Auctioned

by Lulu Pratt

  And over the last few years, his body had tucked in on itself like a deflating bouncy castle — you could still see the vague outlines of the robust man he once was, but they were only suggestions or a memory. He’d stopped eating much and started drinking more, and the overall effect made him both rosy and rickety, like he was flush with ill-health. The corners of his mouth sagged and wrinkles carved up his face — but especially the strokes between his eyes, an imprint of his classic tell — his brow furrowed whenever he had a good hand.

  “Hey, Ki,” he said, managing a smile. “Work good?”

  “What are you doing home, Dad?” I didn’t have time for this today.

  His smile faltered then fell away entirely. “Sit down.”

  “No thanks, Dad.”

  In point of fact, I desperately needed to sit. My legs were screaming from over-exertion, my feet howling with the pain of heels — even small heels hurt, just for the record.

  Nevertheless, I stayed standing.

  My father gave up. “Okay. Ki, we’ve gotta talk.”

  “Yeah, I figured. I don’t see you unless you need something.” The words were piercing but true.

  He grimaced. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “Just say it. I have another shift soon.”

  “I’ve… Lady Luck has been unkind lately.”

  My father, despite his decades of training, wasn’t much of a gambler. He loved the game too deeply, was too afraid to lose. He played not with his brain but with his heart. And if his rashness wasn’t enough, he was so familiar in Dazzlers that everyone knew his tells — like I said, the furrowing of his brows. I’d tried to tell him this before, but he had, of course, ignored me.

  “I’ve had a rough streak,” he continued.

  “Your last rough streak burned through my college fund, Dad. How bad are we talking?”

  That’s right, the reason I didn’t go to college was because the tens of thousands of dollars my dad had set aside for me, compounded with the thousands of dollars I’d managed to save through after school jobs, had been spent by him at the poker tables. Instead of getting the fuck out of Vegas, I’d been stuck here, trying to compensate for his “rough streak,” trying to teach myself basic business tools at night, and stealing moments through YouTube videos and online PDFs. It wasn’t enough — I’d never make up for the lost years of learning.

  “How much is it this time?” I pressed. “Just give me the number.”

  He inhaled a raggedy breath. “One hundred thousand.”

  “Dollars?”

  “Yes.”

  I found myself sitting on the sofa, head between my legs, as my world was swept up into a hurricane of whooshing light before falling away into pitch black, like tar smeared across the insides of my eyelids.

  “Kiki?”

  “One. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars?”

  “Yes,” he whispered before bursting into tears.

  It was the sound of his soft, pathetic sobs that snapped me out of it. I sat up and stared vacantly at the wall, unwilling to meet his gaze.

  “I’m so sorry,” he moaned.

  “One hundred thousand is almost three times what I make in a year, and that’s assuming tips are good,” I whispered.

  I wasn’t sure I was speaking. It was like a ticker tape was clicking out of my mouth, announcing the numbers running through my head, a familiar loop of income and taxes.

  He blubbered on. “I can’t help it, the gambling. It—it’s like it controls me.”

  “I’ve tried to get you into Gamblers Anonymous, what, five times now? Maybe six?”

  “But at least now I’ve hit rock bottom, now I can start to get better. I mean, isn’t that what we both want, for me to get better?”

  I’d heard these lines before. I shook my head and rose. “I wanna believe you, Dad, but I just can’t.”

  “Where are you going,” he cried, tilting forward in his chair. “We’ve gotta figure this out, together.”

  “This is all Dazzlers’ fault,” I murmured. “If only you’d never stepped foot in that fucking place.”

  “Sit, we can—”

  I laughed, a frightening noise that silenced us both. “I’ve gotta go back to Dazzlers. Somebody around here has to keep food on the table.”

  “But—”

  With that, I left my simpering father alone in the living room, returning to my safe haven.

  I braced myself, ready for another wave of dizzying nausea, but none came. It was like the life blood had been sucked out of me, and now I was running on automatic fumes, the distant echoes of full-flung emotions.

