Pennies (Dollar #1)

by Pepper Winters

  Now, it was a market pen. Complete with podium for inspection and auctioneer with his gavel. The two girls I’d showered with sobbed quietly as they were lined up in a procession of other women. Women who’d lived in this hotel with me, but I’d never seen. Women of all ages and ethnicities, all stolen from their rightful place and treated like livestock.

  My friends wouldn’t really miss me because they didn’t understand me. I had no boyfriend to mourn me, no father to come search for me. As far as connections and family went, I was lacking.

  I supposed it made it easier for me to switch off the desire to love and be loved, knowing I would never feel such a thing again. But it also hurt more because, at least, if I’d had those things, I could say I’d lived briefly; that I hadn’t taken my freedom for granted.

  Now, all I would know was captivity.

  As a man in a perfectly pressed tux and black executioner’s mask strode around the room holding a microphone to his hidden lips, the atmosphere hushed in expectation.

  “Welcome, gentlemen, to the QMB, also known as Quarterly Market of Beauties.” Sweeping his hand down the line of merchandise, he said, “As you can see, we have quite a turn-out for you tonight.”

  One by one, he pointed at us.

  We were the only ones bare faced and on display.

  One by one, we shrank into ourselves.

  Twelve counted before me.

  I was lucky thirteen.

  Or was that unlucky thirteen? All I needed was a black cat, a fallen down ladder, and a witch’s superstition to well and truly curse me.

  The man strode proudly as if he’d personally created each and every one of us. If he was in charge of stripping us of everything and rebuilding us into nothing, then perhaps he had. Maybe he did own us and had full right to sell something I no longer recognised.

  “As usual, we have a range of beauties available for your pleasure. You’ve all had time to peruse their files and photos we supplied.”

  Wait, what photos and files?

  Had our rooms had cameras? Were we secretly catalogued and investigated? My chest rose and fell, pressing against the words I’d scribbled on the stolen toilet paper. Did they know about my tentative writing? Would they take it away from me?

  My questions kept me occupied while the man cut over the dance floor and grabbed the first girl in the lineup. Dragging her forward, he forced her onto the podium, holding her until she caught her balance.

  The spotlight showed her every stress line, every terror, every tear. She couldn’t hide anything beneath such an invasive glare. Her facial nakedness was made worse as no humanity stared back. Only animal masks and robot masks and all manner of creations.

  I don’t want to look like her.

  I wouldn’t let these assholes see my horror. If they refused to let us see them, I refused to let them see me. I didn’t have feathers or diamantes to hide my true self, but I did have willpower.

  It took four girls to school my features into a rigid, unfeeling shell. Another four girls for me to delete emotion from my gaze and grab what was left to stuff into a newly formed suitcase inside (or should I say soulcase) and slam the lid closed. It took the final four girls to find a way to lock that soulcase, banish all my secrets, hopes, and aspirations, and toss away the key.

  My name was Tasmin Blythe, but as my turn rolled around and I was forced to stand proud and prideful on the podium, they gave me a new name. A name forever reminding me of where I came from but stripping me of everything else at the same time.

  Pimlico.

  After the London suburb where my mother’s function was held.

  No longer Tasmin. Pimlico…Pim.

  I’m glad.

  I no longer had to fake being strong and aloof; Pimlico was strong and aloof. Tasmin was locked deep, deep inside and forgotten as I blinked in the bright lights and heard the most damning thing of all.

  “I’ll pay one hundred thousand.”

  “I’ll go two hundred.”

  “I’ll outbid you all and double it.” The room sucked in a gasp as a silhouette of a tall, slender man stepped onto the dance floor. “Four hundred thousand dollars for the girl in white.”

  My heart once again tried to build a parachute and escape. That was the highest bid of the evening.

  It disgusted me.

  How dare they decide my worth? What my fellow slaves were worth. No price tag existed on a human life.

  My life.

