Auctioned

by Lulu Pratt

  Obviously, the show I was working tonight fell squarely into the “circus” and “sexy” categories. Oh, joy.

  I walked under a golden arch made of two naked female statues stretching out to one another, gilded tits hanging low and faces marked with ecstasy. What a promising sign of things to come. Past the arch was a long hallway, hung with posters of the various performers, all petite Asian women in low-slung bikini briefs with their hands coyly splayed across their breasts. One of the posters read, in Chinese-style font à la Kung Fu Panda — “Journey to the East!” I cringed at the patronizing marketing and quickened my steps.

  At the door stood the person I presumed to be the front of house manager. She wore a short black dress and sensible heels. It was easy to infer her position in the theater because only production staff are allowed to be even moderately covered up. The woman greeted me with a terse nod.

  “Are you Kiki?”

  “Yeah.”

  Her eyes ran over my coat. “And you’ve got the outfit on?”

  I blushed. “Yes.”

  “Right then. Follow me.”

  She turned on a heel and began to march into the club space.

  “Why’d you get assigned here tonight?” she called over her shoulder, never slowing down. “We don’t need an extra waitress, but Jack phoned ahead and told me you were going to be doing a shift.”

  She said the word waitress like an epithet.

  “Tate is making me,” I explained with a sigh.

  That got her attention. She stopped and swiveled back to me. “Tate. As in, the owner of Dazzlers?”

  “Yeah.”

  She quirked a painted eyebrow. “What’d you do?”

  “Mouthed off.”

  Her expression landed somewhere between concerned and impressed.

  “Well…” she began. “Just don’t do that here. We run a tight show, okay?”

  “Sure thing.”

  I wanted to shout, I’ll do anything, let’s get this over with, but I held my tongue. It was a new thing I was working on, this whole ‘being quiet’ business.

  She pivoted back around, apparently satisfied with my answer, and escorted me the final few meters into the theater proper.

  Only, it wasn’t much of a theater anymore. Now, it was a fully rigged strip club. Twenty-foot poles stretched to the ceiling, and if I squinted, I could see the loaded black boxes near the top which would pop open if some patron pressed the “make it rain” button at their VIP table. The button would activate the boxes, which in turn would drop some ten thousand dollars on any given dancer.

  At a glance, I estimated there were approximately thirty bottle service tables, plus standing room on the second floor and near the tip rail itself. This show must’ve made Dazzlers serious money. I could only imagine how high the house cut was.

  “Okay,” the woman said. “Take off the coat, let’s see the costume.”

  I turned redder than my hair. “It fits fine.”

  “While that may be, I’ll still need to see it.”

  As I reached with reluctance for my coat’s belt, I felt like I was in the show, peeling off pieces of my costume for the hungry eyes of onlookers. I wondered if this stranger could see the inexperience written all over my limbs and facial features.

  I haven’t mentioned this until now because it wasn’t pertinent, but I guess you oughta know — technically, I’m like, kind of a virgin. Or, um, just a virgin, period. I know, I know, it seems like bullshit, I get that. Vegas girl, cocktail waitress, twenty-one… trust me, I understand how weird it sounds. And I totally support other women who have sex, and who get paid to have sex, but it’s just… I haven’t.

  It didn’t start out because of some political stance, like I wasn’t trying to wait until marriage. It was one of those things that kind of quietly occurred in the background, growing and bubbling without much notice. I’d just never had a serious relationship or the time. As I got older, my virgin status became more pronounced in my own mind, like it was looming over me, an ever-swinging axe. Now, if I’m being honest, I think the only reason I haven’t swiped my V-card is that I’m embarrassed about my lack of experience. Like come on, who in this town is a virgin at twenty-one? Hell, who’s a virgin at fifteen?

  I let the trench coat drop down to my wrists, revealing my barely covered body to the FOH manager. Her eyes squinted, trailing across my breasts and hips. Could she read my prudishness? Was it that obvious? I felt a tremor rise through my fingertips.

