Chapter 2
LENNOX
The address Tim gave Janie leads to a building that looks like an old mansion from the outside, with white columns, manicured gardens and valet parking for the expensive cars arriving in a steady stream. A brass plaque by the door reads Monterey Cove Private Club—Members Only.
I put on the outfit they left for Janie at our apartment: a simple black dress, heels and minimal jewelry. My blonde hair is loose down my back, my makeup understated but polished. I look exactly like what these men want: expensive but accessible. Beautiful but not threatening.
A man in a black suit meets me at the door. Security, though he looks more like a private military contractor. His eyes scan me with professional disinterest.
“Name?”
For a second, I almost say Lennox Briggs. Then I catch myself.
“Janie Turner.”
He checks his tablet and nods. “You’re late. They’re prepping the other lots now. Through that door, down the hall, last room on the left.”
Lots. Like we’re cattle.
I follow his directions through a hallway lined with dark wood and oil paintings of ships and storms. The last room on the left has a brass plaque: Preparation Room.
I push open the door.
Inside, six other women sit in various stages of undress, while two older women in all black move among them with makeup brushes and hair tools. The girls range from early twenties to maybe thirty, all beautiful, all wearing expressions somewhere between resignation and terror.
One of the older women in black looks up when I enter. “You the Turner girl?”
“No, I’m taking her place.” I don’t want to lie to these people. Security is one thing; the people who threatened to kill Janie are different.
“Doesn’t matter, you’ll do. Sit.” She points to an empty chair. “We’ve got forty minutes to make you presentable and get your questionnaire filled in.”
I do as the woman says and take my seat. She pulls the pins from my hair, examining it as if I were a show horse, while I look at the clipboard in my hands full of questions ranging from the size of my boobs to whether I’m a virgin.
“Natural blonde?” She arches her brow and looks down at my crotch.
“Yes.”
“Good bone structure. Nice height. You’ll do well.” She says it clinically, as if she’s appraising furniture. “The evening gown is hanging there. Casualwear and swimsuits on the rack. Lingerie will come last.
“Four rounds. Casualwear first—you’ll walk the stage, smile pretty, show them you’re girl-next-door material. Then you strip to swimwear on stage so they can see your body. Evening gown will be after that for the elegance round. Finally, lingerie before the bidding starts. Questions?”
My mouth is dry. “No.”
“Good. Don’t talk unless you are specifically asked a question.
Don’t make eye contact with anyone in the audience.
Keep your chin up and smile. These men are paying fortunes; make them feel like they’re getting something special.
” She picks up a curling iron. “And for God’s sake, don’t cry. Nothing kills a bid faster than tears.”
I won’t cry. I learned a long time ago that tears are a luxury I can’t afford.
The next forty minutes pass in a blur of heated tools and rough hands positioning me like a mannequin.
The evening gown is deep emerald green, long and elegant, with a slit up one thigh.
The casualwear is designer jeans and a white silk blouse that probably costs more than my monthly rent.
The swimwear is a black bikini that leaves little to the imagination. And the lingerie.
The lingerie is barely there. Black lace and sheer mesh that might as well be nothing.
“Lot seven,” one of the women calls out. “You’re up next. Wait in the wings until you hear your number.”
I stand with the other girls in the darkness backstage, listening to the auctioneer’s voice boom through the speakers. The women go out one by one, nervous, shaking, some already crying despite the warnings. I can hear the men’s responses. Laughter. Crude comments. Bids being called out.
This is real. This is actually happening.
“Lot seven.”
My turn. I step onto the stage.