Chapter 7
“Number six?” A man asks when he walks in.
I glance at Callie, startled. Is this how it works? Camille said we walk on a stage so they can see us. Did he just bid on whoever, sight unseen? “Uh, yes?”
“No need to be nervous yet, dearie. I’m Cesar, and I am the stage manager for the auction, not a bidder. Say goodbye to your friend and follow me, please.”
Callie gives my hand a supportive squeeze, then she turns to him. “How long will she be?”
“All night. Are you her ride?”
“I am.”
“No need. We will see her home.”
Callie’s eyes flash with worry. “I am not leaving her here.”
He smiles smoothly. In fact, everything about him is smooth. His dark brown skin gleams in the firelight, and he’s bald. His charcoal suit is custom—it has to be. It fits him like a second skin. He steps into the room like a dancer on a stage, as though every eye is always on him. He could be in his late twenties or early sixties. It’s impossible for me to tell. When he smiles, he dazzles.
“It is good you are such a concerned friend. After she is paid, she will be driven wherever she likes by one of our people. There are no cell phones permitted in the rooms—that could lead to legal issues we all prefer to avoid. The dubious nature of our auction could lead to many unfortunate issues, so to guarantee the anonymity of all involved, everyone is screened before entering the room. But security guards are posted outside the door. If there is any reason whatsoever that she is uncomfortable, all she must do is call out. Nothing is allowed which might stop her from doing so. Safety is our number one priority. Anonymity is also number one.”
Callie smirks. “You have two number ones?”
His cheeky smile sets me at ease. “What can I say? I’m greedy. If you’d like to observe the auction, you are welcome to. No sense in making you worry that it’s seedy.”
“Thank you.” She turns to me. “You’re absolutely sure about this?”
I want to shout, “No!” and run away, but it’s not true. Not completely. I need the money, and unless I want to wait three decades to live the life that I want to live, this is my only option. Somehow, my body is light and heavy at the same time. Thankfully, the nausea has abated, but my heart still thumps my ribs each time I think of what I’m doing. Do I even know what I’m doing? This is nuts. This is not what sane people do.
Oof. That was judgmental. Get your head out of your ass, June. Quit being a chicken and own your choice.
I nod. “It’s okay. You can go. I’ll text you in the morning to let you know how I am.”
“Alright. I’d like to watch the auction.”
I’m not sure if that’s better or worse. If I make a fool of myself and Callie sees … best not to think about it. Standing on shaking legs, I’m sure I might pass out from nervousness. But I tell him, “Ready.”
“Follow me, Six and friend.” We travel through a hall into a library. Books line the shelves and a few desks take up the middle of the room. One has a single slip of paper and a pen. But we don’t go there. Instead, we go to a bookshelf. He tugs a tome, and the whole bookshelf slides into the floor.
I laugh. “An honest-to-God secret passageway?”
“I love my job.” He grins. “Once we go in that hall, you must refrain from commenting. We’ll be seeing the auction in progress, and people can hear us if we speak.”
Nodding, we follow him into the hallway. It’s narrow and dark, and I’d be claustrophobic if I weren’t already a bit of a wreck. At the end of the hall, I pick up on voices. He pulls back a sliver of a curtain, and I see it all.
Camille struts and poses on stage—her back is to us, but her nude dress is a dead giveaway. Flattering rose gold lights shine down on her to make her look even more enticing. The audience isn’t as well lit. In fact, it’s hard to see anyone out there. They’re all in shadow, presumably to prevent recognition. Smart. It’s not a fast-paced bidding war, or if it is, I can’t see it. No paddles go up, but the auctioneer at the left of the stage runs a play-by-play on the microphone as he stares at something in his hand.
“Gray, four-eighty. Diamond, five hundred. Timber, five-twenty-five. Beach, are you certain?” He pauses, as if reading something. “Beach, six hundred…going once. Going twice. Sold to Beach for six hundred.” He strikes a gavel, and that is that.
