7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Ophelia

D etroit is not Miami.

The smell in the air is missing the saltiness of the sea and the temperature feels like a drop of about…I don't fucking know. A lot of degrees for someone who grew up in South Florida and wears open-toed shoes more often than not.

As I step off the plane at Willow Run instead of Detroit Metropolitan—it's smaller, more intimate and better suited for a discreet pick-up—these are the thoughts going through my mind. Instead of worrying about what I'm going to do at the auction, I'm obsessing over my choices of wardrobe.

Last night, the email we'd been hoping for came in the form of a formal invitation to the auction. Saying we were cutting it close isn't even an understatement at this point. The list of rules to follow is extensive, which means I need to be on my best behavior or I run the risk of being kicked out within the first few seconds of me being there.

That would be unacceptable.

To be honest, the rules are quite simple and straightforward. As per the instructions in the acceptance letter, I'm to be picked up by a town car and be available all weekend, no exceptions.

The tricky part is not taking my phone with me so I'll truly be alone for three days until they drop me back off at the airport on Sunday. The girls and I decided it was best not to have it on me in case the buyer gets nosy. I can hold my own, but as I'm descending the airstairs of my jet, I'm starting to feel a little nervous and maybe even regretting my decision.

What if I'm wrong? What if the guy we're looking for isn't there? What if he is but I'm not his type? What if the guy who does buy me is a total sadist? I really don't think killing the buyer is acceptable.

In one hand, I've got a small carry-on with my makeup and sexy clothes, while in the other I have my purse, which is small enough to easily carry anywhere.

"Will you be okay?" Tabatha's voice sounds on this side of a mental breakdown so I reassure her as I stop my descent and turn, looking up into her worried face.

"Of course, gorgeous. You know I can hold my own." Blowing her a kiss, I wink and do my best catwalk out into the middle of the runway where a black town car has just pulled up.

"Madam." A sharp chauffeur gets out and opens my door, closing it gently behind me.

Well, here we are.

I'm about to sell my body for a good cause. With a little luck, I'll get myself a couple of orgasms to go.

The entire flight over from Miami, I tried to imagine how this whole weekend would go. I figured I could use my charm to get some information from the driver. Small talk goes a long way to build trust.

Besides, with the hefty NDA I had to sign, there's no way I'll even talk to my besties about the auction or else risk my future first born.

"Hi, I'm Sunny." Yes, I chose to use Logan's nickname for me. I think I was afraid of not answering to some random alias.

"I'm Robert, ma'am. I'll be transporting you to and from the auction. Is there anything you need? There's a fridge in the back stocked with various drinks." Yeah, I'm not drinking before getting sold to the highest bidder.

"You're very kind but I think I'm okay, thank you." Here goes nothing. "Have you been doing this for a while?"

"Yes, ma'am." Seconds go by and he doesn't add on to that.

"Nice. Have there ever been any problems with the…merchandise?" Fuck me, I hate that they call us that, like a slab of meat on a counter we're about to slice into for dinner.

"No, ma'am." Well, Robert is boring as fuck.

"Oh, good. Good." Guess my charm isn't that powerful after all.

Lost in thought, I'm jostled by the car brakes as we pull up to an old warehouse that looks like it's had better days. Robert gets out, opens my door, and assists me right out of the town car.

"Here you go, ma'am. Let me get your luggage." Robert's smile is somehow genuine and I can't help but think he, too, must sign a mile high stack of documents to make sure he doesn't talk about the participants at the auction. With the amount they're playing with, I can't imagine anyone but the one percenters could afford this.

"Thank you, Robert, you're very kind." I could definitely carry it myself but little old Robert is insistent. Again, I'm sure it's part of his duties and getting him in trouble isn't on my bingo card of shit to get done this weekend.

I'm wearing a dress that screams class and one-percenter money. That being said, it doesn't matter what I'm wearing now since I'll be prancing around a stage in nothing but lingerie—also couture. Nothing but the best for Sunny. Fuck my life.

This whole setup feels like a James Bond movie from the ominous pick up in a car to the ominous abandoned warehouse vibe and, of course, going down in the elevator with a secret code only the driver knows is just the cherry on top of it all.

"Here you are, Miss Sunny. Serena will take good care of you and I will see you on Sunday night." I nod to Robert, giving him a smile that lets him know I'm all good.

When I turn back to Serena, she's watching me with deep, soulful eyes that have probably seen a million women come through these doors.

I wonder what she makes of me? Then I shake my head because it doesn't matter, does it?

"Hi, Sunny." When Serena flashes me a smile, I swear to fuck her entire face lights up, and in that second I can admit that my body has a strange, lustful, reaction to her. Damn, she's gorgeous. "I need you to please pick a number." Holding out an elaborate bowl with folded papers inside, I try to be cute about it, swirling my hand inside before choosing, but Serena is not impressed.

"Looks like I've got the lucky number eleven." It's not lucky, it's not anything really, but I tend to babble when I'm nervous.

Looking around the place, I don't see anything strange or unhealthy or dangerous. I'm in a club where, in about two hours, we'll be auctioning off human merchandise to rich buyers for a weekend free-for-all.

"Okay, Miss Sunny, I'll take you to your dressing room. Please, follow me."

Here goes nothing.

