by Skye Warren
I was too ashamed of my fall from grace to call Harper with a play-by-play of Daddy’s trial. She left me a couple voicemails, but how could I explain that I was never going back to school? I could barely even admit the truth to myself. The entire life I had when I knew her is gone now.
“I don’t know,” I whisper, resting my back against the wall beside the window. “I might be losing my mind.”
One man offered to sell my virginity, another proposed marriage, all in the same day. It was enough to make a girl go crazy. Yes, I’d gone round the bend. I had to pray that’s the cause of those shadows and noises.
“Break it down for me,” she says. “You said you’re at home. Your dad’s house, right?”
She knows about the charges he faced. I admitted that much when I left school last semester. She may have even read about the convictions if she followed the trial. But my father’s beating isn’t public knowledge. “He’s sick,” I say, which is an understatement. “And it’s just the two of us. I thought I saw something outside but…I don’t know for sure.”
“Can you call the cops?”
We aren’t exactly on the cops’ favored list after my dad was indicted on multiple counts of fraud and embezzlement. The last thing I want to do is call them only to find a racoon outside. They would probably arrest me for making a false emergency call. And then who would take care of Daddy?
“I guess I’d like to know there’s something really out there before I call. I’ve had kind of a wild day, so maybe I’m just imagining things.”
“Okay, well, obviously I want to hear about this wild day, but can’t you call your dad’s people? Didn’t he have some kind of security detail?”
There were always men trailing us when we went to the zoo or the museum. They went out of their way to be unobtrusive, but I thought it was normal. Only when I got older did I realize how strange it was. My dad said it was just a precaution, something to keep us safe after my mother died in a drunk-driving accident.
Then the scandal hit.
Daddy’s business lost all its contracts even before he was found guilty. And he couldn’t afford the security guards when he needed them most. Couldn’t afford them when he most needed protection.
“We don’t have them anymore. After the court cases—” I remember the horror of seeing my dad in the hospital, half his face covered in bruises, the other half in bandages. It was worse when the doctors explained that he would probably never walk again. “Things have been bad.”
She makes a sympathetic sound. “You should have called me.”
“I know. I was just…embarrassed. Maybe a little bit in denial.”
“Okay, look. Are the floodlights on? Can you turn something on outside to see better?”
“This is why I called you.” I’m so flustered by Uncle Landon that I can’t even think. No, that’s not true. It’s Gabriel who’s kept me up late, tossing and turning in bed. “There have to be lights somewhere.”
I never had occasion to use them, but I go into the mud room and find a long row of lights. Already I feel less shaky from hearing Harper’s familiar voice. Both of us made our way in the world like American princesses, unafraid and confident of our acceptance. Some of that old comfort winds its way to me across the phone line.
“Turning on the lights,” I tell her, laying my palm sideways to flip them all up at once.
Blinding white lights flood the lawn like an airplane strip. And that’s when I see the man working at the electricity box, something glinting in his hand. Is he cutting the power? Oh God. My pulse races as I stand rooted to the tile floor.
“Avery? Avery!” Harper’s voice comes to me as if from far away.
“Someone’s here,” I say faintly.
The man stumbles back, surprised by the sudden lights. He’s wearing a black hooded jacket and dark jeans. I can’t see his face.
“Avery, do you hear me? Go into your bedroom and lock the door.”
My feet carry me—not to my bedroom, but to my father’s. I lock the door and sink to the floor, listening to Harper borrow a friend’s phone and call the cops. She talks to me through the next few minutes, promising me that everything will be okay.
I know she’s wrong. Even if I make it through tonight, my life is over.
My dad doesn’t wake up, the steady beeps telling me he’s fine.
The cops show up with a loud bang on the door. They explore the large grounds, but there’s no sign of an intruder. Their expressions are disbelieving when I describe what I saw, but it doesn’t matter. I know now that we aren’t safe here. We won’t be safe anywhere. Not without money.
