Three

CARMEN

“Four hundred dollars?” Sadie holds the cash in her hand like it still belongs to me. “I can’t take this much.”

“It’s not a tip. I need you to stay the night.”

They’re very dramatic. Eight inches to be exact.

There was a time before Otis when I was on the Strip six days a week, shaking my ass and going home with strangers.

It’s a good thing I saved these babies for a rainy day.

I frown. Is Sadie a mind reader as well as my go-to nanny? “What do you mean?”

“Stripping.”

I laugh, ready to shake my head and tell her she’s got it all wrong.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“But it’s dangerous, Carmen. What if you get hurt?”

“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing, and it’s just for one night. Besides, I used to do it all the time.”

“Totally, when I was around your age. Twenty-one and free.” I stop myself before I sell a profession I actually have no experience in. “But I don’t recommend it. You’ll end up on the lap of a Chanel-wearing monster who claims to be a man. And then you’ll take him back to yours, and he’ll prove how self-centered he is the following morning when he leaves while you’re in the bathroom taking a pee.”

Sadie narrows her eyes. “Let me guess—Otis’s father.”

“You betcha.”

I wish I had been a stripper that night. It’d be a lot less embarrassing if Carter had requested a lap dance. The real story is that I wanted to kiss him, so I perched in his lap and flirted until I got what I wanted.

Sadie folds the bucks away into her pocket. “Be careful.”

“I’m always careful. The only time I wasn’t was when I accidently got pregnant, and hey, look how that turned out?”

“Don’t worry. It’s been a while since I let loose and had some fun. Feel free to help yourself to the pantry and refrigerator.”

Sadie nods as I gather my things, heading over to open up the cabinet.

Her face says it all. There was really no point in me saying that, unless she has a wild craving for rice or spaghetti hoops shaped as alphabet letters.

“See you later. I’ll be back by seven in the morning.”

Nothing changes in Vegas, especially on the Strip. People are either trying to grab your money, your attention, or your ass.

In my early twenties, I didn’t give a fuck who touched my ass. It was attention and I was desperate, and I pretty much went home with any man if he was taller than me and kind enough to buy me a drink.

My chest tightens as I get closer to the auction location, the bar just up ahead.

I stand outside for a moment to gather myself, and inhale one deep breath, like it’s gonna magically dissolve the nervousness.

“Right this way.”

He escorts me to an elevator, and we stand in awkward silence waiting for it to arrive.

The awkward silence continues once we’re in the elevator. I watch the guard select a level, and almost shit myself when I see that we’re heading to the basement.

My heart is thrashing in my chest, but I anchor myself against the mirrored wall and take some more deep inhales.

Being short of breath isn’t new to me. I had my share of panic attacks as a teenager, and I reached a point in my life where I was anxious more times than not. I blame my mom. I love her and I will lay flowers on her grave every year for her birthday, but she was the reason I stupidly blew all of my savings on Botox at the age of twenty-one. That woman stressed me out.

She’d head out and never tell me when she was planning on returning.

In life, things happen when you least expect them to. And that’s why I see it as a good thing to be on guard sometimes.

Tonight especially.

When the elevator makes it down to the basement, I make sure to keep several feet away from the guard. It’s warm down here. I suspect that has something to do with the weird, infrared lights that shine from the ceiling. Combined with the plush red curtains and gilded mirrors, it gives the space an expensive, burlesque feel.

I nod and keep a straight face to pretend that this is all very normal and legal.

“And also, word of advice—look more alive. Patrons and guests didn’t pay thousands in entry fees to look at glum girls. If they wanted to do that, they could just walk up and down the Strip.”

“Noted,” I grit out, slipping behind the curtain before I make an offensive comment about the guard’s face.

The walls of the dressing room are painted wine red, vanity units in every direction. It’s hard to find one available because there are so many women here. In the end, a kind lady called Serena shuffles over and lets me share.

And I don’t expect to enjoy it so much.

When you have a baby, you trash your social life without even realizing. I used to neck shots on the weekend with friends, and when that era ended, it was brunch Sunday lunchtime with a prosecco.