  Slowly, over the sound of my dad’s sobs that reverberated through the walls, I stepped out of the sweats and into the new costume, pulling the Spandex past my thighs and onto my hips. I straightened out the edges before taking a deep breath and turning to look at myself in the mirror.

  The woman in the mirror was a shock. The red of the costume against the red of her hair was so vibrant as to nearly shatter the glass. The entire outfit amounted to a crimson bodysuit with a sweetheart bodice and a gold tinsel fringe around the waist that covered exactly nothing. There were red patent leather booties to match.

  I didn’t recognize myself, but for the first time, I didn’t mind that. It’d be nice to live in this hot stranger’s world for an evening, letting my curves fill out the fabric, tossing my hair without a worry.

  I threw on my customer work trench coat and belted it around the waist before taking up my other supplies and once again leaving my room.

  “Kiki—”

  “No, Dad,” I said, without turning around, one hand already on the door knob. “I’ve got debts to pay.”

  I walked out of the house and back into the night.

  CHAPTER 6

  Tate

  THIS ROOM hadn’t changed in probably fifty years.

  The walls were lined with oil portraits of the original Vegas founders, each whiter than the last. There was also a bar that ran the length of one of the walls, white marble with gold fixtures, filled with the finest alcohol that money could buy. At last count, the most expensive bottle clocked in at fifty thousand.

  In the center was a vast oak table the size of a small ship, around which were positioned some twenty-odd red velvet chairs. It was like the set dressing of the Industrial Revolution, which was fitting because around the table sat the men who most closely resembled our generation’s approximation of robber barons.

  This was the top-secret room where the heads of the top casinos in Vegas were meeting to conduct what I estimated to be some of the most underhanded business humanly possible, and it was apparently my turn to host the gathering held every month at a different location. It was considered a great honor to host the event, and I’d forgotten. These “captains of industry” fixed prices, evaded taxes, and funded drug cartels as needed. In short, they were a motley collection of the worst sorts of men to be had on this planet. And yes, to no one’s surprise, they were all men.

  I mean… I guess I mean we. Doesn’t feel right, though. Technically I go along with their decisions, sure, but that’s just because I don’t want to become overly involved in any given matter. That would be dangerous, to dip my toes in too far. It was better to just vote with the majority and keep my head down. That way I take no responsibility for anything, and thus, incur no guilt for the inevitable fall out for the group’s actions. It’s just simpler this way.

  But for however much I tried to divorce myself from their decisions, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of self-disgust as I settled into my customary armchair.

  My mind went to Kiki. What would she think of this gathering and of my involvement? I could see her righteous anger now, the way she’d browbeat me for being so cavalier about the future of the town and its inhabitants. She’d tell me that, whether I liked it or not, I played a part in whatever dirty decisions went down between these walls.

  Okay, I was spinning out, I know that. I’d met this girl, what, two hours ago? I
certainly hadn’t known her long enough to get her opinions on inter-city politics and financial practices. She wasn’t my fucking Jiminy Cricket. So why did it feel like she was sitting on my shoulder and sighing in disappointment?

  I thought of her, a young woman who was just trying to bring in some money for her family. It was a dirty job, but an honorable one. And here I sat, angry that I had to be involved in the very legacy that had left me with boatloads of cash, yet too chicken to get the fuck out of town and put this soiled money in my rearview.

  Leaning across the table, I grabbed a snifter of fine brandy and brought it to my lips. Ah, that was better. If I couldn’t extricate myself from the situation — and I couldn’t, not really — then I might as well get tipsy. It’d worked for my dad well enough. My only goal was to get through the meeting without having to interact with any of these swine. While they hobnobbed around the table, I stared into the brown depths of my glass and wished for a swift end.