Chapter Five
The thing about being a virgin is that I don’t really have any sexy lingerie. No one has ever seen my underwear except other girls in the gym changing room. I wear sturdy skin-toned bras and cute underwear with pink doughnuts and blue butterflies on them. Nothing with lace or silk.
I stare at the slim contents of my underwear drawer without inspiration as sunlight streams through the window. Last night the lawn seemed ominous, concealing intruders in its shadows. In the daylight it seems like the same cheery place I played as a child. It’s almost enough to make me forget the intruder last night, except that I found the little metal clasp on the electrical box broken. The cops assure me that the lock can get broken in a bad storm, but I know what I saw.
There’s only one way to make sure we’re safe here.
In the end it’s too late to get a fancy bra-and-panty set. Besides, my credit card would get declined. I pull on a plain white T-shirt bra and white panties with a pretty scalloped edge.
If they want a virgin, then they can damn well deal with my underwear.
I have a few fancy dresses left from my days attending opening galas and evening operas, ones I couldn’t sell because they were ripped or too old. But I can’t quite bring myself to dress in a daring red or mysterious black. These are dresses I wore on Justin’s arm, the toast of society. That girl doesn’t exist anymore.
Instead I put on a white sundress. At least it hugs my curves.
I find sandals and a clutch to match, pretending I’m getting ready for brunch with friends.
There will be no more brunches. Maybe no more friends. And I won’t see Justin ever again. A pang in my chest reminds me that I love him—that I love a man who saw me as a stepping stone.
The Den looks different today, more like one of the historic buildings dotting Tanglewood’s downtown. There are offices and stores bustling with people at two in the afternoon.
Maybe I should have waited until tonight.
A knock on the brass ring in a lion’s mouth goes unanswered.
I need to do this before I lose my nerve. I knock harder this time, almost hurting my knuckles against the thick wood. Why aren’t they answering? Maybe they aren’t here, but I can’t turn back now. I’m too deep into this.
Some impulse puts my hand on the doorknob. It turns.
Why isn’t the door locked? Unease moves through my stomach. I expected to find Gabriel opening the door like he did last night. He scared me then, but for some reason I miss him now.
I wander down the hallway, into the large room filled with plush leather armchairs and tables that have been cleared of ashtrays and half-filled glasses. Only smooth surfaces remain, gleaming in the faint light. I take a step back, another—backing out of a room I shouldn’t be in.
A sound comes to me faintly, and I whirl. The wide hallway is empty.
There’s a door at the end of the hall, and it draws me closer with strange magnetism. My feet move on their own, bringing me to the forbidden. I shouldn’t even be in the Den, much less wandering the hallways alone. My curiosity has always gotten me into trouble, but before I had the security of my family name. Now I’m falling without a net.
The door opens to a set of dark wooden stairs. Servants’ quarters, I realize. These old houses were divided by class. The steps lead up to another door, no place to wait except two steps d
own. My knock echoes through the dim hallway, overloud and startling even though I made the sound.
I chance a look down the stairs, at the shadowed landing below, darkness impenetrable. Dizzy waves rush over me. I’m in one of those twisting sketches with stairs that turn into themselves, a never-ending maze. I’ll never find my way back.
The door swings open, and then a large body slams into mine—as hard and solid as the stairs beneath my feet. I lose my grip on the rail and fall backward, world upside down. Oh God, I’m falling.
I twist in the air, all sense of balance lost, no ground to fall back on. Firm hands grasp my arms, almost bruising. They haul me upright, toes brushing the steps, gaze snapping to fierce eyes and a snarl.
Wild. That’s all I can think of the man holding me up. Heavy eyebrows slant over copper eyes, the pupils large enough to make him almost feral. This close I can see his features better, lit by the overhead light instead of the dim room downstairs. His nose and mouth are crude, etched from stone instead of flesh. The whole effect is made more sinister by the faint slash through his cheek and upper lip, a scar so deep and so old it’s a part of his features now, a thin sliver of water through a canyon wall.
