Selling Scarlett (29 page)

Even as I'm playing, I know Lady Luck is with some other guy tonight. I imagine the headlines, stupid puns arranged in that kind of cadence that journalists and bloggers like.

West doesn't know which way is up in tourney

Bourbon heir floats in first-day tourney

What-the-fuck-ever.

I screwed up last hand, and I'm screwing up again this time. A Zen master couldn’t play with all the shit I’ve got bouncing around in my head. I want to tell that to the annoying blonde holding the camera. She looks a little too much like Priscilla for my liking, and I'm having trouble not snapping as she pushes her mic into my face.

Today has sucked. Scratch that. Everything has sucked since the other night at the Joseph. Priscilla didn't really go to Ontario. Today she rode down to San Luis and Julie tailed her, but she didn't seem to do anything except have dinner with a client at a swanky hotel.

I’m obsessed with her now. Priscilla. Obsessed with bringing her down. I go over every detail of her conversation with Lockwood at the gala again and again, and the worst thing is, without a recording, we’ve got no proof. Zip.

Doesn't help that Lisa from the FBI stopped by this morning to ask if I have ever been to Sarabelle's house. I don’t say a word. I’ve got nothing to hide, but I’m not dumb enough to cooperate when I’m clearly emerging as suspect número uno. There are a million ways your words can be used against you once they leave your mouth.

Then there's Libby.
Libby, Libby, Libby
. I know she's been in Vegas, but Dave hasn't been able to find her. I finally broke down and texted Loveless an hour before play began.

'Elizabeth DeVille still with you?'

She texts me back near the end of the second hand, and I read her messages between the second and third hands.

'Who?'

'Elizabeth.'

'I don't know who that is. R u ok, Hunter?'

'Elizabeth,' I punch furiously. 'You were with her the other night at the Jo.'

When Loveless doesn't text me back, I take a few minutes during a commercial break and call Marchant.

I was right about my luck tonight. I lose the game.

I'm so furious I don't even give a damn.

*

~ELIZABETH~

The big day is a busy one. So busy, in fact, that I have almost no time to think of what's coming. I'm grateful for that as I am waxed, worked out, fitted, and eventually sent to my room with a red lingerie set I will wear when I lie on the bed for bidding.

I review the contract, which is a lot longer than I anticipated but appeared to contain everything that Richard and I worked out. The winning bidder is paying for six hours of my time, either at Love. Inc. or at another location. I can bring guards. I will provide vaginal intercourse. OH MY GOD, it sounds so technical this way! But luckily, I am only required to do this once to fulfill the contract.

If I provide only oral stimulation the bidder will be refunded 95 percent of their bid. If my hymen is broken but I stop intercourse before the bidder reaches climax, the bidder receives a 40 percent refund. Love Inc. takes a cut of my final total.

There’s also a list of nos. No photography or video or audio recording. No hair pulling. No name-calling. No spanking. And no contracting me in any way after—although, oddly, there is a provision for me to contact the bidder. As if. This isn't
Pretty Woman
.

After eating a light lunch, I return to my room and have a last-minute freakout. I look in the mirror, at the stubborn bit of cellulite on the back of my thighs—it just won't go away, no matter how many lunges I do. I look at my not-quite-six-pack stomach and wonder if the winning bidder will want more. What about my breasts? They are nice, but they're just full Cs, not DDs. My fingernails are bare, but my toe-nails are painted red. I have weird toe-nails. The one on the big toe looks like a space helmet. And my voice... In third grade, Holcomb McVey said I had a stupid voice. I don't think I do, but—

My cell rings, and I whirl around naked to face my bed. Suri.

"Thank God," I answer.

"What is it?"

"I'm freaking out here."

"Do you need a savior?"

"No!" I laugh. "I need to remind myself that this was my choice and that I don't need a savior. Or anyone's approval.”