I never knew how much I missed talking about beauty products and shoes with other women who are also obsessed with those things.

Serena says, “I have Louboutins on my wish list. Hopefully, if the right guy bids on me tonight, I’ll be walking around in them by tomorrow.”

For a lot of women, this seems to be a routine thing. You want a new designer handbag? A Louis Vuitton dress? No problem. Give Conrad a call and he’ll arrange to have you lined up for the next month’s auction.

“What is the deal with this man, anyway?” I ask.

Serena watches herself in the mirror, pouting as she figures out how to answer my question. “I dunno. Rumor is that he’s a bit of a creep, so I stay out of his business. Conrad organizes the auction so he doesn’t usually bet himself, not unless he’s desperate, but his family always attends. They normally bet as a team.”

“His family?”

“Yeah, not like his mom and sister—that would be weird. His crime family, I mean.”

The man scouted me in the dark last night, asking me to participate in his basement auction—no shit he’s in the mafia. But if I’m going off stereotypes, Irishmen are supposed to be nice, innocent men that drink cider and stay out of trouble.

She can say that again.

I’m doing a few finishing touches in the mirror when something beeps, coming from the television screen in the corner of the room. There are four names highlighted in green—one of them is mine.

“Looks like we’re first up,” says Serena. “It’s good to get it out of the way.”

It would be easy to blame the eight-inch heels for my pathetic inability to walk. In actual fact, it’s nerves—an emotion I thought I’d stopped feeling years ago.

But now it’s back and it’s turning my legs to jelly. It’s pointless having knees—I can’t even bend them.

“Are you alright?” Serena looks me up and down.

“O-M-G. This is your first rodeo, isn’t it? You’ve never done this before?” She stops me in my tracks and lets the two other women pass. “Don’t take it the wrong way, but you look like you do this a lot.”

Charming. That must have something to do with the heels, and the sequin lingerie that has been in the cupboard collecting dust for what feels like forever.

“No way. I stopped entertaining the male species three years ago when I got pregnant from Satan in a suit.”

“Yeah.” I keep my voice stable, trying to not overthink her concerned face. “It’s kinda why I’m doing this. I need the money.”

The way Serena moves next has me breaking out in a sticky sweat. She looks over her shoulder. Twice.

Great. Now my stomach is churning with regret too.

“What?”

“I’m deadly serious.” I’ve never seen a woman look so gray with so much powdered blush on her face. “Some of them become missing persons. Even the police can’t locate them. It all depends on who bids. If the wrong bidder ends up with you, you’re screwed.”

“Surely you can refuse them.”

“So, what brings you here? Louboutins are gorgeous, but you can’t be risking your life for a pair.”

Serena slumps her shoulders and directs her reply at the floor. “I’m trying to save my mom. She’s sick.”

My chest is even tighter than before.

Conrad O’Neill had danger written all over him two nights ago, with his cold eyes and unkind voice. Not only did he spill my fucking coffee, he also lied to me.

I should tell Serena to get the hell out of here, but to a heartbroken daughter who just wants her mom back, my words won’t mean anything.

“What do you mean by ‘wrong’ bidders?”

“The O’Neills and all of their associates…”

I assume that’s it, but her list continues—a string of names that end up becoming noise. I can’t even hear myself think anymore, let alone Serena.

When he said I wouldn’t need to work a day in my life again, is that because I won’t even be alive to work?

Fuck.

“My son…”

Good bidders?

Is that a thing?

Men who pay thousands to buy a woman shouldn’t be classified as good.

The security guard propels me back into action. My knees have some bend in them this time, but that’s only because I’m running off adrenaline. So much that my hands are now frantically shaking.

We arrive backstage and come to a halt behind the curtain, awaiting our turn. A recording of the stage is playing on theTV. The second woman enters and disrobes down to lingerie, striking a few poses as members of the audience carefully make their bets. The auctioneer stands on the stage in his designated area, reading bids as the cards sail high into the air.

Thousands for one night?