  I hadn’t said a word since the third day of my incarceration. I hadn’t answered their questions about my age or sexual history. I refused to share any number of invasive requests.

  I’d taken that small power even though they no doubt knew everything they needed thanks to my driver’s license and social media.

  But now…here, on the eve of my sale, I had something to say.

  Balling my hands, I glared at the indistinct man who wished to own me. My voice rang out, soft but pure, the only feminine sound in a nest of men.

  “I bid one million. Let me buy myself, sir, and I will forget any of this ever happened.”

  The bought girls, already ushered and clung to by new masters, gasped. My audacity could shorten my life or prolong it. Either way, it was a gamble I willingly and knowingly chose.

  I didn’t have a million. My mother might if she sold our two-bedroom flat in London. But just like I pushed other worries to be solved on a later day, I pushed this one aside, too.

  Money was just money.

  Pennies added to dollars and dollars added to hundreds.

  In the end, the prettily printed paper was worthless because inflation stole its numerical profit, unable to keep those who owned it happy.

  My life, on the other hand, would increase in value, growing wiser and richer in experience the longer I survived. I was an investment, not a liability. And I would invest everything I had into giving myself a future.

  The man stepped forward, cutting through the glare so his silhouette turned into physical mass. His dirty blond hair was the only thing visible behind the princely mask of some English Lord. “You’re bidding on yourself?” His voice sounded foreign, but I couldn’t place the accent. Mediterranean, perhaps?

  Tipping my chin, the podium put me higher than him as I looked down as if he were my subject and I was his queen.

  I would rule him. I would never bow.

  “That is correct. I am too expensive for you. One million pounds, not dollars. I bid well over your pathetic amount.”

  The auctioneer fumbled, clearly uncertain what to do with this change of events. His business was in the money-making game. Selling women was high profit, but if he could earn more by selling me to myself, what did he care if certain corporate rules were broken?

  He got paid either way.

  Ignoring the man in his English Lord mask, I faced the executioner, begging his gavel to fall on my offer. “One million, sir, and I walk away and never mention this again.”

  What about the other girls?

  My mother would curse me for the shame and guilt I suffered at the thought of leaving the sold women. But she’d also be proud because I’d chosen a path with decisiveness and conviction. Something she said I’d always lacked.

  Happy now, Mother?

  The room erupted in murmurs of deliberation while I stood in the sea of ebbing voices.

  For a moment, I stupidly believed I’d won. That I’d played my hand at the perfect time and earned my freedom. But I hadn’t learned my final lesson.

  Pride goeth before the fall.

  And I was about to plummet.

  “I see your offer and raise you,” Lord Mask murmured. “One million, five hundred thousand pounds, not dollars. What say you?”

  Before I could reply—before I could increase my bid and change my circumstances, the dreaded gavel fell.

  “Sold!” the auctioneer yelled. “To Mr. Lord for one million, five hundred thousand pounds.”

  * * * * *

  To No One,

&n
bsp; That was the last time I spoke. The last time I lost. The last time I knew what it was like not to live every day in pain.

  From that day onward, I was Pimlico the Mute, the Voiceless Woman in White.

  No matter what that man did to me, I didn’t break.

  No matter the beating he gave or the sexual punishment he delivered, I remained speechless and strong.

  I’d like to say I found a way to escape. That I ran. That I’m writing this to you from a quaint coffee shop in London with a handsome boyfriend on my left and a best friend on my right.

  But I’ve never been good at lying.

  This toilet paper novel was never going to be fiction.

  This is my autobiography so that one day, when my worth has been used, and every penny my master paid for me has been cashed, someone might recall the wordless slave who endured so much.

  Maybe then, I’ll be free.

  INSTEAD OF COUNTING what I’d lost and would never see again, I preferred to count what I did have.

  It kept me occupied as the transaction for my sale went through, the room emptied as successful bidders took their new possessions home, and my arms wrenched behind me for coarse twine to wrap around my wrists like some sort of twisted wedding ring.