Camille blows a kiss toward the audience.
Cesar turns to me and quietly asks, “You’re certain of this?”
“Did she just make six hundred thousand dollars?”
“Yes.”
The thought of that kind of money is enough to mute some of my anxiety. “Then I am very certain. Yes.”
“Back to the library, then.” We make our way back through the secret passageway and to the desk I’d noticed before. Cesar says, “This is a contract, stipulating that fifteen percent of your fee will be paid to the Chamberlain Charity Auction. As you know, historical homes do not preserve themselves.”
Callie points out, “This is a lot of liability for just fifteen percent.”
“If she would like to donate more, she is more than welcome to.”
I chuckle and shake my head. “No, we just think about things from a legal standpoint. We’re?—”
But he shakes his head. “No identifying details, please. I don’t need your occupation, your name, none of that. Not for your first time. You’ll sign an X on the line there. It’s more of a symbol than a true contract, of course. We cannot legally come after you for the money, considering how it is gained. But given what we do and who we are, we can make life challenging for anyone who wishes to break the contract.”
I gulp. “Make life challenging? How?”
He’s a mind reader. “Nothing like physical harm, if that’s what you’re worried about, dearie. But it is easy enough to sort out who is who—the rest of the mansion has security footage of everyone, so identifying our guests is rather simple. After that, it’s just a matter of figuring out how to socially destroy someone. The wrong thing said in the right ear can make the world fall down around them. Promotions can vanish in the blink of an eye. Things of that nature.”
Callie asks, “How often have you had to enforce that part of things?”
“Not even once, and I am grateful for it. I prefer to keep things as friendly as possible.”
My hand shakes when I pick up the pen. Symbolic or not, it feels meaningful. My X comes out like two lightning bolts crossing. “Is that clear enough for your purposes?”
He bends down behind the desk and produces a bottle of champagne and three flutes. As he pours, he says, “Every first timer’s is just as scribbled. It’s perfectly fine.” Then he passes us some champagne. “To Hell. May the way there be as fun as the stay there.”
We giggle as we clink our flutes. After a sip, I ask, “So what do you get out of all of this?”
“I find the whole thing fascinating, truth be told. To me, the only thing worth understanding is the psychology of why. Why anyone does anything. In a world where sex and money are so readily accessible, why do we still resort to this sort of arrangement? It boggles the mind, really. But the allure of trading money for sex has been with us since time immemorial. One might argue there is a primal desire to do so—that we trade the results of our effort—money—for the one thing we cannot do for ourselves—sex.” He pauses. “Well, sex with someone else, that is.”
The champagne must be going to my head, because I giggle again. Callie, too. I shrug. “I guess so.”
She says, “What was up with the names out there? It didn’t sound like real names.”
“Because they are not. They pick their own identities out there. Anonymity.”
I nod. “Makes sense. Why don’t we?”
“Numbers are easier to keep in order.”
“Can I have more champagne?”
He smiles. “Of course, dearie.” After filling my flute, he asks, “Without details, can you explain why you are interested in this exchange?”
“The money.”
“Not the sex?”
Another giggle pops out of me. “I mean, it could be great or it could be terrible or anything in between, I guess. But the idea of spending one night and making the kind of money that’s being thrown around here … that’s the draw for me. Is it sex for the other women?”
“Sometimes. Anonymous sex has its own appeal, and the money is a fun bonus for them.”
“Am I supposed to call myself Six to my bidder? Like, will he moan, oh, Six, in my ear?”
He laughs. “That is the first time I’ve been asked that in such a way. You are welcome to call yourself whatever you like, or even let him pick a name for you. But we advise you not to give your real name for obvious reasons.”
Callie wonders aloud, “How did the auctioneer know who was bidding what? I didn’t see paddles or hear anything.”
“It is done through text on burner phones the bidders are given when they walk in.” He looks at his phone. “Speaking of, it’s time for number six to go on stage. Ready?”
“For this? No. But let’s go, anyway.”
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