  At the head of the table sat Kenneth, the council leader by dint of being the most senior. It was simpler that way. When the position was given based on age, there could be no under-the-table bribing or playing of politics. Kenneth ran the Mustang, a tourist trap casino at the end of the Strip, and you got the sense that he’d seen every variation of evil that humanity could dream up. This vibe didn’t really accord with his petite frame and tortoiseshell glasses, but hey, grizzled experience wears no universal mask.

  “Let’s bring this meeting to order,” he said, his voice quiet.

  Kenneth didn’t need volume. The men who had been chatting around the table fell immediately silent as a sign of respect.

  “Right then,” he began. “First up on the docket — Ralph, I believe you have data on an undercover FBI sting, is that right?”

  Ralph, the head of Garden of Eden and two off-Strip casinos, nodded and launched into a tactical breakdown of the government agents who’d been infiltrating casinos in search of scams. The room found this very amusing. After almost a century of naughty doings, Vegas was impossible to fell. Even our government didn’t stand a chance.

  The meeting continued on in much that same strain. There was talk of killing off some competition literally, and paying back a trifling amount of money owed to the Mafia. The group was so civil and composed about these matters, it was almost like this was a dental conference or something. I voted when necessary, but otherwise kept mum.

  At last, it was time for a break in the proceedings. Fine Cuban cigars were passed around the table. Each man pulled from his pocket a branded match box bearing his casino’s name and imprint, and struck a flame. Caviar was circulated as well — beluga, I believe — while the men talked of national elections and favorite local call girls.

  Jordan, a younger owner who sat to my right, attempted to draw me out on the topic of yachts and Santorini in the summer. I gave him a terse reply, quickly ending the hatchling conversation.

  Three seats down from me, Mac was making a stir with his raucous laughter, slapping on the table and spilling drops of his drink.

  Mac was the owner of RES, one of the top-tier casinos that traded in fine foods, rich clientele, and the highest jackpots in town. He was famously close friends with various sheikhs, and had what papers described as a “legion” of Ferraris, each in a different hue. Mac himself was completely bald, just under five-ten, and attempted to counter this by having invisible heels inserted into his shoes. His clothes rioted with ostentatious brand names like Supreme and Gucci, and he wore a watch worth a small island.

  He opened his gaping mouth once more and turned down to my end of the table, placing an elbow on the wood.

  “Hey fellas,” he said, his small eyes gleaming. “I got a thing goin’ on in my place next week as I have a couple of friends flying over, you all in?”

  Oh Jesus Christ.

  A few of the guys chuckled and looked knowingly at one another. Darian, the newest member, glanced about in confusion. I should’ve taken him under my wing, seeing as he was the newest — and youngest — casino owner besides myself and had officially adopted my position as runt of the litter. However, I knew that if he associated with me, he’d be tainted. The fellow members were polite to me, but everyone was clear on the fact that I was there because I had to be, not because I wanted to.

  “Mac?” Darian asked, his voice quivering a little.

  He was only twenty-two, and though he’d been rich his whole life, the money hadn’t seemed to bestow upon him the confidence it had in these other men. He was wiry, with pitted skin and a bulbous nose. Perhaps even money can’t overcome an appearance like that.

  “Yes, kid?” Mac replied, dripping with derision.

  “What’s a ‘thing’?”

  I wanted to reach across to Darian and whisper that he was better off not getting an answer to this particular question, that his life would be simpler if he didn’t know.

  Mac grinned. “Oh, Darian. You have so much to learn.”

  Darian swallowed, fidgeting and waiting for an answer.

  Mac drew this out for a moment, then continued, “What I mean is, we’re having a sale. A very specific kind of sale.”

  The boy brightened. “Is it of your cars? I like cars.”

  “No. Something even finer than a good Lambo. RES is going to be hosting a very private, very exclusive virginity sale.”

  “What?” Darian blustered.

  I sighed.

  Mac nodded. “You heard me right. One beautiful woman, one virginity for auction.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Dunno, not yet. We have a stable of girls waiting at the drop of the hat for an auction. We look through our books, check out their social media, and see who’s in the best shape for the sale.”

