42. Forty-Two #2
“Move faster,” a gruff voice commands, shoving me forward when I hesitate, and I nearly fall.
The air grows thicker until it carries that unmistakable scent from the underground rooms where Artemis and I discovered the poker game.
Where we first glimpsed into this world that Joe had somehow entangled himself in.
I know exactly where I am even though I can’t see, and it takes everything out of me to say a brief prayer that they don’t throw me into one of those cells I had seen.
I have faith that Liam will know where to find me, and my cell phone is still pocket-deep in my jeans. Somehow Tyler didn’t search me, and my hope is to send a location pin. Regardless, I know this is reckless; Liam and Joe would have never let me use myself as bait.
I’m going to regret this, fuck me.
We keep moving forward through the corridor, the sounds growing louder with each step.
Voices blend, rising and falling like waves, punctuated by the clink of glasses and music I can feel through the soles of my feet.
It sounds almost celebratory, almost like a…
Without warning, someone yanks the hood off my head.
The man holding me turns away before I can glimpse his face, melting into the crowd.
I stand frozen, trying to process what I'm seeing.
The room glows with an eerie dark purple light that casts strange shadows across unfamiliar faces.
Men and women in elegant clothes mill about, all wearing ornate masks that hide their identities.
Some lounge on velvet couches, drinking from crystal glasses, while others watch the proceedings with predatory interest.
A party, a depraved fucking party.
The room pulses with a sinister energy. In one corner, a man in a sleek tuxedo presses a young woman against the wall, his mouth between her legs consuming her, while others watch with vacant interest.
My stomach churns as I notice another couple on a chaise lounge, his hand sliding beneath her dress, pulling her hair with his other hand like a leash, while three observers sip champagne and nod approvingly. Some kissing, some watching, and some fucking—all of it a performance.
My eyes scan the perimeter until they land on what makes my blood run cold of a row of chairs arranged in a semi-circle.
Each one holds a young woman, all wearing identical masks.
They sit perfectly still, like dolls on display, their hands folded in their laps as if…
They're being auctioned. Each one is more beautiful than the last yet sharing the same vacant stare with an emptiness that comes from being dead inside.
I'm still frozen taking it all in, when I feel something soft brush against my face from behind and delicate fingers slip a lace masquerade mask over my eyes, tying it with practiced gentleness.
This is really happening.
“There,” whispers a feminine voice, the sound silky and practiced. “Much better.”
A cloud of her rose and something darker perfume engulfs me, I try to turn, to see who's adorning me like a sacrifice, but her hands glide down my arms, fingertips barely touching yet somehow controlling my movements completely.
She steps around to face me, and I stare at a woman in black lace lingerie that leaves little to the imagination.
Small crystals adorn her mask, catching the purple light and making her face shimmer.
I narrow my eyes to explore more of her, but she lets her gaze drift to the side as she takes my hand.
“Come with me,” she says, her voice like honey laced with poison.
She leads me through the crowd, my feet moving while my mind screams to run.
As we weave between masked figures, I notice other women in lingerie like hers scattered throughout the room.
Some carry silver trays of champagne flutes, their eyes vacant too behind jeweled masks.
Others drape themselves across the laps of men in expensive suits, writhing to the music now playing “Supermassive Black Hole” from Muse.
These are the men with wallets fat enough to buy a human being.
God, they watch them like they’re selecting cuts of meat.
These must be the buyers. The traffickers.
The monsters who see women as commodities.
It’s all a grotesque showcase of appetizers before the main course.
My stomach lurches at the thought of their hands on me, on any of these women, and I imagine the sheer satisfaction of throwing up all over their polished, expensive leather shoes.
She guides me to the row of chairs where the other women are sitting and gestures to an empty one in the middle.
My legs feel like lead as I sink into it, trapped between the ghosts of two women who seem to wish they were dead.
How long have they been here? How many 'parties' have they endured, or worse…
Where do they end up after these parties?
My attention snaps back to the woman in black lingerie now standing before me, caressing my hair, and her fingers trace down my cheek, leaving goosebumps of discomfort in her wake.
She turns around, surveying the room with practiced nonchalance, and then moves in front of me with a graceful, predatory motion and sits on me. Her body moves against mine, giving me a lap dance, and my breath hitches, unable to move nor know what to do with my hands.