Chapter 1

I can't believe my eyes when I see a for sale sign planted in the front yard of my childhood haven. The large white Victorian house, with its chipped paint and overgrown garden, needs some work. But despite its flaws, it's the only place I ever felt safe growing up. The one place Ali couldn't get to me.

It's not for anyone else; it's mine. Bringing my car to a stop at the curb in front of the sign, I grab my phone from the cupholder and type the real estate website into my browser. There it is—the listing, making this nightmare a reality. Someone else can own my house for just two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

When Grandma passed, she left the house to Ali, and obviously she didn"t make any mortgage payments. Too busy putting the little she gets in her veins or drinking. Why Grandma didn't leave it to me, I don't know. Perhaps, deep down, she clung to the hope that her daughter would overcome her struggles and find sobriety.

Buying it is impossible. I don't have the means to gather that amount of money. I could try to go to the bank and get financing, but my credit isn't the greatest, so I highly doubt they'd loan me a sum that big. Plus, I know they'd want my income and what I do for a living; bartending at the Iced Rose doesn't exactly scream ‘loan me hundreds of thousands of dollars.'

Holding back the tears, I drop my phone back into the cupholder, before slamming my hands on the steering wheel. Blowing out a deep breath, I pull myself together and drive off from the curb, heading to work. There"s nothing I can do about it.

Buying Grandma's house is a pipe dream. I might as well just get used to the idea that it's gone and soon someone new will be living there, making their own memories. I can only hope that they find the same solace and security in that space as I did.

Despite my sour mood, I plaster on a fake smile as I clock in, throwing my purse and sweater in the backroom before checking the schedule for next week.

It looks like I will be closing almost every night, as usual. Would it kill Kevin to let me open a few days? I've been here the longest and do the best work, but of course, Trina gets the prime opening shifts and I'm left closing Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Wednesday.

Whatever. At least I'll have a nice stack of cash in hand since he pays me under the table for my hours and I never report my tips. Shady, I know, but I work hard for those fucking singles, so I'll be damned if I'm gonna share them with the government.

"Hey, Sloane! I was just closing the register. It's been busy, so I didn't have time to stock. Sorry about that," Trina calls as I step behind the bar with my drawer in hand.

"No problem. It looks like it's slowing down, so I'll stock before the evening rush," I tell her. Looking around, there are only three old-timers in here, so I doubt it was too busy. She just didn't wanna stock and since she sucks Kevin off in the walk-in, she gets away with that shit.

She steps back, creating space for me to drop my drawer into the register. "I knew you'd be cool about it."

When she heads to the back to put her drawer in the safe, I roll my eyes. Not like I have a choice, asshole. If I complain, Kevin will scold her, she'll bat her lashes and shake her tits, and then he disregards the problem.

Saturdays are slower until around eight and then the party crowd shows up. So I'll just stock what I can before then and deal.

That's what I do. Sloane—the girl who always deals with everything thrown at her because she has no other choice.

As soon as Trina struts her scrawny ass out the door, I go to the back and get the bottles and cans needed to stock the coolers.

"Hey, pretty lady. Can I bother you for another?" a gentleman calls from the other end of the bar.

"Yeah. Let me just drop these Pbrs in the cooler and I'll grab it. We doin' another Busch draft?"

"Is there a better beer I don't know about?" He laughs. "I drink Busch and Crown shots, honey. Anything else can take the piss."

I've seen this guy in here before, but he's definitely not a regular. Clad in black from head to toe, his slicked-back blond hair and striking blue eyes catch your attention. He reminds me of a young Scott Caan.

"One draft coming up. And I'll tell you what: I'll even throw in a Crown shot on me." I close the cooler lid and grab a fresh draft glass, tilting it as I pull the tap lever.

As I slide his draft and shortie to him, I grab his empty and a five-dollar bill from his stack on the bar top.

With a quick flick of his wrist, he shoots the shot back and nonchalantly tells me, "Keep the change."