“Whoa,” comes his low voice, like I’m the animal. Like I need settling.
Too late I hear the soft keening sound I’m making. I fall silent. “I’m sorry.”
He drags me inside, setting me down on the wooden floor with a hollow clack of my sandals. My ankles turn, topsy turvy. He frowns down at the white leather straps of my sandals as if they don’t belong—and God, he’s right. They’re from another life. Another girl, one who’d never step foot in a place like this.
Gabriel’s voice cuts through the thick air. “Did I hurt you?”
I can still feel the imprint of his fingers on my arms, the solid muscles of his chest as he rammed into me. Hurt, yes. Pain like rays of sunlight through the cloudy numbness I’ve been living in.
“I’m fine.” A lie.
Bronze eyes narrow, taking in the slim line of my dress, the designer clutch. I’m too broke to even afford a knock-off—how’s that for irony? “I’m ready for you.”
I’m still falling. Catch me. But he isn’t my white knight. No one’s going to save me. “Ready?”
He makes a rough sound, maybe amusement. Maybe pleasure. “To take pictures.”
My breath stutters. “You’re going to take them?”
“There’s a photographer. He’s excellent. Damon would have been here as well to make sure he gets the right shots, to make sure you’re…cooperative. But he has another engagement.” His grin is almost feral. “I volunteered to stand in for him.”
Pride feels heavy in my throat. “You enjoy seeing me fall.”
Maybe I should have expected that, considering my father cheated him. But he already turned Daddy in to the authorities, his evidence the impetus for the indictment. I suppose for a man like him that wouldn’t be enough. Had he been the one to send men to attack my father?
Had he sent men to my house last night?
Gabriel’s voice is bland. “Maybe I just enjoy watching a beautiful woman.”
With his wealth and his devastating looks, he could have any woman he wants. But after what he did to my father, he would never have me.
Unless he buys your virginity at the auction, a small voice taunts me.
He wouldn’t do that, would he?
I glance back down the stairs as if I have a chance to escape. “The photographer’s already setting up? How did you know I would come?”
“Desperate times.”
The men of the Den control this city with wealth, influence. Power. “Familiar with desperate measures, are you?”
“They’re my bread and butter.”
“Drugs,” I say, accusatory. “Guns?”
“Sex,” he says, his voice mocking.
No, my hands aren’t clean. But I still feel out of my depth. I may have benefited from my father’s secret criminal deals, but I never knew about them. “Yes,” I whisper.
“So innocent,” he murmurs. “This is a whole new world for you, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t sound sympathetic. I’m a curiosity to him, something to bat around like a mouse between his claws. “You don’t have to make me cooperate. I’m going through with it.”
His smile is almost sad. “I know, little virgin. You don’t have a choice.”
With that he turns from me and leads the way down a hall.
Dread clenches my stomach, but he’s right. I don’t have a choice.
Part of me wonders why they wouldn’t take the pictures downstairs, with the beautiful crown molding and elaborate furniture. I find my answer as soon as I enter the small room. It might have been a bedroom for servants, two thin beds on either side, the ceiling slanted above us. The window is old enough to be made from warbled glass, lending a dreamy look to the light, almost as if we’re underwater.
There are white photographer screens placed around the room that only seem to amplify the effect. On one side a man fiddles with a large camera on a tripod. He looks up when we come in, his bushy eyebrows rising. “This is the subject?”
I swallow hard, thrown by the lack of hello. I’m already an object to be photographed for auction, a chair or a rug. Not a person anymore.
“She’ll take the dress off,” Gabriel says.
My breath catches. “Do I really need to do that? I thought the sundress might be…”
“Provocative?” Gabriel offers blandly. “Perverse? Yes, but some of the men on the invite list can be rather…obvious. They would prefer to see skin.”
