Chapter 6 Slade #2
Ice clinks against the sides of my glass as I swirl it with one finger. The cube traces lazy circles through the amber liquid, which tastes like ash. Condensation slicks over the rim and drips down the side of the glass, catching the cuff of my shirt.
Cigar smoke curls through the musky air.
With it, expensive cologne overpowered by the scent of warm skin, chased by the mix of bitter and sweet.
Bodies of dancers moving over men, all dressed in high-end suits their wives picked out for them this morning, glisten under the lighting.
The golden sheen drapes across the marble surfaces and stretches over the empty stage.
The curtains hang heavy, muffling the velvet bass that pulses through the room, but I don’t miss the slight brushes from behind the fabric or the clinking of chains.
I nudge my glasses up the bridge of my nose with one knuckle, jaw set. A laugh echoes from the other end of the room, and my attention snaps toward the grating shrill. A dancer tangles her fingers in a fellow congressman’s hair and buries his gleeful expression against her.
I look away.
Instead, I lean farther into the bar so that my elbows rest and my tie grazes the countertop. The hum of dull conversation buzzes behind me while I stare at my slowly depleting glass and spin it again. Another slow orbit while the blood coursing through my veins simmers.
The rare peace shatters when Senator Graves’s voice slices through the room, his presence loud enough to fill every corner, with Kenji close on his heels.
“DuPont! You better tell Vaughan I’m not putting up with this.
He has obligations to this organization.
Whatever backhand deal he’s doing for that island isn’t as high of a priority as EV.
” He steps in front of me, gesturing to my suit pocket where I keep my phone. “Text him. Right now.”
My upper lip twitches into a snarl, but before I can snap, before I can overstep and tarnish the DuPont family’s standing in Echelon Vanguard, Kenji slides next to me.
“How come no one ever demands Slade text me? Bastard never does.” He winks at me when Graves snorts, and I shake my head.
Kenji, in all his massive frame, cracks each set of knuckles, the tattoos scattered across them flexing.
Graves steps back ever so slightly. I’ve always known him to be an alpha: pushy and demanding. Aren’t we all. However, when it comes to Kenji, he tends to back down.
“I need him to check in. Tell him that next time you talk with him.” He motions to the nearest bartender and turns as an EV member scuffles across the stage. “Well … it’s about time.” He claps in time with the hoots and hollers from the men throughout the room.
I sink farther into the bar, trying to block out the celebration. Kenji slaps my shoulder and plops onto the velvet-tufted barstool next to where I’m standing.
While the EV member on stage runs through the typical “rules,” I glance at Kenji, who pulls out his phone.
A grid of clear camera feeds populates the large screen.
Several different angles of what looks to be the same place, but then also what appears to be another store-like building.
The cameras flicker with the occasional glitch, but I watch as he methodically flips through each one.
His eyes scan the footage, calm and practiced.
His pupils widen when a figure moving through one of the screens catches him off guard.
He tilts the phone, adjusting for the glare, and zooms in with two fingers. His jaw clenches.
I shift when the EV member moves off to the side of the stage. Kenji jolts at my watching him, and he rushes to put his phone away. He smirks, but there’s a glimmer of disappointment in his expression.
“There’s my grandson!”
My grandfather stumbles toward us as the curtain rises, drink in hand and sloshing over the side. Damn it. Something else to manage tonight. His drinking.
I stare past him at the stage as he jostles my shoulder and swigs another sip of his whiskey.
The line of girls comes forward, their shackles clanking, loud and obnoxious.
It’s all for show. Plastic restraints are an option, but they add to the vision, to the wafting desire escalating as the men plot and plan their twelve hours.
Juliette is first in line, makeup done to perfection, and her hair piled on top of her head. Her gaze sweeps the crowd before the man at the mic can speak, and when her eyes lock on mine, she bites her lip—then lets it slip into a smile.
I narrow mine. Annoyed.
Her number is called, and bids fly left and right.
I ignore them and the sky-high numbers they reach in favor of looking down the line for the newly “acquired” woman.
The women step forward with shaky limbs and fearful expressions.
The girl from last week is part of the group, doe-eyed and terrified.
I’ve always found it interesting—in a morbid, experimental type of way—how some of them succumb to the fear and never adapt.
But then there are the other half, who preen at the attention.
When the bids go higher and higher, their chins lift with it, and their ruby lips curl with self-approval.
Their gazes flick to each other when they outbid one another, smug.
Two groups. Scared or flattered. The flattered ones last longer.
They learn how to smile at the right men, how to look grateful for the attention they didn’t ask for.
I used to think it was vanity. Now I realize it’s instinct.