  “Fine,” she said at last. “You’ll do. Leave your coat in the back. The other girls will divide up sections with you and go over the lay of the land. Don’t come to me unless there’s a crisis, and there better not be one.”

  She waved a hand vaguely towards what I took to be the backstage area, then waltzed away like she had been bored of me from the moment I’d entered.

  Well, there was nothing to do but follow orders. I marched in the direction she’d pointed and sure enough, past an enormous bar that would’ve required at least five bartenders at any given time, I saw a small service door. From its depths came the sound of high-pitched voices, chattering over one another and the occasional underscored curse word.

  “Fuck you, Tate,” I whispered under my breath, and then walked inside.

  I was met by a cacophony of young women, each more gorgeous than the next. These must be the strippers, I thought. Who else has muscle that taut? But then, upon second glance, I realized they were all wearing some iteration of the same red underthings I had on. Shit — these were my fellow waitresses. Since when were cocktail servers meant to look like Victoria’s Secret models? I covered my body reflexively, feeling altogether too ugly to be amongst this group.

  And I didn’t recognize any of them to boot. Prior to this, I thought I knew every waitress in Dazzlers, but evidently, they’d been keeping the really pretty ones locked up in the theater auditoriums. That figured — give the hot girls less ground to cover in a shift so they developed wrinkles slower than the rest of us. I tried to stifle some mounting resentment, but upon glimpsing one girl’s obscenely tight ass, I quickly gave up the fight and let the annoyance take over.

  “I’m Kiki,” I said in a monotone voice. “I’m supposed to work a shift tonight.”

  They all glanced in my direction, but nobody responded.

  After a painfully long beat, one waitress turned in my direction with a sunny smile. Turns out, it was the one with the great butt, who I’d kind of been wishing a plague upon only moments ago.

  “Hey,” she replied, walking forward with an outstretched hand. “I’m Anaia. You can split my section for the night.”

  Satisfied that the interloper had been taken care of, the other girls turned back to one another, tittering under their breaths — presumably about me.

  “Ignore them, they’re just jealous,” Anaia whispered, pulling me to another, more private row of lockers.

  “Of what? They’re stunning.”

  She grinned. “So are you, girl. Don’t be shy about it.”

  I flushed. Did this supermodel just tell me I was attractive? A burst of self-confidence coursed through me before fizzling out. My moments of bravado never lasted more than a few seconds.

  “You didn’t have to split your section,” I replied, sorry for having inconvenienced such a sweet girl. “I know it means giving up tips.”

  She chuckled, “Oh honey, I make great tips. One table, five tables, doesn’t matter. I get what I need every night.”

  Looking at her, I was inclined to believe that story. When you’re in a certain hotness echelon, money kind of appears as necessary — as do fabulous shoes, designer bags, and endless party invites. I’m not unattractive, but nobody ever sends me gifts to earn my love, y’know? There’s a distinction.

  “Okay, you can put your coat in my locker tonight.”

  Anaia stood patiently, waiting for me to disrobe. I clenched my teeth and obliged, once more slipping the coat past my shoulders, and this time taking it off
completely. I handed it to Anaia, who took the garment with a whistle.

  “Damn girl! Why’d you look so shy? You’re hot shit.”

  I smiled, both embarrassed and grateful for the compliment. Maybe, with her reassurance, I could get through the night unscathed and with my modesty intact.

  She stuffed my coat into her locker and then waved a beckoning hand.

  “Let’s hit the floor.”

  We grabbed rags and trays from a nearby bench and strode back out in the club proper, where Anaia walked me through the seating and payment rules while we swiped Windex on the black laminate tabletops. In between mop-ups and job outlining, we giggled about the show, the clientele, and Dazzlers. Before half an hour had gone by, we’d fallen into an easy friendship.

  “So,” Anaia said, grabbing us both portable card readers, “how’d you end up working here tonight?”

