silver lame glitter anaconda swallowing a cow.” Gabby waves her fingers briskly, drying the violent purple nail polish, “You never eat anything.”
“I had a protein bar today,” I mumble. She’s right. This glittery tube dress should be hanging on me like a sack at this point. Do they shrink in the wash? I check the laundry label on the dress.
Dry clean only.
Yeah, any item of clothing expecting to be dry-cleaned on my budget is about to learn some harsh truths from me. Maybe I can ask for a new uniform tonight.
“Ivy? Signora Mancelli wants to see you in her office.” Luis, my favorite bartender is slicing limes and throws one at me.
“Rude!”
I throw it back, watching the lime slice fly through the air and smack into his forehead with a spray of juice, and head for the office as he yelps, “Juice in the eye, ah, shit! Juice in the eye!”
I stop laughing the minute Signora Guilia Mancelli’s door opens. She’s got a very long and angular body, with long black hair and pointy cat’s-eye glasses.
“Buon pomeriggio, Lily. How are you?”
“Buon pomeriggio. I’m well, and you?” I’ve only been in this office once, the day she hired me. The shaded windows look out on the second-floor lounge area, which is blissfully quiet and clean this time of day.
“Quite well. Signor Toscano tells me that you’re interested in a change in your job description.” Settling back behind her desk, she nods to a chair close by.
“Yes ma’am,” I say, rubbing my sweaty palms on my too-tight dress. “I hope I’ve shown that my work ethic is good.”
She’s looking at me closely, a slow examination and it’s making me nervous. “I’m sorry to say that we don’t have any openings in the other two clubs, servers tend to stay once they’re assigned there.” She smiles and looks at her laptop, dismissing me.
I need five thousand dollars more…
Desperation makes me brave. “Are- are you sure there isn’t anything else that might be higher paying? I can do inventory, accounting, I-”
“That depends.” She’s looking at me again with speculative interest. “How flexible are you with the position?”
This doesn’t sound good. Walk away. Abort.
“Wh- what’s the position?”
“Every month, we hold a special auction. Men - and a few women - bid on some of our most attractive employees,” she says, looking a bit amused because I’m sure my shock is showing.
“What are they bidding on, exactly?” I croak.
She shrugs, tapping her keyboard. “For the evening. Those being auctioned make it clear what they’re willing to offer and what’s off the table. It’s very well-supervised for the safety of both people involved.”
“So…” I rub my bare arms, “so sex, then.”
“Si, Ivy.” Oh, she definitely finds me entertaining. “There would be sex involved. Just how far you’re willing to go is made clear beforehand, but si . The bidder would expect sex.”
I can’t do this. There’s no way.
But my mouth opens again. “How much do the girls usually make?”
“It depends,” she says, “but traditionally, around forty to fifty thousand Euros. The house does not take a cut.” My wide, panicked eyes must look very reassuring to her, she presses a button on her keyboard. “I’m sending the application and questionnaire to your email, take a look at both and let me know if you have any questions.”
“Thank you,” I mumble.
Forty thousand Euros, Sloan! Where else are you going to make that kind of money?
My brain’s split into two warring camps, arguing about the merits and disadvantages of selling my body for cash while I hustle drinks, clear up dirty glasses, and give out directions to the bathroom 327 times.
How can I do this?
I can’t.
I’m desperate, I’m so desperate but stand on a stage and let men bid on me like a farm animal? My bastard of a stepfather would love this. He loved bragging about “owning” this police chief or that judge. That evil son of a bitch. He’s the reason I have to do this; work three jobs, sell the last of my mother’s jewelry, and stay awake worrying about the next doctor’s bill instead of sleep.
It’s just one night.
“Shut up,” I mumble, trying to turn my brain off. The poor guy I’m serving looks a little startled as I hand him his drink. “Sorry.”
“This DJ sucks,” Gabby complains, coming up behind me. She’s adjusting her boobs so they fit in the cups of her outrageously low-cut dress. “I heard him playing a mix of Eminem and Britney Spears earlier. It was horrifying.”
The man in question is smoothing his thinning hair and winking at two girls dancing in front of the DJ booth. “I’m not sure those two are even old enough to be in here.”
“I’ll tell one of the bouncers,” she says.
“Wait- have you heard about the- the auctions on level three?”
She turns back to me with a huge grin. “Ivy, you slut! I didn’t know you were into that! You’ve never brought a guy home, I figured you just had a frozen vagina.”
I have to laugh. “Oh, my god, woman! Do you really think I’d bring a guy home to ravish him on our couch?”
She shrugs, “I have.”
“Aaaand, I sleep there, so thanks for that. But have you? Heard of the auctions?”
Pulling me into an alcove where the music isn’t blasting so forcefully, she grabs my shoulders. “Cosa furtiva, you sneaky thing! Did Signora Mancelli invite you to participate?”
“Yes… I’m trying to wrap my mind around the idea, it sounds like a nightmare.”
“It would be good for you,” she pulls her top down a little while I nervously hike mine up before the girls escape from my shitty bra. “It’s a huge ego boost, standing up there, hearing all these rich bastards bidding for you, throwing money around like it’s confetti.”
“So you have done it!” I say triumphantly.
“Si, twice. Look, I have to get upstairs, my break is over. I can help you get ready and they have hundreds of designer dresses in the dressing room to choose from. Hell, it was worth doing just to wear that silver Versace,” she says dreamily.
“I’ll think about it.” My throat is dry and I gulp with an audible clicky noise.
“Don’t take too long,” she warns, “the next auction is this Friday.”
“Only two days away?” I groan. “I don’t know, it just…” Gabby kisses my cheek, leaving me with a wet red smear of lipstick to scrub off and saunters away.