9
Violet
I keep peeking through the red curtain, scanning the room in search of Cassio. The clock’s ticking, but there’s no sign of him. He always strolls to the front of the room and takes a seat by Blaze’s table, casually nonchalant until his eyes find me. Then, excitement takes over. Excitement and awe.
It made my skin prickle first time around, because I didn’t know what to expect. Next time, it prickled because I did . And it prickled with both relief and anxiety. Relief, because I knew twenty out of the twenty-four hours with him would be pure bliss. Restaurants, wine, theater or opera, a good night’s sleep in his bed.
Anxiety because of the remaining four hours...
Still, I’d happily endure the hours of his cock invading my holes if he shows up to bid tonight. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t. Unfortunately, Cassio’s nowhere in sight and the space he usually occupies is taken by someone else. Two someones...
One of them spattered in blood.
I’ve never seen them here before. Their ruthless auras, as well as their tailored tuxes, tell me they belong in this crowd. Yet somehow, they don’t quite fit in. Maybe it’s because they’re new... or maybe there’s something about them my brain can sense but eyes can’t see.
The way they stand out among lesser and more established criminals in attendance makes me uneasy.
Jittery like a sinner on judgment day.
The one who sat arm and arm with me glares at the stage, his shoulders wound up, dark, assessing eyes shooting daggers the auctioneer’s way.
He looks like he hates being here. Like participating creeps him out. His jaw, peppered by a few-day-old stubble keeps working, grinding in small circles while his fingers squeeze the life out of a crystal glass full of neat Bourbon. He’s not drinking, just swirling the liquid as if it helps him focus.
His friend—equally tense, his knee bouncing under the table—downs the last of his drink, scanning the crowd as if assessing possible threats. The waitress approaches, summoned by the thump of his empty glass against the table. She refills it promptly and leaves them two bidding paddles. My stomach ties itself into knots.
God, where’s Cassio?
It’s sad that I hope a man who leaves my body covered in bruises will show up and buy me outright.
Sad, sick, but... my reality.
Compared to other previous winners, Cassio’s the lesser evil. I know what those men are capable of, what gets them going, and how much pain, hunger, and fear to expect.
Considerably more than with Cassio.
He never lets me go hungry. He never touches me while I sleep, so I get to sleep. He showers me with gifts, compensating for every bruise he leaves on my skin. It’s a lousy consolation, but lousy is better than nothing.
I’ll take Cassio over the others any day. I don’t want to end up with anyone else. Least of all these two newcomers.
They’re a blank page.
What if they’re worse than all the other men combined? What if they want to take me together? What if they bring more people to the party?
It’ll be like the ballroom all over again.
No one who’s bought me thus far has shared me with anyone else. I guess when you fork out five or six digits for a girl, you want her to yourself.
That might not be the case when someone owns me. After all, men get bored with one hole (or even all three) pretty quickly.
Especially the men in this room, used to fucking a different pussy every weekend.
Stepping from one foot to the other, I smooth my violet locks for the sixth time. Not one hair is out of place, but it’s all I can do to try and control the trembling.
My anxiety rises as the time left before I take the stage shortens. Mere minutes now. The last girl is there, smiling and posing, and Cassio’s nowhere in sight.
If he doesn’t come...
I shake the thought off. There’s no reason he won’t. He’s bought more dates with me than anyone has.
He wants me. He’ll be here.
“Sold!” The auctioneer pounds the gavel, grinning at Arteo Jones, a brothel owner from San Francisco.
The same man who bought my sister and at least thirty others over the past six months. He never spends more than ten grand per girl and always goes for blondes.
“Violet,” Damon says, making me jump.
He’s a step behind me, stealthy as a hunting lion. With my hand pressed firmly to my chest, feeling the thump of my heart, I spin on the heel of my designer shoe.
Blaze makes sure I look every inch the expensive escort, though everyone knows I’m just a well-dressed whore.
“Ready?” Damon asks, his tone loaded with an emotion I didn’t realize he was capable of.
It almost sounds like... empathy.
