Chapter 3 Carmen #2
“What do you mean by ‘wrong’ bidders?”
“The O’Neills and all of their associates…”
I assume that’s it, but her list continues—a string of names that end up becoming noise. I can’t even hear myself think anymore, let alone Serena.
When Conrad hinted that I could go for a lot, was he hinting at buying me?
When he said I wouldn’t need to work a day in my life again, is that because I won’t even be alive to work?
Fuck.
“My son…”
“I know.” Serena squeezes my hand and looks over her shoulder again. “Let’s just hope we get good bidders.”
Good bidders?
Is that a thing?
Men who pay thousands to buy a woman shouldn’t be classified as good.
“Come on, girls,” calls a voice from down the corridor. “We’re on a tight schedule.”
The security guard propels me back into action. My knees have some bend in them this time, but that’s only because I’m running off adrenaline. So much that my hands are now frantically shaking.
We arrive backstage and come to a halt behind the curtain, awaiting our turn.
A recording of the stage is playing on the TV.
The second woman enters and disrobes down to lingerie, striking a few poses as members of the audience carefully make their bets.
The auctioneer stands on the stage in his designated area, reading bids as the cards sail high into the air.
Thousands for one night?
What the actual fuck?
The woman continues posing, flicking her hair and spinning to give the men a three-sixty view. When the bid is settled, the auctioneer steps down to bring the woman to the highest bidder—a grandpa-aged man with a wobbling jaw.
When the applause fades, the next woman is called up—Serena.
Despite our conversation, she slips through the curtain and walks onto stage with a large smile, tossing her hair this way and that. Her lingerie is gold, matching the highlights on her face.
I abandon watching the TV and peek through a tiny gap in the curtain instead, watching in real time as she catwalks up and down in heels that look even more killer than mine.
And that’s when I notice Conrad. He’s in the front row, the furthest left, and looks even more sinister than before. One look at him has the ability to drain life from your body.
And then his eyes find mine across the room.
I gasp and step away from the curtain, like he’s about to shoot me.
Not yet. He’ll probably wait until he has me alone.
I take more steps back, away from the curtain, my breath stuck in my throat. This was all a setup. I took the bait as easy as a goldfish swimming straight into a net.
If he wanted me so bad, why didn’t he just take me the other night?
I suppose men like him enjoy a challenge. Seeing a person’s face turn when they realize the truth of what’s about to happen to them.
My feet take more steps back.
Otis.
I need to get out of here.
I spin around, intending to locate the nearest exit, but instead lock eyes with the security guard.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I need to go.”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Funny. Last time I checked, human beings have free will.”
“Not down here they don’t. You should listen to your friend. This world isn’t the same as the one you came from.”
It’s tempting to lie and say that I’m an undercover police officer, see how smug he looks then, but I don’t get to do that. His hand is already locked around my wrist, steering me back toward the stage.
He locks me in place and forces me to watch the TV as Serena meets her suitor. He shoots up from the back row. When he says, “Thank you,” I exhale a breath of relief for her—this man is American, not Irish.
The first two women are off the hook.
What’s the chances of the third time being lucky too? The chances of every woman in here walking away from their suitor with cash and the rest of their lives to look forward to?
I grit my teeth and hope for a miracle.
But the guard doesn’t let me do that either.
He’s already prompting me past the curtain.
And that’s when I hear the auctioneer announce my name loud and clear to the audience. “Carmen Reauld.”
I’ve never dreaded the sound of my own name before.
As I walk onto stage and feel what seems like a bazillion eyes land on me, I ask myself a really smart question: What if nobody bets on me?
I allow my spine to curve as I head toward center stage. Instead of smiling like the previous two girls, I stick out my lip and make it obvious that I have no interest in being here. Money is important, but I’d rather see negative figures in my bank than never see my own fucking child again.
The game is on.
Even though I’m curved forward like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, the audience still looks pleased to see me. Way too pleased. It’s smiles all around, even though I’m trying my fucking hardest to look as glum as possible.
Maybe it’s not enough to look unpresentable. Let’s face it—when I ended my grocery store shift two nights ago, my hair had endured eight hours in a bun, and my eyes were red-raw from the bright lights. My outfit was also horrendous.
I couldn’t have looked more homeless if I tried, and Conrad still approached me.
That says one thing about the male species—they’re desperate.
Dressed in lingerie that shows ninety-eight percent of my breasts, it’s no wonder that they’re scribbling bids down on their cards, excited to be the lucky contender.
I watch the cards sail into the air, more furious than anything now. The amount of money should blow me away, but it doesn’t. It sickens me to my stomach. Every last man in here needs tasering.
I want to go back to the world I know. The one where my child needs me.
The one where I need him.
I stifle the tears and get ready to roar.
Literally.
An inhumane sound rattles out of me, silencing the auditorium. It’s something between the roar of a lion and the shriek of a bird.
And it’s working.
Some of the men put down their blackboards, falling into conversation with the men next to them, probably debating how I escaped the mental asylum.
I fold my arms over my chest and watch as more boards disappear from the air.
Unfortunately, not all of them go down.
I inhale a deep breath. It’s time to take this up a notch.
For Otis.
I put one unsteady foot out in front of the other and prepare to run. The chances of slipping and falling are very high, but hey, when you’re acting like an idiot, it’s impossible to fail.
I start my first lap around the stage, arms flaying everywhere like I’m an ostrich on steroids.
If nobody bids for me, I don’t go home with a millionaire.
I don’t have to run the risk that I’ll be taken forever.
Sure, there’s a chance I could end up with the next Carter Trescott and have the time of my life, but Otis’s life is more important than a potential orgasm.
I look out into the audience and prepare to unleash my next animalistic scream—one that is sure to have every man and their dog running out of here in less than a minute.
But my vocal cords have suddenly been ripped out.
In the corner of my eye, I see the man the world fears most—Conrad. He must be proud of his bet. He’s made the effort to stand up, the blackboard high in the air.
I’ve never seen this many zeros before.
Shit.
I stand frozen, our eyes on each other.
I want to look away, but I also can’t.
He’s scary, but also so abnormal to look at that my brain is intrigued. Now I see why he chose to build a career in the underbelly of Vegas—he wouldn’t do well in a world full of laws. People would just run away.
And even though people still try to run under here, this is his world.
And in the world of Conrad O’Neill, nobody leaves unless he wants them to.
My heart skips beat after beat.
Maybe I’ll drop to my knees and beg for forgiveness. Maybe I’ll explain that I have a son who needs me. Or maybe it’s best to keep quiet and let them take me, so I can plan my escape at a later date.
The auctioneer steps down from his little lectern and grabs my hand.
That’s when another board sails into the air. One with even more zeroes.
I lower my eyes, curious to put a face to a number.
And that’s when I lock eyes with Carter Trescott.