Null & Void_a Royal States Novel

by RJ Blain

  My first option sold me for a minimum bid of one million dollars, and my buyer would have me for a period of twenty-four consecutive hours, to be determined at his leisure. For that price, he could do anything he wanted with me, with one caveat: I would survive the experience.

  He could break me, but if I died, my family would enjoy a very large sum of money.

  Clenching my teeth, I stared at the number, wondering if my mother had read over the contracts first, hoping to sell me to someone who hated nulls enough to kill, hoping to land her and my father a nice ten million dollar payout.

  The thought of spending twenty-four hours with a stranger—likely in his bed—intrigued and horrified me. If he followed the rules, there’d be no non-consensual bruising of my person, and my life and safety were supposedly guaranteed.

  Would ten million deter an elite if he wanted me gone?

  I already regretted agreeing to come to the gala. When I got home, I’d take my guilty conscience into the back yard, kill it, and dig it a deep hole so I could bury it. I’d also refuse to answer any calls from my mother to limit the effects of her scheming.

  Option two sold me by the hour, and I got to pick my price, with a minimum bid of twenty thousand and a maximum bid of five hundred thousand. Otherwise, the rules remained the same.

  Option three was identical to option two with one important difference: time was calculated in fifteen minute intervals.

  If a man wanted my obedience for a day, he’d need forty-eight million. For that much going to charity, I’d do a lot, including jump in bed with a stranger.

  I pitied the guy; he’d have to clear out the cobwebs and give me a refresher course, but that wasn’t my problem. I couldn’t imagine anyone paying half a million to spend fifteen minutes with me, ensuring I’d be safe for the evening. If someone did bid on me, he’d be disappointed.

  Even if I had enthusiasm, I lacked experience, interest in the elite, and otherwise doubted I’d give him his money’s worth even for charity.

  I set my bid at max, confident that with so many beauties in the hotel, I’d be safe. With a few clicks, I confirmed the settings and continued the questionnaire. It didn’t take long, although I disliked having to declare my allergies, particularly to gold. At first, the doctors had believed I suffered from a nickel allergy, a common occurrence. I had induced mass panic at the doctor’s office when I’d put a nickel in my mouth to prove their assumption incorrect. After my demonstration, it didn’t take long to confirm gold hated me almost as much as I hated it.

  Silver and platinum didn’t bother me, but titanium gave me hives after a few minutes of direct contact.

  Add in my most bothersome allergy, my cold urticaria, and my life was one frustrating problem after another. I wondered how many would bother to look up what urticaria was.

  In the grand scheme of things, cold urticaria inconvenienced me a little in the summer, could kill me in the winter, and harassed me in the spring and fall. When it was really cold out, I refused to step outside without being covered head to toe. I avoided swimming and water year-round; the exposure to sudden changes of temperature in any direction could trigger it. To be safe, I carried a jacket around even during the summer so the air conditioning wouldn’t tank my blood pressure and possibly kill me.

  It gave me a good reason to rock a leather coat year-round.

  Once I made it past the section detailing my failure to be a healthy human being, the questionnaire asked me about my sex life, interests, and dislikes. I wasted no time describing my pet peeves with men, both sexual and otherwise. For the amount of money being paid out to charity, there wasn’t a lot I wouldn’t try once, and I made a point of mentioning that.

  I blitzed through the rest of the questions and swiped the card when prompted. With only a few minutes to spare, I grabbed my purse and headed downstairs to deal with the fiasco my life had become at the hands of my meddling mother.

  Chapter Three

  I made it to the ballroom with less than a minute to spare. The gentleman posted at the doors gaped at me, then he straightened and asked, “Card, please?”

  I pulled out the card and offered it to him. He checked his phone, nodded his satisfaction, and picked up the sole remaining gift bag, which he gave to me. “Please enjoy your evening, Miss Little. Feel free to partake of the refreshments. Should you have any questions, please approach any of the butlers; we’re the only unmasked men in attendance.”

