Sold to Her Enemy (A Night To Remember Auction)

1. 1 MCKENNA

1 MCKENNA

Sitting in this dressing room, in the upscale exclusive BDSM Club Lust, feels like I’m miles from everything I once knew…because I am.

You’re definitely not in Beacon Hill anymore.

Not that I needed reminders of it. The media onslaught did that. And then, when it all quieted down, the fact that I’m no longer neighbors with my father’s business partner and his family but with drug dealers in our tiny one-bedroom apartment does it for me daily.

I haven’t seen my old room with the bay window, decorated with a vintage border of horses frolicking in the fields and shelves holding my trophies from show jumping for over a year.

The memory of my old childhood room bubbles up in my consciousness as I stare into the mirror of this modern dressing room.

My hands shake a little as I brush back my auburn hair. Trying to settle my nerves, I pretend I am a patron this evening at Club Lust.

That I’m the one in a powerful enough position in the world to be invited to this auction, that I have the power and money and I’m the person who gets to bid.

Standing in this lush dressing room, I almost believe it. There is an area with a leather couch and chairs. The dressing room has its own ensuite with a shower. The long wall of mirrors gleams above the counter. Next to my cup of water sits the number I pulled from the bowl when the handlers brought us to Club Lust. The number that determines what order I am in the auction.

Lucky number three.

The door to the dressing room opens. My stomach drops like a stone. A make-up artist and a hair stylist here to make me presentable.

In any other scenario, I’d be thrilled for a bit of pampering. But they remind me I’m here because my options were drying up fast.

I can’t back out now. The hair and make-up professionals unload their tools, making panic rise in my throat. Before this moment, this auction was a far-off thing. Something I couldn’t believe was happening, but right now, it feels real.

Every instinct is screaming at me to run out of Club Lust, to go back home to my mother and our cramped apartment.

This converted warehouse drips with luxurious furnishings. The gorgeous space should feel familiar and comforting, but instead, it hypes up my nerves.

If it were under different circumstances, I would have enjoyed an evening playing in this exclusive club.

But it’s not. I’m here because I’m so tired of struggling. I couldn’t say no to the 500k that this auction was going to put in my bank account at the end of the weekend.

And my mother deserves better.

For all these months, she’s been a shadow of her old self. Her neighbors would never recognize her as the woman who graced magazine covers with my father. The woman who loved putting together outfits for the many red carpets they attended. The mom who would throw the best sleepover parties while wearing heels, with her hair and nails always perfect.

My palms feel sweaty as I reach for a tissue.

I sit on the stool in front of the mirror, becoming their creation.

“Lovely hair,” the hair stylist murmurs as she pulls it away from my face. My skin is pale, and my hair is thick and long.

Someone once described my hair as “oak leaves burnt by the sun.”

I close my eyes, pushing that out of my mind. That voice was from a long time ago and couldn’t help me now.

He’s the last person I’d ever turn to for help. He’s the reason my life crumbled.

The make-up artist finishes cleaning my skin and starts quickly applying foundation and concealer.

It’s been months since I’ve bothered with make-up and a part of me starts to relax at the attention.

Club Lust wants the merchandise to look their best. That’s what they call us, those who signed up for this auction, merchandise.

That’s what we are—those of us who are participating in the auction, hoping bidders will buy us for the weekend.

It’s what I’m reduced to.

Tears well in my eyes as I think of my father and how much he would hate that I’m here. How he would have hated what’s happened to my mother and me in the past twelve months.

My grief is a live wire; not enough time has passed for anger not to come on the heels of the depth of sadness.

I’m angry that I’m here. And even though I’m sad that my father left us, that he didn’t stay to take accountability for what he did, I can’t be angry at him.

But I’m angry that the collection agencies won’t stop calling. Angrier that I spent eight years studying to make my dreams come true, and they were smashed on a sunny Friday afternoon because of another man’s greed.

I guess friendship didn’t count for anything, after all.

My father believed in opportunity, and even if this wasn’t on my fantasy card—something I never thought I’d do in a million years—I’m going to grab this opportunity because it’s a doorway to being able to do better.

I can take the wreckage of our lives and rebuild.

Even if I have to give myself over to a complete stranger.

After leaving work one night, I was approached by a scout who told me about Club Lust’s auction. If I wasn’t so tired from washing dishes, and my head was fuzzy with sadness and grief, I would have ignored him and the offer. But I went through with the process, diligently filling out the application.

Fortunately for me, Club Lust covered the of the physical and testing. I sat through the interview with Edward, the owner of the club, all while I was pretending to be someone else, not quite believing that this was actually happening to me.

The application and the interview for tonight were long and thorough, covering every known kink. It went over our background and asked all kinds of invasive questions. The kink-related ones were easy. I said yes to the tame ones: corporal punishments, impact play, and being used as a slave to orgasm denial and control. I said no to watersports and hell no to blood play, no pet play, kidnapping scenarios, and exhibition play. And no, to the other stuff, I wouldn’t consider like scat play.

