Selling Scarlett (15 page)

"I don't sell anyone,” he says, and I bite my lip because he sounds a little defensive. “The women—and men—that work here sell themselves. I’m more landlord than pimp. And with all due respect, Elizabeth, the photos I've seen of your body...well, it's not compliant with the standard of this industry."

I bite my lip, trying my very best to swallow back my pride. For Cross. Telling myself it's nothing personal, I plunge ahead.

"I understand what you're saying, Richard. The truth is, I've recently lost some weight, but I can lose some more."

"I'm looking at the photo you sent me, taken in November. Why don't I put your weight at 165. Is that about right?"

I gape. "You really know your stuff." I'm not 165 anymore, but I was in November.

"I'd like you to have it down to 140. I'd still like some curves, so I want you tight and toned."

I look down at my body, already so much leaner than it was. Screw the numbers. I know where I look my best. I'll make that mark.

"You do that," Richard says, "and then come here. We'll take care of the rest, and you can use an industry name. We could do a wig or something, too. We'll put you up on bill boards around Vegas and we'll talk you up. Something like… 'Selling Scarlett'.”

“And I’m Scarlett?”

“Yeah. You like it?”

I’m not sure how I feel about it, but I say, “Yeah. Scarlett sounds good.”

I hear his fingers snap. “There, the hardest part’s over.”

He laughs, and I know my chuckle has to sound weak. “How soon can we hold the auction?” I ask.

“I think three months, if you want to rush it.”

I feel a wave of cold sweat wash over me, and I want to kick myself for not going into detail this morning when we first spoke. "Three months, no. That's not soon enough."

"Miss DeVille, we aim for healthy loss and toning. We care about our girls—and boys."

"I understand, but I need the money in a month."

I can practically hear his shock in the static coming through the phone line. "A month?"

I rub my brow. "Is that doable?"

"Doable." He chuckles. "Isn't that the word? Of course it's doable. Let me get off the line and get you started. We take twenty percent of the final bid, and we reserve the right to manage the bidding. Understand?"

I swallow. "Yes." I don't know what 'manage the bidding' means, but does it really matter? I've already signed on for this. I'm in.

"One month." He laughs again. "Why don't you get up here as soon as you can, and we'll get you started with the girls.”

I nod and drive the rest of the way home in a fog of disbelief. The only thing left now is to tell Suri.

*

"You're doing
what
?"

Suri's mouth is filled with cashews, but she doesn't spit them out or even choke. She simply speaks around them and then swallows, and I have the hilarious thought that Suri would probably be a great prostitute.

"I'm selling my V-card," I tell her again, leaning on the iron breakfast table.

Her face is comical. All her features twist, like she might laugh. Then her mouth pulls down, like a sad clown. "Lizzy, why? Why would you do that?"

I think for a second before replying, because I need to give Suri a certain impression. One that will prevent her from trying to stop me. I shrug, hoping for casual.

"I have it, and I definitely don't need it." An image of Hunter and Priscilla flits through my mind; I shove it away. "I figured why not do something useful with it? I'm thinking of making it a project for my PhD. You know, writing about value judgments people place on things. One sexual encounter is just that: it's a ten minute thing. And virginity? It's just a hymen, an antiquated measure of a woman's value," I say, pleased with myself.

Suri is shaking her head, her horrified face the same color green as her polka-dotted blouse. "Lizzy, you don't know." She shakes her head some more. "You're wrong. It's not like that. Sex is intimate, it should be done with a lover or a boyfriend or at least a really good friend."

Someone like Cross, I think, and really wish I hadn't.

"It's not just physical. It gets into your head. I know we're not the same, Lizzy, but I have trouble believing you'd be happy if you just...sold it to some random man." Her nose wrinkles. "What if they're ugly or old or they want to
Fifty Shades
you?"

All I can think about is Hunter as I try to mold my face into something reassuring.

"They can't be a criminal," I tell her. Richard told me that much. "I can even decline them if I want and choose another bidder. And if we leave the premises, I'll have the option of taking along a team of guards."

"So they're...what, renting you? For a night? For a few hours?" Suri's face is grave. "Lizzy, if this is about money, if it's about Cross, and after what you did today I
know
it is—"

"But it's not," I interject. I'm waving my arms now, my heart beating fast as it becomes clear to me how much Suri's opinion matters in this. I don't want her to see me any differently. I don't want her pity. I want her support.

I think, not for the first time, how ridiculous it is that someone taking charge of their sexual assets, someone like me who's making money off them, is looked down upon. I can't wait to write about this.

"It's not about money, not all the way. It's about me doing something interesting, doing something that I want. I see it the opposite of how you do. I'm tired of waiting for the right guy. As you’ve known for years now, he doesn’t exist.” She opens her mouth, I’m sure to say something like ‘You could meet him tomorrow,’ so I beat her to the point. “I don't even think if I'd
want
to lose it to a boyfriend, to be a virgin when he's not. A twenty-three-year-old virgin." I make a face. "I want to go ahead and experience this, put it behind me. And if I can make half a million dollars in the process, what's wrong with that? In fact..."