  I liked that I was the last to arrive. I wouldn’t have to compare myself to others in line. Later, I’d berate myself for my choice of attire. Clutching the bag, I bobbed my head. “Thank you, sir.”

  As soon as I moved out of the way, the butler closed the doors. With a little creative reorganization of my wallet and keys, I crammed the bag into my purse, sneaking a few peeks at its contents. I spotted two boxes, a couple of envelopes, a handful of cards, and a few other glinting objects at the bottom.

  I’d have fun going through my bounty in my hotel room, discovering what the elite thought were appropriate door gifts. The novelty amused a smile out of me, and I slinked to an out of the way corner to watch the crowd.

  No one else wore jeans, and ball gowns dominated the crowd, although a few women had opted for slinky, full-length dresses. I explored, sticking to the walls when I could. Circular tables ladened with drinks and finger foods littered the floor, and the other guests mingled while I observed them posture and flirt with each other.

  Along the back wall, I discovered a cordoned area, and the convertible parked among the display tables stole my breath. Instead of the stereotypical red, its silver paint exuded wealth and luxury. Three butlers stood guard, their attention focused on me.

  The nearest one checked his phone before smiling, his blue eyes sweeping over me before focusing on my face. “Do cars interest you, Miss Little?”

  I couldn’t help myself; I grinned. “That one sure does.”

  “It’s a Ferrari 488 Spider, a car for those who enjoy a little adventure when they drive. As part of their charity contribution, Ferrari is giving one lucky participant this vehicle. The winners will be randomly selected at the end of the evening, but everyone is guaranteed to leave with at least one prize.”

  The butler gave me a rundown on the car, weaving a fantastical tale of zipping across the countryside in one of the world’s best performance vehicles legal for street use. By the time he finished, if a miracle happened and I somehow won, the only responsible thing for me to do involved selling it so I wouldn’t crash it in a spectacular fashion.

  “I can drive, but I don’t think I could do that car justice,” I confessed.

  “I think you’ll find the experience worth the sacrifice of the car’s most delicate sensibilities. As long as you enjoy yourself, Miss Little, the car won’t care if you do it justice.

  The butler needed a raise; I could almost believe he didn’t care I was a null. Maybe I’d stick to the back with him and his two friends instead of rubbing elbows with the other attendees. “Do you think it takes a long time for a car’s dignity to recover? It must be hard to tell. Is it a one and done deal, or will it be restored to its full glory after a respectable driver gets behind the wheel?”

  Someone laughed behind me. “If the front of you is anywhere near as respectable as the back, I think the poor car will require treatment for separation anxiety if you left it.”

  I hated men sometimes. “Wow. Did you go ambush a bunch of elementary schoolers and rob them of their horrific yet almost cute pickup lines? If that’s all you’ve got, I’m going to have to catch a cab and give the driver directions to the nearest high school; theirs are better.”

  Since quitting my job, I’d taken complete leave of my senses. There was no other explanation for mouthing off to an elite without checking his identity first.

  “I couldn’t help but admire you in those jeans,” he replied, cheerful and unapologetic.

  Later, my self-esteem would be grateful for the compliments, but since I�
�d already painted myself as a complete bitch, I’d continue doing so until he left me alone. “That’s a little better. Try this: What do you think of that car? I recommend it if you want a conversation rather than a smackdown.”

  “How refreshing. Are you always so direct?”

  No, I wasn’t. After I finished grooming my self-esteem with his admiration, I’d wonder about my loose tongue. “I’d be careful if I were you. I might be contagious. I developed a smart mouth and a shitty sense of humor around the time I contracted quitacitus.”

  Nervousness would take some of the blame for my behavior. Who stood behind me, and why would he talk to me?

  Had I ripped my jeans without noticing?

  “How terrible. You’ll surely need someone to nurse you back to health, then.”

  That someone would even consider saying something like that to me stole my breath. “That was smoother. You get extra credit for your delivery, as you didn’t even pause. Have many ladies been suffering quitacitis lately?”