Maybe they’ve convinced themselves it’s a choice, and that’s how they stay sane.
Fear can eat you alive, while flattery grants you another night to breathe.
But then there’s—
I push off the bar, standing stiff while I fight the pull to step forward to see better.
See her better.
She’s an instant juxtaposition of what I described.
She trembles, chains rattling around her creamy pale skin, but her eyes are alive.
Icy blue with an unyielding cold that could burn as they dart around the room, taking it all in.
Her fists clench with an iron will I haven’t witnessed on this stage before, and I’m not the only one who notices.
Men around the room block out the current bidding to turn their attention to the woman who’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Not beautiful in the way most people mean it. Not the kind you want to photograph. No, she drags all eyes like gravity.
High cheekbones and porcelain skin taut around a defined jaw, her chin quivers beneath a delicate nose.
Thick copper corkscrew curls hang well past her shoulders and graze the top of her ribs.
Her waist naturally tapers and dips before the curve of her hips sways as she uncomfortably shuffles on her feet.
Toned legs wobble under the scrutiny of the room, and the voices around me seem to drone into a wave of nothingness.
There’s a wrong with how right she looks, and something detonates in me.
I don’t believe in déjà vu, and it isn’t her face, but …
The way she stands, weight shifting slightly to the left, her eyes—I’ve seen it before.
A year and a half ago. A girl who couldn’t be saved before a culling.
The memories aren’t clear. It comes in flashes.
Kenji might remember that horrible night better than I can.
Of course he would; he hasn’t been the same since.
Now, here is this woman, similar yet different. I’m not sure what it is, but my pulse stumbles and something primitive unfurls. The instinct to move closer, to make sure my eyes aren’t deceiving me … Would she disappear?
This woman isn’t her. I know that. I repeat the command to myself in an attempt to cauterize the memory ripped open.
I swallow, my throat thick and my palms sweaty.
What’s happening? What is this?
I blink, taking off my glasses and haphazardly ripping out my tucked-in button-down to wipe them off. When I put them back on, I expect to see better, to not have this stark beacon in the center of the stage calling to me. But …
The red lingerie strapped to her is glaring against her skin, and on her forearm, a dark design mars what my brain conjures as smooth skin. A quick jolt of anger rips through me—what could be so important that she’d tattoo it to her body permanently?
My insides feel as though they’re rearranging. The air in my lungs turns heavy, and I fumble for my drink as I assume her number is called because she steps forward. I fist the glass, hoping the cool liquid can do something to help me, but it only warms in my hand as I stare.
Men scramble to get their hands in the air at the first few bids, but I can’t function.
“Isn’t your thing the new ones?” Graves’s voice sucker punches me.
I nod.
“… fifty thousand. Do I have fifty thousand?”
I startle into action and roll my shoulders, trying to undo the past several seconds of reaction.
Stay focused.
But as the EV member on stage motions toward me, the girl’s eyes dart to mine and my pulse slows. An odd sensation drags like fingertips down my spine in a relentless and teasing way. I almost miss the next bid.
“Sixty-five thousand over here. Do I have sixty-five?”
I raise my hand.
“That’s the highest bid tonight!” My grandfather slaps his hand near my glass on the bar. “DuPont money is going to get whatever it wants.” A wiry, gurgled chuckle rattles from his throat, stuck between a laugh and something akin to wet gravel.
My body prickles with his words, and I don’t realize I’m stepping farther away from the bar and weaving through the tables closer to the stage.
“Seventy thousand. Do I have seventy?” The man looks directly at me.
I nod.
“Seventy-five!” A businessman yells out from somewhere to my right, and I glare at him.
The girl looks at him and snarls.
Don’t. Don’t do that. They like it too much. Want it too much.
“Eighty?”
I nod again.
“Eighty-five.” The businessman smirks.
Irritation slithers in as I flash an open palm twice.
“I have one hundred thousand. Do I have one hundred five?”
The businessman looks around, then down the line of remaining girls on stage. He must decide he’d rather pay less for his sick fantasies because he waves the announcer off.
“Sold! One hundred thousand.”
A wave of disguised pleasure washes over me, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust. What the hell is wrong with me? It’s transactional. I don’t feel anything toward these women. Means to an end. I’ve lived without this for years. Without temptation. Limited curiosity.
I berate myself as I try to strip her down to the numbers, to the logic of the evening, but it doesn’t help. She’s not quantifiable.
Why is something settling in my chest? Something indulgent, mirroring a sharp ache awakening and begging to be fed.
Hell.
It’s in my bones, coiling in my blood. She’s a problem. One I didn’t know I’d been waiting to have all this time.