“No.” I shake my head, making the corner of his lips twitch.
“I knew you’d say that. This is the last time.” He gives me a look, urging me to spin around. “For your sake, I hope Cassio shows up at the last moment.”
My legs morph into cotton candy once Blaze takes the stage to inform his guests about the change in auction format for his most desirable girl.
I barely hear him over the screaming of my own mind while he explains tonight is their last chance to snatch me and that whoever wins takes me home forever.
Or however long is convenient.
A low murmur travels across the room, the excitement in the air almost palpable.
Blaze turns swiftly, whispering something in the auctioneer’s ear before sauntering off toward the table I occupied earlier.
“The last auction of the night!” the auctioneer booms. “And what an opportunity! Reach deep into those pockets, gentlemen. I hear she’s worth every dollar.” He angles himself toward where I’m hidden by the curtain. “Viera, be a doll and show everybody that pretty face.”
Damon pokes his finger into my lower back, urging me to move. I shake so hard my every step feels like it might be the last. Like I’ll collapse if I scan the dimly lit room and confirm my gut feeling—Cassio isn’t here.
To avoid disappointment, I stare at the worn floorboards until I see the spray-painted red X that marks the center of the stage and stop. The spotlights shine in my face, brighter than before.
I’m glad because the glare hides almost everything beyond the stage. I can only make out the table where Blaze sits with the two men I just met.
“We’ll start the bidding at fifty thousand dollars,” the auctioneer says, staring into the crowd. “And go!”
The blinding lights protect my mental well-being, concealing whoever’s holding however many paddles shoot up. I can’t see the men I never want to be alone with again hiking up the price. I only see the man on Blaze’s left lifting his eyes to meet mine. My palms grow sleek with sweat as the number escalates. Sixty, sixty-five, eighty, one hundred...
It sounds like five men are bidding. Though not for long. At one-fifty someone stops, then another at two hundred.
At three hundred Vincent’s running out of money. It’s obvious when the numbers he’s barking out are only a grand more than the man beside Blaze.
Vincent’s tone grows more and more impatient, angry even, which doesn’t bode well for anyone.
He’s known for pulling his gun out to get his way.
Tears well in my eyes when the price for my pussy soars to three hundred and fifty and I still don’t hear Cassio.
He’s not here...
The realization hurts more than anything Vincent may have in store. I thought Cassio was genuinely interested. Not just in my body, but in me as a person. I thought he’d swoop in, shout an obscene number and take me away.
I’d gladly endure any kink he has in exchange for him doting on me before and after.
Maybe I’d learn to love it? It’s extraordinary how adaptable humans are when their life’s on the line.
But I’ll never know, because he’s. Not . Here.
“Three sixty-six!” the auctioneer yells, repeating Vincent’s latest bid.
The man next to Blaze lifts his paddle yet again, completely unfazed by the stack of money he’ll have to pay. By the look of him—those dark eyes never once veering from my face, the way he holds himself, how unaffected he seems—he clearly knows he won’t lose. It’s just a game to him, a simple case of waiting Vincent out.
“Three seventy,” he says in a composed, gravelly tone.
There’s something undeniably terrifying about him. He’s at least six-three, maybe even taller. It’s hard to judge while he’s sitting but he’s so broad I can’t see his chair. His shoulders span out for fucking ever and his biceps bulge every time he waves the paddle.
The way he doesn’t break eye contact makes my skin erupt in hives. He’s probably picturing the sick, depraved things he’ll do with me tonight...
Despite everything that’s happened to me over the past six months, underneath all these men, something tells me I’ve seen nothing yet.
He looks like a man with dark, twisted, painful fantasies. I bet he enjoys making people suffer. I bet he bathes in blood every evening.
The crimson stains down his white shirt prove that.
My stomach roils and clenches, not far off ejecting what little it contains. I’ve barely had anything to eat the past two days, dreading the auction. It’s the same story every month. I’m used to feeling faint while I await the telltale three pounds of the gavel.