  “Most of them haven’t worked an honest day in their lives, actually.” He replied, his tone rueful.

  “They’re politicians and bankers?”

  “Wow.” He paused and then laughed, a strangled sound. I liked to think the sound escaped against his will. “Now that was a smooth delivery. Are you always so witty?”

  I considered slipping under the rope, stealing the Ferrari, and escaping. “It’s a complication of quitacitis, I assure you. Before the infection, I was a very good worker bee, doing what I was told and helping others do their work so they could look good. Quitacitis comes with other complications, including a complete lack of fucks to give.”

  “That’s a real pity. What sort of work do you do?”

  “Did,” I corrected. “I have a business degree, which roughly translates into report compilation for those who make the real decisions about money.”

  “Analytics?”

  I wished. “I prefer to think of my former job as educated gophering, as heaven forbid the head honchos be corrected by a number cruncher.” I laughed at the thought of Abigail having to do her own job for a change. “When there aren’t lowlife scum suckers ruining things for the plebeians, I enjoyed making life easier for others.”

  “Perhaps I should notify WHO of the dangers of quitacitis.”

  “That’d be quite the report. Methods of contagion would have to be a list of possibilities including prejudiced co-workers, lazy co-workers, low pay, poor work conditions, and cubicles or open work spaces.”

  “I find it interesting you didn’t include your former boss in your list.”

  Once again, I considered stealing the car so I wouldn’t have to think about Dylan Mason ever again. The memory of him in his perfect suit, which hugged every equally perfect inch of him, would likely haunt me for years. “He wasn’t a bad guy, although he could be obnoxious at times. He wasn’t the reason I quit. As far as bosses went, he did a good job.”

  “You must have a rare variant of quitacitis. I was under the impression all bosses were the spawns of Satan.”

  I laughed, and I almost regretted my immediate decision to refuse to face the man with a sense of humor and no fear of me. “Hardly. I’ve had bad bosses, and my last one wasn’t it. If you’ll excuse me, sir, I have a date with the refreshment table.”

  Maybe after a few drinks, I’d feel better about being the only goose attending a ball meant for swans.

  Wine and Champagne flowed freely and, to make certain I kept tolerably sober, I stuck to the bubbly, which I wouldn’t guzzle. If I hit the red wine, the hotel would need to cart me to my room, as I’d go on a binge no one in the room would ever forget.

  I learned a very important fact after the first sip: expensive Champagne tasted terrible. To keep from blanching, I took cautious sips. While I wandered from table to table, men and women alike stopped what they were doing to stare at me. I came to a disappointing conclusion: no one made snide remarks because they didn’t want to be seen as rude by the other attendees.

  “It takes a lot of guts to show up at a party like this dressed like that, Mackenzie Little.”

  Only one man on Earth said my name with such a subtle drawl, as though he savored every last syllable. Of all the people to meet, why did I have to run into Dylan? Two could play his game, and I lifted my chin. “Hello, Dylan Mason.”

  I hoped he heard the mockery in my tone.

  “You’re the talk of the evening, you know.”

  I hadn’t, but I kept my mouth shut.

  “Half of them are jealous they hadn’t come up with the idea. The rest are horrified someone could be so bold, and that you surely lack dignity to put yourself up on auction in that getup. Nice boots, by the way. If you add a few extra scuffs, people will know what color your socks are.”

  “You assume I’m wearing socks,” I shot back. I was, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “Humor me. I’m really intrigued. What would bring you here?”

  If I didn’t answer him, he’d hound me to the ends of the Earth, incapable of letting go of his curiosity. “Coercion.”

  “Coercion?” Dylan’s tone sharpened.

  “My mother bought the ticket, spending money she couldn’t afford to lose to do it. There’s only one thing I hate more than being the reason someone wasted their money.”

  “Oh? And what’s that?”

  It was petty, rude, and a lie, but I said it anyway. “You.”