  I didn’t say a word as a blindfold settled over my eyes with a blackening shroud nor did I make a peep as dominating hands guided me from the warmth and piano-note filled ballroom, down corridors I couldn't see, and through a foyer I hadn’t witnessed.

  Soft voices were exchanged as I was pushed like a fugitive inside the back of a car, my white dress and scarf still decorating me as a prized toy fresh off the rack.

  I didn’t know if a beaten up Honda or an expensive Maybach transported me from Hotel de Sex Traffic to a private airstrip. I wasn’t permitted to see or touch or move without the aid of the two hands that’d purchased me.

  He didn’t speak to me. I didn’t speak to him. And the staff around us didn’t need to speak because they had their orders and obeyed them explicitly.

  Ducking past the fuselage of what I guessed was a private jet, gentle pushes guided me up the gangway before directing me to perch on an unseen seat. At least, away from that dreadful no-sensory cell, I had what I needed.

  Snippets and sensations of life surrounded me. The city air on my face, the sounds of civilisation as we’d driven down streets, past unsuspecting parents and lovers out for a stroll, and now…sitting on the softest leather imaginable with my back locked, wrists bound, and no vision.

  It heightened the senses I did have. Tart scents of liquor, full-bodied whiffs of cinnamon and caviar, and a deeper, headier note of a man’s aftershave.

  Throughout my imprisonment, I hadn’t tried to free myself by being stupid. I never answered back (not after the first welcome beating) and not once refused the meals I’d been served. All such ridiculous notions of starving myself and fighting with words were removed within the first few hours of arrival.

  In these new circumstances, I wouldn’t stop being wise. I wouldn’t scream or cry or try to befriend my jailer. Instead, I would remain quiet and strong and never be idiotic by refusing whatever sustenance this man wanted to give me.

  I needed all the health and determination I could cling to.

  Icy bubbles of champagne were held to my lips.

  I hadn’t tasted anything so sharp in a very long time. My mouth opened, and I sipped.

  The flute was removed after precisely two swallows. Private jet engines whined into power, someone pushed me deeper into the chair to fasten a seat-belt over my lap, and the crackle of an unknown pilot announced we were ready to take-off.

  I wanted to know where we were flying.

  I wanted to know who this new adversary was.

  I wanted to know how long I could last before the mask I’d plastered in place on the podium would shatter. Paper mache only lasted so long before the elements dampened and destroyed it. What about a guise made of sheer stubbornness and rebellion? How long did those prevail?

  But wanting was different from receiving, and I had no choice but to sit back in my chair as we careened down the runway and shot into the sky. My ears popped with steep ascent, and no one muttered a word for a long time. No one moved to untie me or give me back the gift of sight, either.

  Minutes switched to hours, and I stopped waiting for the man to speak. I relaxed as much as I could and turned inward, keeping myself sane by mentally preparing for the next step.

  I’d known this would happen ever since the bastard who’d strangled me revived me thanks to mouth-to-mouth CPR. I had no one to rely on anymore. No one to tell me what to do and how to act. It was entirely on me. Whatever pain or mistreatment may or may not be in my future, I had to hold my own hand, wipe away my tears, and find comfort in my arms no matter how bloody.

  Terror existed in that acknowledgement but encouragement too. Because I only had to look out for myself. I could be selfish by being alone. I could lock myself tight from emotion and turn my heart as mute as my mouth.

  The other sold girls would be forgotten, so I didn’t worry about their existence. My mother would be ignored, so I’d become my own person rather than her protégé.

  It was the only way I would survive.

  As more minutes passed, and the plane cruised long enough for two air-hostesses to serve the man who’d bought me and the pilot to announce we had another one hour of flying time, my nerves fought a losing battle.

  For all my positive thinking, I couldn’t stop the tick-tocking inside, counting down to the next event I’d have to overcome.