I’m wet between my legs, thinking about the possibilities. Of some stranger touching me, degrading me, humiliating me.

I said yes to humiliation and objectification because I have survived the last twelve months, and I can’t think of anything more humiliating than having to drop out of college, our family’s name in the headlines, and my father’s legacy turned to dust. I said yes to face-slapping because what’s a slap against the pain that I wake up with every day?

I’m no stranger to kink. In my college days, when my life was carefree, I was kind of wild.

Not in the sense that I didn’t study; I knew I wanted to be a veterinarian when I was six years old, and I had the money and resources to make that dream happen.

I was wild in that I didn’t think the world could hurt me, and I changed partners faster than I changed socks. I discovered kinks and what I liked doing with a partner–or two–if the mood struck. When I knew what I liked–and what I wanted - I paid for those sexual experiences.

That felt safer than hooking up with classmates who might try to blackmail me or something worse.

I guess karma is laughing because the tables have turned. I’m the one who is offering my body in exchange for the money I desperately need. I couldn’t say no to the 500k.

The make-up artist flutters around my face, applying eyeshadow and reaching for the eyelash curler.

“What a great complexion,” she mumbles.

It’s amazing that my skin hasn’t dulled. I’ve tried to eat as healthily as possible with the tiny budget we’ve been surviving on. I touch my neck, wondering if wrinkles are appearing or if I’m just imagining things.

The make-up artist gently brushes off my touch.

“Sorry,” I say, wiping away a tear.

The make-up artist tuts and passes me a handful of tissues. “It’s okay, I can fix it. Not that I need to fix much.”

My pale green eyes gaze back at me in the mirror, and I smile because, to me, I look sad and haggard, the expression I’ve had ever since my father disappeared.

Since we found out, our gilded life was less secure than I thought.

I have to do this. Washing dishes in the back of the Italian restaurant downtown isn’t covering the bills. I want to sit the NAVLE, the exam you have to write and pass to become a licensed veterinarian.

The exam would have sealed my childhood dream if the Friday before I was scheduled to take it had not changed my life.

“There you’re all set. You could be on a cover.” The hair person gives my hair a spritz of something that smells like pear.

My green eyes are rimmed with brown eyeliner that matches my exaggerated curled lashes. And my hair is in soft, loose waves, falling below my breasts, tied back low.

The green of the camisole hugs my D-cup breasts just so, and I straighten in the chair, my shoulders back.

Tonight, I am not the daughter of scandal, the girl who lost her dream, or the caregiver to my mother. Tonight, I am a woman who is going to secure her future.

And after I will laugh in the face of those who took everything from me, leaving my life shattered.

A rap tap on the door before a handler pokes their head in. “It’s time, Davis.”

“I’m ready.”

I stand, shove my feet into my black stilettos, and follow him through the door, taking strength from the alias I chose for tonight.

Davis.

It’s my father’s name.

It's ironic that I chose to use it tonight, but it’s my way of reclaiming it for something good again. It makes me feel strong to hear it, and I need all the strength I can get tonight.

No matter what, he’d be proud of me.

And no matter what, I will have my revenge. My father is a smart, kind, brilliant man who didn’t deserve to have his life’s work destroyed.

I follow the handler, a stocky man with a ball cap, dressed in all black, to the stage area, focusing on the floor before me.

Memories flash through my mind like they are on a carousel. The library was a point of pride in the beautiful stately house in Boston that I grew up in.

The beautiful dining room of my parent’s neighbors, who were more than neighbors; they were close friends and business partners. I considered Jackie McIntyre to be another mom to me. I know my mother loves me, and there’s no doubt she loves my father. My mother is the kind of person who flutters from person to person, and at times, it’s made me feel that there’s a distance between her and me. But whatever I lacked in maternal attention was made up for by the warmth of Jackie, who always encouraged me to go for my dreams. Alongside Jackie was Grace Ellison, a friend of my mother’s and Jackie’s, who owned the stables I rode at. I push the thoughts of Grace away, my heart breaking into grief and awe, wondering why she’s never called me in all these months.

I spent so much time studying at the McIntyre’s antique table.

I force my feet to move as a memory of the rolling hills of the stables where I learned to ride horses flashes through my mind.

My heart twists, thinking of my mare, Penelope. I stop, resting my hand against the wall for a moment because I feel Penelope’s soft coat under my hands as I’m grooming her after a hard ride.

I want to sob, but I take a deep breath.

Tonight is going to change everything, and that’s a good thing.

A knock on the door brings me out of my thoughts. The professionals are packing up their tools when a knock on the door sounds.

“Davis, come along,” the handler says.

I nod, and with my head held high, I follow him to the staging area. There is no more time for grief or tears. This moment is about stepping into the future I create. And I will build my future so nobody can take it away from me.

Right before I step out of the wings, I allow one thought for the man who ruined my life, and my blood boils.

But thinking of him gives me the strength fueled by anger to step out onto the stage when my lot number is called.

It’s pitch black in the audience, but I feel the light above me as I do my best model walk and flaunt what I have to offer.