  I rolled my eyes, and gave her the short version. “Basically, I met Tate, as in Tate the owner, and I was a little… feisty. Like, just kind of a dick. Not that I was wrong, by the way, but it was out of line, like even as I was saying the stuff I knew it was a mistake. I think I was hoping to get fired, just to find a way out of this place.”

  “You mouthed off to the owner?” Anaia repeated in disbelief. “Oh my fucking God, you’re my hero.”

  “Wait, really?”

  “Obviously! He’s such a tool.”

  I laughed and nodded. “Yeah, right? All those posters—”

  “Where he looks like a Ken doll, yes, totally!”

  We giggled, hands over our mouths and our bellies shaking the gold fringe of the skirts. For the first time all day, I felt good. Happy, even. Maybe that’s why I told Anaia what I did.

  “It’s not like the extra shift hurts, I guess. To be honest, today’s been rough. I found out my dad is carrying one hundred thousand in debt — debt he got playing the tables at Dazzlers.”

  I bit my lip and waited to see how Anaia would take this truth overload. She went quiet, eyes focused on the floor. Fuck, that was too much, I scolded myself. You got too comfortable, and you crossed a line, you stupid bitch.

  But after a moment, she looked back up at me, and without warning, asked, “Are you a virgin?”

  I nearly fumbled my tray, but managed to stay upright. I could feel my pulse in my fingertips. How the hell could she tell?

  “Why — how — what makes you ask that?” I stammered out, my voice coming in staccato bursts.

  “Are you?” she asked.

  I hesitated. Why was I so ashamed of this? If I lied to her, it would be as good as saying that I was embarrassed about a thing I had no business being embarrassed of.

  So I ’fessed up. “I don’t know how you knew that, but… yes.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t, I wasn’t even guessing, it’s just that I know a way to make a fuckton of money. I did it once, a long time ago, and it’s the easiest cash I’ve ever earned. It’s only a one-timer and for if you’re really up a tree, money-wise.”

  “I am,” I replied. “I have no way to pay off his debts, and he’s retired, mostly because he can’t keep a job and still gamble as much as he does.”

  Jesus, I was on an honesty spree today. Maybe having your life tossed upside down and drop-kicked across a spiritual parking lot will do that.

  “Okay. Well, if you’re serious about paying this off, there’s only one thing you can do.”

  “And that is… ?”

  “Sell your virginity.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Tate

  THE LIMO was swaying side to side with the kinetic force of Colin jumping to and fro.

  “Sit down,” I muttered, putting a hand over my eyes.

  He responded by pressing a button that opened the sun roof and standing up, sticking his head out the top. The other guys in the limo cheered and pumped fists in the air, some clinking glasses and giving him words of encouragement.

  “I love Las Vegas!” he shouted to no one in particular.

  This time, I snapped. “I said sit down.”

  Colin re-emerged from the open air, quietly taking his seat and knocking back a shot of tequila. The other men — my entourage, I guess — stared at me, waiting for their cue.

  “Sorry,” I sighed. “Go ahead, have fun.”

  Once again, the limo broke out into boisterous noise, and I was slipped under into a world of meaningless partying.

  When you’re rich, you have an entourage. I don’t make the rules, I just follow them and keep my head down. Men who are less rich attach themselves to you like sea barnacles under a ship and hitch a ride through ‘til morning. It’s fine, I guess — gives you something to do, and these kinds of men are always entertaining, at least for a little bit. Plus, it looks bad to roll up to your own casino alone, like some kind of depressing outcast. For the investors, you have to seem as though you’re having the time of your life.

  Me personally, I’d rather go alone. Having friends because of your money isn’t rewarding. But whatever. This was part of the deal, keeping up appearances and doing the bare minimum.

  Besides, I thought with absurd glee, at least I’ll get to see Kiki.

  My palms had been sweating all day at the thought of another encounter with her. As the hours had ticked on, my brain had increasingly oriented itself around her, like water spiraling down through a drain. Surrounded as I was by these yes-men, her outspoken, unapologetic nature had begun to appeal more and more. And it didn’t hurt that she was easy as fuck on the eyes, all that red hair bouncing in perfect curls.