The woman continues posing, flicking her hair and spinning to give the men a three-sixty view. When the bid is settled, the auctioneer steps down to bring the woman to the highest bidder—a grandpa-aged man with a wobbling jaw.

When the applause fades, the next woman is called up—Serena.

And that’s when I notice Conrad. He’s in the front row, the furthest left, and looks even more sinister than before. One look at him has the ability to drain life from your body.

And then his eyes find mine across the room.

I gasp and step away from the curtain, like he’s about to shoot me.

I take more steps back, away from the curtain, my breath stuck in my throat. This was all a setup. I took the bait as easy as a goldfish swimming straight into a net.

If he wanted me so bad, why didn’t he just take me the other night?

I suppose men like him enjoy a challenge. Seeing a person’s face turn when they realize the truth of what’s about to happen to them.

My feet take more steps back.

Otis.

I spin around, intending to locate the nearest exit, but instead lock eyes with the security guard.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I need to go.”

“Funny. Last time I checked, human beings have free will.”

“Not down here they don’t. You should listen to your friend. This world isn’t the same as the one you came from.”

It’s tempting to lie and say that I’m an undercover police officer, see how smug he looks then, but I don’t get to do that. His hand is already locked around my wrist, steering me back toward the stage.

The first two women are off the hook.

What’s the chances of the third time being lucky too? The chances of every woman in here walking away from their suitor with cash and the rest of their lives to look forward to?

I grit my teeth and hope for a miracle.

He’s already prompting me past the curtain.

And that’s when I hear the auctioneer announce my name loud and clear to the audience. “Carmen Reauld.”

I’ve never dreaded the sound of my own name before.

I allow my spine to curve as I head toward center stage. Instead of smiling like the previous two girls, I stick out my lip and make it obvious that I have no interest in being here. Money is important, but I’d rather see negative figures in my bank than never see my own fucking child again.

The game is on.

Even though I’m curved forward like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, the audience still looks pleased to see me. Way too pleased. It’s smiles all around, even though I’m trying my fucking hardest to look as glum as possible.

I couldn’t have looked more homeless if I tried, and Conrad still approached me.

That says one thing about the male species—they’re desperate.

Dressed in lingerie that shows ninety-eight percent of my breasts, it’s no wonder that they’re scribbling bids down on their cards, excited to be the lucky contender.

I want to go back to the world I know. The one where my child needs me

I stifle the tears and get ready to roar.

Literally.

An inhumane sound rattles out of me, silencing the auditorium. It’s something between the roar of a lion and the shriek of a bird.

Some of the men put down their blackboards, falling into conversation with the men next to them, probably debating how I escaped the mental asylum.

I fold my arms over my chest and watch as more boards disappear from the air.

Unfortunately, not all of them go down.

For Otis.

I put one unsteady foot out in front of the other and prepare to run. The chances of slipping and falling are very high, but hey, when you’re acting like an idiot, it’s impossible to fail.

I start my first lap around the stage, arms flaying everywhere like I’m an ostrich on steroids.

I don’t have to run the risk that I’ll be taken forever.

Sure, there’s a chance I could end up with the next Carter Trescott and have the time of my life, but Otis’s life is more important than a potential orgasm.

I look out into the audience and prepare to unleash my next animalistic scream—one that is sure to have every man and their dog running out of here in less than a minute.

In the corner of my eye, I see the man the world fears most—Conrad. He must be proud of his bet. He’s made the effort to stand up, the blackboard high in the air.

I’ve never seen this many zeros before.

Shit.

I want to look away, but I also can’t.

He’s scary, but also so abnormal to look at that my brain is intrigued. Now I see why he chose to build a career in the underbelly of Vegas—he wouldn’t do well in a world full of laws. People would just run away.

My heart skips beat after beat.

Maybe I’ll drop to my knees and beg for forgiveness. Maybe I’ll explain that I have a son who needs me. Or maybe it’s best to keep quiet and let them take me, so I can plan my escape at a later date.

The auctioneer steps down from his little lectern and grabs my hand.

I lower my eyes, curious to put a face to a number, and that’s when I lock eyes with Carter Trescott.