I trail off, because Suri's mouth is hanging open. "Did you say half a million dollars?"

"Maybe," I say, like it doesn't matter.

Suspicion stretches her features as she stands up, grabbing for a napkin on the counter and using it to dab her mouth. She lowers the napkin and frowns. "So this
is
about Cross."

"It's about me," I say.

"So you're not planning to give the money to Cross?"

I open my mouth, then close it, not sure what to say. Suri’s eyes narrow to slits. "I saw the news today, Lizzy DeVille. I'm your BFF, not a moron. Remember, I have money. I can help. I'm Cross's friend, too. In fact, I think it would be a travesty if you went out selling...selling
yourself
, when I'm right here and perfectly willing to help Cross."

"You just bought a huge house, Sur. Listen to me," I say, catching her hand in mine. I press our joined hands on top of the stylish flowered table mats, which coordinate perfectly with the green gingham table cloth beneath them. "Have I ever done anything I regretted, other than what happened that night with Cross? Have I ever made a really big, bad, stupid choice, one I ended up hating myself for?"

"There's a first time for everything," she says. “I have money, and I
want
to use it to help Cross. You need to let me, and you need to forget this craziness.”

I shake my head. "This is something I want to do. It'll be an experience. And as for money, this was my idea. If you had extra money to throw around, I have no doubt you would have the second that you heard about him getting moved. You can chip in if you want, but I'm doing this, too," I say vehemently. “You might not understand, because you've had sex. You've done it. I'm just...waiting. Like...I don't know...a dairy product outside the refrigerator.”

Suri screws her face up, then lets out a little hoot. “Did you just compare yourself to a dairy product and take the extremely anti-feminist stance that you are somehow spoiling?”

“No! All I'm saying is it's bugging me. That I haven't done it. I feel like...the suspense is just getting to me. I'd like to have it
done
.”

"What about...opinions?" she asks quietly.

I squeeze her hand and let it go. "I'll be using another name, and my face will be shadowed the night of bidding. When they advertise me, it'll just be my body on billboards or whatever. No one will know."

I've already called Richard back and asked him not to reveal my true identity to anyone, even—
especially
—Marchant Radcliffe, Hunter's friend. Marchant owns Love Inc., where the deed is getting done.

Suri's eyes are swimming with tears, and I feel a spark of annoyance.

"I know you're just showing me you care, and I appreciate it, Sur, I really do. But I'll be back in a month, just the same as I am now, but a little more experienced. I'm having one sexual encounter with a man who'll likely be very nice to me, and I'll have more protection than the Pope. I'm okay with this. It's my choice."

"You're doing this for Cross," she says again.

"Part of it is for Cross. Doesn't that make it even more meaningful, though?"

Suri nods slowly. "I guess so.”

"See, I'm fine." I stand up, spreading my arms, and she hugs me, speaking into my hair. "You're a good friend, Lizzy, a really good friend. Just remember you don’t have to do this. I don't think Cross would want you to.”

"I want to do this. It's an experiment for me."

In more ways than one. A good twenty percent of this idea's allure is in my eagerness to get rid of my V-card so I can stop saving it for Hunter. I need to be freed of that idea. Freed of my crush. I hope that after spending some time at Love Inc., I never blush in the middle of a sexual encounter ever again. No Hunter West or anybody else will be able to knock me off my feet, and I like that idea.

Suri hugs me one more time and we call Albert. We're going shopping for gowns and robes in every color of the rainbow. As we walk down the stairs to our waiting ride, I feel more peaceful than I have in weeks.

Chapter Thirteen
~HUNTER~

I swear to God, Priscilla is psychic. That woman knows how to find me after a bad day. And the worse the day is, the more likely it is that I'll end up rolling in the covers with her, whipping her and spanking her, pulling her long hair and pressing my hand over her mouth until her eyes are wide and I'm afraid I'm gonna kill her stupid, spray-tanned ass.

Tonight I'm on my jet. There's a bed and a recliner but I'm too pissed to relax. Instead I'm sitting at the table, twirling an unlit cigarette around in my fingers like a showgirl's baton. I want the damn thing, but I'm not a smoker anymore. I keep a pack of Marlboro Reds in the freezer of every place I have, but I don’t smoke them.

I've got my fingers tightened around the cigarette, thinking about snapping it in half, when the intercom crackles and Frank says, "There's something on the runway you need to see, Mr. West."

I dim the lights and look out the oval window, and the cigarette snaps. Of course it's fucking Priscilla. A brisk breeze is tossing up her ass-short, blood-red skirt and I can see her panties. There are sequins around the seams, so they sparkle in the runway lights.

I can tell by the way she steps toward the plane, waving as she moves, that she's in high heels. I can see the red light of her cigarette's cherry.

My head pounds, letting me know it doesn't appreciate the handle of bourbon I gave it last night. I press the call button, sinking a hand into my hair and rubbing hard. "Let her in, Frank."

I sweep the pieces of the cigarette into my hand and dump them in a garbage can inside a cabinet. Then I sit back down and watch her sashay into my cabin.