  “But what if you go schedule it and then there’s no girl?”

  Darian was so innocent, just getting hung up on the details — not the fact that women were giving themselves to the highest bidder.

  Mac laughed with ease. “Oh, Darian. Here’s something you oughta learn. It’s Vegas. There is always a girl willing to sell herself and a man happy to help her. We’ll find somebody. We always do.”

  “Okay, enough,” I cried out, slamming a fist on the table. “You can’t talk about the women this way, like it’s some kind of fucking blood sport.”

  “Oh ho ho, is wittle Tate a wittle upset?” Mac sneered.

  “This is gross and antiquated, and you know it. Who the fuck cares about virginity? I mean, what’s in it for you?”

  “You get to fuck them however you want,” he answered, as though it was obvious. “Virgins say yes to everything. They don’t know any better.”

  “You repulse me,” I spat.

  In a clamor of chair legs scraping across the ground, Mac pushed away from the table and clambered out of his chair, walking over to me. The conversations at the opposite end died down as he lowered himself to my eye level, looping a thick arm around my shoulder. Our noses were inches away and I could feel my heart galloping through my chest. I wanted to strangle him, to put him in the ground where he belonged.

  “You would do best,” he whispered, so low only I could hear it, “to not insult your ally. This board hates you. We all know that. And if I give them the go-ahead, they can end Dazzlers in one blow. So be careful what you say.”

  His breath reeked of alcohol. I was powerless, and Mac knew it. Everything he said was true. If I crossed him, it would destroy my father’s legacy. I remained silent, hating every second that passed as he held my gaze.

  At last, I looked away.

  Mac took it as a sign of victory and announced to the room, “Folks, Tate here is gonna be joining us for our special event.”

  Some of the men nodded, and a few clapped as though this were some sort of bar mitzvah, like I was going to finally be an adult about things. The brandy was moving back up my throat and filling my mouth with an acrid taste. All these years, I’d managed to avoid the virginity sales, but now I was backed into a corner.


  Darian murmured, “Okay, I guess… I guess I’ll come too.”

  “That’s a boy!” Mac hollered.

  Regret rang in my ears. If I’d stood up to Mac, God knows what would’ve happened, but at least it would’ve given Darian the chance to opt out. In tacitly agreeing to attend, I’d sealed both our fates. Poor kid.

  “We’ve got some real beauties,” Mac continued as he took his seat once more. “Fine pieces of ass. One of you is gonna love deflowering it.”

  Kenneth called out, “Okay, enough fun and games. We’ve got businesses to attend to.”

  I leaned back in my chair, my mind on Kiki. What would she say if she knew about this deal I just made with the devil?

  It wasn’t worth thinking about. As Kenneth began to discuss the policies of allowing fake IDs, I gazed at the ceiling and wished desperately for some other life.

  CHAPTER 7

  Kiki

  THE TRENCH coat swirled around my calves, and though I was entirely covered in khaki, I felt exposed. I crossed my arms over my chest, paranoid that the guests had X-ray vision and could see how skimpy my attire was. Although I supported women’s right to do sex work because, come on, I’m Vegas born and raised, I was also resisting the urge to scream out, “I’m not a stripper!”

  In other words, it wasn’t my finest moment.

  I strode across the floor of the casino, maneuvering between already drunken couples on their honeymoon, who looked to be less in their first week of marriage than the final weeks of a drawn-out divorce. There were squabbles and cigarettes and cheap perfume and too many ass cheeks.

  Moving past the tables and slots, I made my way to the right-hand wing of the casino, where the shows were held. There were, at any given time, three acts going on in the theaters. Usually some abbreviated musical, one pop star in residency, and a circus or acrobatic act of some kind. One was always family friendly, one was sexy, and the other was a toss-up between the two poles, or something so unusual as to defy qualification.