Since the first auction, every next one’s ended faster, but tonight, time crawls while the bids skyrocket.
Vincent keeps going.
God knows how he’s managed to get his hands on this much money. Last time he lost, he ran out much faster. Judging by his bidding patter, he’s running out again. He’s outbidding his opponent by one grand each time, then only five hundred after we hit four hundred grand.
My throat’s so dry I struggle to swallow. Sweat coats my back. Hands tremble, vision blurs, knees shake.
“Four fifty,” the man beside Blaze growls, knocking Vincent’s previous bid right out of the park.
He chokes at the back of the room, tripping over his words and, at the same time, a triumphant look crosses my new owner’s face.
He knows he won.
He knows Vincent can’t outbid him.
And he knows I’m his.
“Four hundred and fifty going once,” the auctioneer denotes, glancing around the room for any more takers. “Do we have four hundred and fifty-one?” He leaves a long pause, giving the spectators ample time to make their minds up.
Maybe he’s waiting for Cassio as well. Maybe Blaze whispered in his ear, to make the auctioneer stall. The greedy fucker’s well aware Cassio’s the only one who’d happily drive this farce well beyond seven figures.
“Four hundred and fifty going twice.”
I hold my breath while the room falls perfectly silent. Every second that ticks by thunders inside my head like a small explosion. My pulse whooshes in my ears, anxiety hitting sky high while I wait for Cassio to burst into the room at the last second and yell four-sixty.
“Going once,” the auctioneer repeats, pounding the gavel. “Going twice.”
Another bang. This one so loud it makes my ears ring and my stomach drop to my knees.
Because it’s not the gavel.
It’s a gun.
If I had to take a guess it’s Vincent, though why the bullet misses my head by a breath doesn’t make sense. Unless he’s trying to kill me so no one else can have me. The bullet flies so close it ruffles my hair.
Survival instinct cuts my legs from underneath me in an instant. I drop to the floor with a scream, blood freezing in my veins despite my heart galloping faster than a frightened horse.
Blaze jumps to his feet with a flourish, eyes gleaming, gun drawn, nostrils flared. The guy beside him, the tall, foreboding man, stands too, but unlike Blaze, he’s not scanning the room for the shooter.
He shoves the table aside, toppling it to clear his path, and barrels toward me. His friend lurches too, stomping onto the stage just as Damon grabs me by the shoulder and drags me behind the curtain, out of the line of fire.
More bang s fill the air.
Bullets follow bullets. Screamed orders, hastened footsteps, and the sound of shattering glass pierce my ears. I plaster my back against a tall pillar, knees by my chest, hands covering my head to drown out the deafening noise.
Damon crouches before me, peeling my hands from my head. “Look at me. Hey, hey,” he mutters, slapping my cheeks. “Calm down. It’ll be over in a minute. Don’t fucking faint. Drink.” His features pinch as he presses the bottle to my lips.
With the little strength I have, I grasp the plastic in both hands, gulping half the contents in one go, my heart ramming so hard it’s painful.
“Who is he?” I whisper, looking up at Damon. “The guy who won. Who is he?”
“Bryce Griffin. They call him Broadway. He’s Willard’s right-hand man; the one with him is—”
“Hands off, Damon,” Blaze’s familiar voice clips on our right, his measured footsteps thumping against the hollow wooden floor backstage. Another pair of boots follows. Much more rhythmic. “You’re officially done babysitting Viera. She’s no longer our property.”
“She’s ours until the payment comes through,” Damon growls, angling his body so he’s a human shield between me and Blaze. “We need to move, Viera. Can you—” His head tilts to the side, eyes wide, mouth parted.
I don’t immediately realize what’s happened, until blood drips from the smoking hole at his temple down the side of his face.
Someone screams. A piercing, all-consuming wail. It takes a moment to realize it’s coming from me as Damon thuds awkwardly to the side, dead.
Gone.
The one person who cared whether I lived or died is gone. The wail dies in my throat, shock taking over, amplified by the relentless background bang , bang , bang , Damon’s lifeless body, and his blood covering my dress.