  At last, the eternal limo ride was over, and we disembarked on the curb of Dazzlers, unfurling ourselves from the vehicle like it was a clown car. One by one, all ten or so of us got out and, with many slaps on the backs, we made our way inside.

  “Make way for the prince of Dazzlers!” Shane, a particularly rowdy crew member, crowed out behind me. “Tate’s here, baby!”

  I ducked my head down, hoping guests wouldn’t assail me. It was boring enough to run a business you didn’t care about, but then on top of that being expected to sign autographs and be a celebrity of sorts… well, it was dull.

  “Let’s just get to the theater,” I huffed, quickening my pace and forcing the other men to nearly jog to keep up.

  After rounding a few sharp corners, I arrived at the theater, giving the door girl nothing more than a nod before swooping inside into the safety of dark lights and thumping music. In a club, I had anonymity. So as much as I didn’t like the trappings of an evening out, my expected entourage included, I cherished those moments when I could just walk amongst other people, no hands to shake or photos to take.

  As soon as I stepped into the room, I did a sweep, scanning for the only woman I cared to see. The throng was leaning in to the stage, watching with bated breath as a performer did a trick high up the pole that ended with the flourish of her bra fluttering down to the stage. Money rained, and through the haze of green, I saw a burst of red hair.

  There she was, across the way and to the left: Kiki.

  My muscles clenched with adrenaline. I strode over, hoping my entourage would lose me in the crowd. I had to get to her, to my island in the sea. Patrons parted for me — there was only so much dim lighting could do for my recognizable features — and before long, I was within spitting distance of her.

  “Kiki!”

  She turned, skirt swirling around her hips.

  She was a vision. The red getup went perfectly with her hair, making her look like Jessica Rabbit’s more innocent baby sister. Her green eyes did a double take before she realized it was me and made her way over, shimmying around men whose sole focus was on the naked girls atop the stage.

  “Tate?”

  “Yeah,” I said, breathless, coming to a stop a few feet in front of her.

  A man at a table waved his hand impatiently in her direction, trying to get Kiki’s attention.

  “Gimme a second,” I barked at him.

  The poor guy recognized my fa
ce and held up apologetic hands of surrender. “Sorry, dude, didn’t know it was, uh, you.”

  I turned away from him and back to Kiki. “I had to come here tonight, the casino manager said it would be good publicity. Can you find me a seat in your section?”

  She looked around, skeptical about this request.

  “My section’s kinda shitty,” she admitted. “Someone like you doesn’t want to sit here.”

  “Don’t be crazy. And hey, if there’s a shitty seat, I oughta know about it. For the sake of my customers.”

  She blushed. “Right, for the sake of your customers. I guess… follow me.”

  Kiki turned and led me to a silver table, illuminated from underneath by disco lights. It was modest, in comparison to the rest of the club, but I didn’t care. I was too busy watching her toned legs strut forward, her hips twirling with self-assurance. With some great effort, I pulled my gaze back to her face as she came to rest at the table.

  “Here you go, it’s all yours for the night.”

  “Nobody else was booked here?”

  “I mean they were, but you kinda own the place. I suspect they’ll like the upgrade to your reserved table.”

  I grinned, sliding into the leather circular seat. “Oh yeah, right.”

  She hesitated, then tacked on, “And by the way, just because you’re in my section doesn’t mean you’re, um, in my section. Okay?”

  “I don’t catch your meaning.”

  Kiki exhaled, and bent down, whispering, “I’ve got a job to do, a job that you are making me do. So don’t try to be all cutesy with me, just let me get this over with.”

  “Hey, I’m here for the show.”

  “Good. I’ll give you a minute to decide on drinks.”

  She disappeared into the haze of the club floor, leaving me alone. Or at least, for a brief moment. Within seconds, my entourage finally sniffed me out and scooted in next to me on the bench.

  “Hey, bud, thought we lost ya there for a second.”

  Yeah, that was the idea, I thought sullenly.

  “Just had to grab a seat,” I muttered.