“Right.” I swallow hard. “It’s just that I didn’t have any…any sexy lingerie. Just my regular stuff.”
“Your regular stuff?” Gabriel asks with a lift of his eyebrow. “Show me.”
Only then do I realize I’ll have to undress in front of two men, one I’ve just met. Only then do I realize that showing my regular underwear and bra is somehow more intimate than a matching lace set.
This is something I thought only my husband would ever see.
Shaking hands reach behind me to unzip the dress. The straps slide off my shoulders with the simple movement. I stand like that for a breathless, frozen moment, knowing there’s no going back.
I don’t even have to push the dress away from me. I let my hands fall to my sides, and the soft material falls down my body, a caress as solid as Gabriel’s golden gaze.
“Jesus,” the photographer mutters, staring at my plain white bra, the white panties.
I manage not to cringe. This isn’t what a sexy woman would wear. This isn’t going to earn anything at auction. “I’m sorry,” I whisper miserably.
I’ve only just started this and I’m already failing.
“It’s perfect,” Gabriel says, sounding almost reverent. “You’re perfect.”
Goose bumps rise across my skin. It takes everything in me not to snatch my dress, not to run from the room. Maybe he does need to ensure my cooperation. I’m already trembling, and all they’re doing is looking. How will I stand it when a strange man climbs on top of me?
I look away, at a point on the plain whitewashed walls. “How should I stand?”
My voice is stiff, betraying my nerves.
Footsteps come closer, and I know without looking that it’s Gabriel. It might be something about his gait, graceful and confident. More likely it’s the way my body electrifies whenever he’s near.
He touches my chin and turns my face to him. “I’ll show you.”
There’s something almost encouraging in his eyes, a strange infusion of strength. I shouldn’t trust it, shouldn’t trust him, but I find myself standing straighter anyway. “Okay.”
“We’ll start with some shots from the front.” He moves to stand behind me, brushing my hair over the tops of my breasts, arranging the heavy locks over my face. “The advance pictures will hide your face.”
“They won’t know who I am?” It’s a small relie
f that there won’t be half-naked pictures of me—identifiable pictures, including my face—circulating in the city.
“If they want to know who you are, they’ll have to pay ten grand.”
“Ten grand,” I gasp, shame and elation warring within me. If enough people show up, I can pay the real estate tax bill. “How many men do you think will come?”
“Damon will keep the attendance fees.”
Of course he will. He isn’t hosting the auction out of the goodness of his heart. A perverse amusement rises in me, imagining this as a charity auction—my family’s tattered dignity the cause. We could set up little cardboard boxes for quarters at gas stations. Maybe organize a bake sale. “And I’ll get the amount that’s bid?”
“Minus his percentage,” Gabriel says smoothly.
“Hey,” I say, half turning to face him. “I’m the one doing all the work.”
“Never fear, little virgin. You’ll make plenty selling your wares.” He turns me to face the camera again, this time tipping my head forward so my hair creates a veil over my face.
His palms run down my arms, sending sparks of sensation over my skin. He nudges them forward, plumping my breasts. It’s a strange position, almost like prayer.
“Stay,” he murmurs, his breath soft against my neck.
Then he steps away, and the photographer starts clicking. My stomach turns over as I imagine strange old men looking at these pictures, evaluating my body, judging my monetary worth.
When the clicking stops, Gabriel steps forward and turns me sideways. He lifts my hands so that they rest on my head, elbows forward, revealing the shape of my breasts, my butt. Gabriel only touches me on my arms, and even then he’s businesslike. Weirdly respectful, considering the situation. He could take the opportunity to feel me up. I couldn’t stop him. Instead he gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before stepping back.
More clicking, some flashes from the equipment stationed around the room.
I close my eyes tight, waiting for it to be over.
“Hmm,” Gabriel says, his voice coming from near the camera. Is he looking at the pictures through the lens? What does he see when he looks at me? “Let’s try some with her facing away.”