Grinning, I complete his purchase and slip the two dollars in change into my tip jar.

"What's a girl like you doing working in a place like this?" he asks.

"Well, I love bartending, and this place is like a second home. I started here as soon as I was twenty-one and I'm still here."

"You can't make much in a dive like this, though, can ya?"

"Enough to pay my bills. But nothing too crazy. Definitely, not enough to help me buy the couple hundred thousand dollar dream house I saw earlier." Why am I telling this random man my financial situation? Rookie move, Sloane.

With a wink, he replies, "Might be able to help with that."

See, this is why I don't like to make small talk with newbies at the bar. They start nice and then get creepy, wanting to pay for sex. "I'm not fucking you for cash," I snap.

He throws his head back, his laughter echoing through the room. "Ain't offering, babe. But I know a place that will pay you more than that for a weekend of fucking." He slides a business card across the bar to me.

I carefully inspect it, running my fingers over the embossed design. A Night to Remember Auction. "What is this?"

"Email's on the card. They'll want a picture to confirm you actually got the card from a scout. But they'll drop the information. What I can tell you is it's a one-night auction where you can make five hundred thousand for a weekend of fucking. After the weekend is up, you get your money and no one ever speaks of it again. It's reputable and has been going on for years."

I quirk my brow at him. "Maybe. I'll check it out. Thank you."

The night goes on without a hitch. It got pretty busy, but nothing I couldn't handle. And when Trina comes in tomorrow morning to open she'll have a stocked and cleaned bar.

Not like she deserves it but I'm not a lazy piece of shit like her.

After locking up, I step out into the cool night air. The streets are quiet, save for the distant sound of cars passing. I hop into my PT Cruiser, the engine rumbling to life, and I navigate the familiar route home.

My place comes into view, it's not much but it's mine and I can easily afford the rent. It's small, just a one-bedroom, but it's become my sanctuary. The landlord is kind, and the neighborhood feels safe—those are the things that matter most to me.

When I get home, it's well after three in the morning. Not even bothering to remove my makeup, I quickly shed my clothes and bra, slipping into bed in only my panties. I made almost three hundred in tips, but that's barely gonna cover my utilities this month.

It's laughable I even contemplated that I could buy and live in my grandma's old house. Suddenly, the face of that guy pops into my mind. He had a few more drinks after giving me that card and left.

Slipping out of bed, I make my way across the room to my purse, searching through it until I find the card. I twirl it in my hands as I crawl back into bed.

Could I really have sex with someone for money?

Would someone actually want to have sex with me? He said it was an auction, so someone would have to buy me for the weekend. In the eyes of most, I'm not exactly a perfect ten.

I'm five foot six inches, honey brown hair and baby blue eyes. But that's not the ‘no thank you' part. No, that would be the D cups, bubble butt, and the curves I have. My tummy isn't flat and I have love handles.

Fat… by some standards. Not by mine, but mine doesn't count for much when I'm trying to get laid.

I could at least apply or look into the auction. Right? My guess is they need pictures and stats, so if I don't fit their needs, I'll just go on my merry way. But this could be my only chance to get that kind of money. I'd be a fool to not at least try.

Reaching for my phone, I open my email and type the address on the card into the recipient box.

A guy at a local bar thought I'd be a good fit for your auction and gave me this card. I'm interested in acquiring more information and am highly likely to submit an application. Here is a recent picture of myself and a picture of the card I was given.

Please inform me of the next steps to take.

Sloane

Hurriedly,I snap a picture of the business card and swiftly attach it to the email. Before I lose my nerve, I press the send button, and my stomach flips as I hear the swishing sound of the email being sent.

Tossing the card on my nightstand with my phone, I pull the blanket back over me and close my eyes.

Holy shit! I just half-assed signed up to be a prostitute for a weekend.

I feel the corners of my mouth turn up as images of the beautiful hardwood floors and intricately designed built-in shelves in my grandma's house flash behind my eyelids. If it means it could be mine free and clear, I'd gladly sell myself.