  I tried to remain calm—to keep my rioting mind quiet from questions. But all I wanted was to know who I would have to endure while planning my escape.

  Who was this bastard who’d exchanged money for a life?

  What did he expect from me?

  And how often had he escaped with such a transaction?

  “Let’s get the necessary introductions out of the way, shall we?”

  I froze as the man’s voice broke the stagnant silence. His timing sent shivers down my spine, almost as if he’d heard my thoughts.

  Did he expect me to talk without seeing him? Without watching his body language and picking up so much more information than I would if he kept me blind?

  I’d promised not to speak again. Ever. But in this instance, it would be beneficial for me, not for him. I’d permit myself three words. A meagre diet of syllables before I went back to starvation.

  “Untie me first.”

  For a long moment, he didn’t reply. Then the slight rustle of his suit as he leaned forward and pushed my shoulders off the seat. My skin prickled beneath his touch, bristling with hatred.

  Doing my best to move away, I wriggled to the edge of the plush leather, holding my wrists out to make it easier. With a quick saw, the stringed devils around my skin fell away, their teeth muzzled for another day.

  The blindfold relaxed over my eyes, granting a smidgen of relief from the headache caused by its tightness.

  The moment I was freed, the man reclined in his chair.

  I blinked, fighting the glare of finally having vision again. He sat directly opposite me rather than across the aisle as I’d thought. He’d removed his mask, and the second I met his gaze, I wanted to slam the blindfold back on and have every sense forgotten.

  I didn’t want to see, hear, touch, or heaven forbid, ever taste this man.

  The English Lord mask he’d worn had been far too kind for the monster beneath.

  Struggling to keep my face tight and unreadable, I tilted my chin. The urge to blurt plea bargains and terrifying questions formed a gag around my throat.

  I was thankful.

  He deserved no more words from me. He deserved nothing but a firing squad and my footsteps dancing on his grave.

  Back when life was safe and my only concern was what TV show to view when I couldn’t sleep, I’d binge-watched police shows, forensic documentaries, and crime investigations. I loved working
out the suspect before the presenter got to the real perpetrator, drinking in the DNA testing and glaring at each potential murderer on the screen.

  A lot of the time, the person who’d killed looked like any other neighbour or family friend. Old or young, rich or poor, they were just a person.

  A person with darkness inside.

  However, when the camera zoomed on their features as the show’s conclusion revealed their comeuppance, one thing always linked them together.

  Their eyes.

  Something about their eyes revealed the truth, just like this man’s did.

  Something was missing. I didn’t want to say a soul because I didn’t know entirely what that was. But it could also be something so much worse. An imposter. Not human enough to feel compassion and empathy. People who killed and raped were cold-hearted, pain-thirsting demons.

  I’d been sold to that demon.

  He smiled, showing square white teeth in a tanned face. His dirty blond hair pegged him as Swedish or maybe Norwegian. He had the same bone structure of the lanky Europeans with a long nose, pronounced cheekbones, and piercing blue eyes.

  I guessed his age would be late thirties. An age where he could’ve been my father if he’d had children young.

  Wait…

  Did he have kids? A wife? A family?

  We stared at each other, neither saying a word. It felt like a contest, battling for domination, but I knew better. He wanted me to walk into his trap. I already had by requesting he untie me. I’d done my part. The rest was up to him.

  He grinned coldly. “Now that you can see me, let’s begin.”

  Leaning forward, he dug pinching fingers into my kneecaps. No one had ever grabbed me there before, but as his fingernails sank swiftly into the satin of my dress and curled around the pieces of bone protecting my joints, I suddenly understood how vulnerable knees were. How easy to pop off and rip away.

  I gasped, turning ice-cold in my chair.

  “My name is Alrik Åsbjörn. To you, I’m Master A. Do you understand?” His fingers dug harder.

  My lips glued together, refusing to speak. I had power over speech, but I didn’t over my eyes. They glassed with pain as he continued to hurt me.