  I found a quiet corner away from everyone and waited for the minute I could escape, head to my room, and erase the entire evening from my memory. Whenever one of the men came close, he checked his phone and walked away without a word. None of the women dared to come within five feet of me. The butlers thwarted my attempts to escape; no one left until midnight, three miserable hours away.

  The closest I got to freedom was a trip to the bathroom.

  Under normal circumstances, I never would’ve considered shucking my leather coat, pacing the room until I got hot and sweaty, then stepping beneath the room’s powerful air conditioners, which was set colder than I found comfortable. My allergy hadn’t kicked in yet, and I suspected a gradual lowering of the room’s temperature was to thank.

  If I walked, I’d elevate my body temperature, and the instant I stepped into the coldest part of the room, my blood pressure would plummet. Within two minutes, I’d be sick enough anyone with medical knowledge would recognize I was having a problem.

  If I had a bad reaction, I’d be in a lot of trouble, which was why I hesitated. In all likelihood, I’d faint, a surefire way to escape the banquet. In the worst-case scenario, I’d faint, my blood pressure would drop critically low, I’d slip into anaphylactic shock, and suffer a heart attack if I didn’t suffocate to death first.

  Damn it, I couldn’t do it. No one would think twice about me taking off my coat. The room was warm even by my standards.

  Three hours of misery wasn’t worth dying for. Sometime after leaving Annapolis and arriving in New York City, I’d totally lost my mind. My second option was to drink so much the idea of staying wouldn’t repulse me so much. A few men and women had already crossed the line between tipsy and unacceptably drunk. What was one more?

  My attire hadn’t won me any favors, but those who’d gotten drunk were equally scorned.

  One woman, so intoxicated I marveled at her ability to stagger around in heels, waved her empty glass in the face of man wearing a golden mask crowned in blue feathers. “You—another!”

  Maybe I wouldn’t get drunk or put the air conditioner to the test. When would I get another chance to watch the elite humiliate themselves at a charity event? I took off my jacket so I wouldn’t smother, headed for the nearest drink table, snagged a flute of Champagne, and headed for a safely warm corner of the room to watch the festivities.

  Little Miss Drunk waved her empty glass again. “Another, you!”

  I gave the man credit; I would’ve been tempted to dump a glass over her pretty, perfectly curled head. Ins
tead, the gentleman took the flute from her hand. “I think you’ve had enough of that. Water? Juice?”

  If every man on Earth had such a smooth, sexy voice, nothing would ever get done. He needed to give long lectures; I’d pay listen to his every word and hold my breath waiting for the next.

  I bet one of his abilities involved the disintegration of panties.

  “He snores.”

  On second thought, Dylan’s voice gave Little Miss Drunk’s victim a run for his money. My ex-boss came within an inch of wearing my Champagne, and I had no idea how he managed to rescue my glass when I about jumped out of my skin. “Don’t do that!”

  “He also slurps when he eats soup. You hate slurping. I bet he drools on his pillow, too. Champagne?” Dylan wore a silver mask edged with golden stones, and a crest of ruby feathers crowned his head, each one studded with sparkling, clear stones.

  The man Little Miss Drunk bothered sounded like heaven, but in his clean-cut black suit, Dylan was every woman’s dream come true.

  “Should I be concerned you’re aware I hate when people slurp?” I took my flute back and had a sip. “You’re lucky you didn’t end up covered in my drink.”

  “I was aware of the risks.”

  Movement drew my attention back to Little Miss Drunk. She jabbed the gentleman she bothered with one of her perfectly manicured talons, and I grimaced at her shrill voice, so high-pitched I feared my glass would shatter. “I feel like I should go rescue that poor man.”

  “I’d love to watch that train wreck.”

  I thrust my glass in his direction. “Congratulations. It’s your lucky day.”

  As soon as he had a firm grip on the flute, I tossed my jacket over his arm and adjusted my purse strap on my shoulder.

  Neither noticed my approach, although a few spectators backed away as though afraid I’d infect them with some form of contagion. I bet someone had looked up my information, noticed I was a null, and spread the word to keep their bloodlines safe from my corruption.

  Idiots, all of them.