It's five minutes to six when we start down a pristine hallway of black walls and marble floors. I'm no expert, but those look like they've been imported directly from Italy, which means the money in this place is even greater than what I'd anticipated. And don't get me started on the chandeliers. Let's just say they're not glass and I don't have to check the weight to know those beauties are full-on crystal.

"Here you go, Miss Sunny. This is your dressing room." We stop at a closed door and she's not kidding, my nickname is on display like I'm walking onto the set of a Hollywood movie.

I'm not ashamed to say that I feel a little special right now and the growing buzz of anticipation is wreaking havoc on my insides.

"Thank you, Serena."

"In a few minutes, Nico and Sophia will be here to do your hair and makeup. Please make sure you're fully dressed in your best lingerie. Your heels can wait until they're ready for you to walk out on the stage." Serena pauses, probably waiting for me to ask any questions. It's not that I don't have a million questions running through my mind, it's that I have too many to ask now. At this point, it's just a game of fake it till you make it.

"Sounds good, thank you for your help." Again with the nervous babble.

Swirling in a one-eighty around the dressing room, I take in the plush seating and tastefully decorated walls and furniture. It says money without slapping you in the face with it. Not like my father, who felt a deep seated need to make everyone around him aware of his worth.

Fucking dickwad.

My small carry-on suitcase is half empty since the only important piece of clothing I need is lingerie. The instructions in the letter specified that we are to wear our best, so of course I brought my favorite little black Italian lace bra and brazilian combo with its matching garter belt. The material is so soft and perfectly crafted that it feels like a caress on my skin, like a kiss from a lover, like…

My mind naturally wanders back to last week when my pussy ached and begged for more than just a kiss from my clubbing stranger. The Brit with a talented tongue. I still haven't answered his message. He said the ball was in my court and well, that court is hella busy.

Just as I pull on the second stocking and step into my slippers—yes, I packed slippers, no one wants to see runs—the door opens and the nervous excitement begins to build. A man I'm assuming is Nico walks in, his bright blue eyes framed by dark, expressive eyebrows, and looks me up and down before burying his fingers in my hair and…scowling? I suppose I haven't had a trim in a while, so maybe I'm not up to par with their expectations.

"Don't worry, when I'm done with you, there will be no imperfections." Well, fuck you, too. But when he winks at me through the mirror, I realize he's teasing me.

"Don't listen to him. He hates it when there isn't much he needs to do to make the merchandise perfect." Sophia, the makeup artist, gets down to business without missing a beat. For thirty minutes, they work like ballet choreographers, filling in the blanks as one moves and the other slips in. It's obvious they have been working together for quite some time, and when Nico turns my chair around for a final look, I realize they're fucking geniuses.

"Well damn. That's…" I'm not sure how to describe it.

"I think the word you're looking for is ‘hot.'" Nico leans in, cheek to cheek, as we look at each other in the mirror. "Your bone structure is perfect, you know that?"

"Ah, no?" No one has ever said that to me before.

"A compliment? Wow." Sophia winks in the mirror, and in a flurry of movements, all of their tools are back in a bag and they're off, probably to perfect another guest ready to be auctioned off.

Left alone with my thoughts, the doubts over what's about to happen start to seep in. It occurs to me, quickly enough, that it's too late to back out, so now I just need to get into my role and cross all of my fingers and toes that the trafficker will see me as worthy enough to spend a fuck load of his money on me.

Hope springs eternal, right?

The time between hair and makeup leaving my dressing room and my being led to the stage is a blur. I'm number eleven, the number I drew earlier from the bowl, so I could hear heels walking down the hall and past my door while I waited. Now it's my turn, headed for the stage where I'll have to prance around and make sure I'm enticing enough for the lowest of lowlives to pick me. At least, that's how I picture my target. I have no idea what the others here are like, and in hindsight, I probably should have worried about that before jumping into this situation.

In my La Perla lingerie and heels tall enough to break my neck a few times over, I make my way up to the stage, one careful step at a time, and look out into the void in front of me. A voice on the microphone calls my name, Sunny, and begins rattling off a list of bullet points describing every attribute and talent I have.

"Sunny, twenty-six and sexually active. She stands at five feet seven inches with measurements of thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six and weighs in at one hundred and thirty pounds. Blonde hair and blue eyes. She is active in sports, notably martial arts and shooting." That's right motherfuckers, I can kick your asses or shoot you dead, depending on my mood.

Never in a million years could I have guessed that I'd be here, being judged by how big or small my tits are. Then again…that's every day in the real world, isn't it?

It's when the bidding begins that my heart takes off racing like I'm aiming to run away and never come back. Fitting, really, since I have to prance around like a show pony and show off said attributes.

My upbringing in high end society has taught me to walk the walk and make my appearance worthy of the people around me. Which is exactly what I do. I do the catwalk, making sure to cross my legs as I walk and pushing my hips out as I turn. I even bend over to grab my ankles and slide my hands up my calves and thighs before placing my palms on the undersides of my bra cups, smiling at the pitch black room before me. Somewhere out there is the man I want to seduce and hopefully kill after this weekend is over.

"Thank you, you may now start bidding."

Time for the reckoning to begin.

My heart racing, my legs shaking the slightest bit, the same person who brought me to the stage leads me back to my room and I can hear another participant going through the same steps as me.

I can only imagine how nervous the other participants are. But what I'm feeling now doesn't begin to compare to the stress I feel when I'm led back to my dressing room and told to wait for my buyer to arrive.

And boy, does he ever.

Again…Fuck. My. Life.