So Suri talks me down, and she tells me about Cross—he opened his eyes again!—and when I get off the phone with her, there's a knock at my door and it's Marie V. She's wearing a pink robe and holding a small bag of lotions and perfumes.

"Are you nervous?" she asks.

"Um, hell yeah."

"Let me tell you something: They won't be expecting much. Every man knows virgins are kind of clueless. As long as your hymen is still intact, the guy will have a great time."

I scrunch my face up. "Um, thanks?"

She laughs, and surprises me by leaning in for a hug. "I enjoyed hanging out with you, Scarlett. I hope you have a great night."

"Thank you. I'm glad I met you, too."

"Any chance we might see you again?"

"I don't think so. I think if I do end up leaving the ranch to do the deed—"

"You probably will."

"You think?" I ask, wide-eyed.

"Just a guess."

My belly bats do a simultaneous dive. "Well if I do, I'll be picked up by a driver in my car, and I'll go home I guess."

"We're going to miss you."

"I'm going to miss this place, too."

I put the things that Marie V. gave me in my toiletries bag and answer the door again when a man named Max comes to do my hair. While he's using some super-powered hair dryer on me, Brenda comes in. She tells me how good I look and offers me a small, black box of condoms.

“The man should know to have his own, but just in case.”

“Thank you.” I say goodbye to her, thanking her for my better-than-ever calves and biceps, and when the room is empty, I start zipping my bags. If I stay here to do the deed, I'll have to get my things out of them, but if I go, someone else will collect them for me, so I'll be glad they're packed. As I'm zipping my largest suitcase, there's another knock on my door.

I open it hesitantly, trying not to mess up my pretty hair, but it's all for naught: Juniper and Loveless throw their arms around me, and the last thing I care about is my hair.

"We came to help you dress!" Juniper says.

I don't think I've ever laughed so much in such a short period of time. My nerves nearly disappear, and I know I'll be forever grateful to them.

At nine-thirty, the girls walk with me to the showroom, where a huge king-sized bed is set up, all the bedding red to match my bra and panties. I lie out and they help pose me, spraying yummy scents in the air and lighting candles.

"You're beautiful," they tell me.

I thank them for their help, and they leave one at a time, each with a final word of encouragement. Juniper is last. “I remember my first time. Believe it or not,” she laughs. “It’s scary, and then it’s over. You’ll be fine.”

I have about two seconds to myself, just enough time for my heartbeat to take off, when the door opens, and Marchant strides in. "Hi there, Scarlett DeVille."

My heart stops. I stare at his smiling face, and the only thing I can say is, “Uh…you know my name?”

He nods. “Don’t worry, though. Our secret.”

I say nothing, mortified beyond belief. I want to ask him if he’ll be watching—I want to ask him to not watch. But of course he’s going to watch. I almost drop dead when another thought occurs to me. If Marchant knows, does that mean—

"Bidding might get intense, but you'll only see the numbers. These things usually don’t last but ten minutes or so.”

I nod, still feeling totally panicked that Marchant Radcliffe—Marchant Radcliffe, Hunter's best friend, who knows my family—is here, and he knows what I'm doing. I tell myself it was probably inevitable, but I still feel ill.

He must misinterpret my anxious look, because he steps a little closer, sticking one hand in the pocket of his pinstriped coat. "You'll be okay. Everyone I know who's bidding is good people. I wouldn't put you in bad hands."

I don’t know what to say, so I nod. “You look great, you’ll do great,” he says as he pats the bed. “No more than ten minutes, Scarlett.” He winks, and then he's gone.

My muscles tremble as I try to keep my pose. I'm lying on my side, with my legs slightly scissored and my hand propping my head up. My fingers are threaded through my hair so it falls around my right shoulder.

I'm staring at the digital ticker near the ceiling, feeling like I might have a panic attack or pee myself, when the door bursts open and I shriek.

It's everyone. Not just a few but all the escorts. Loveless is out in front, and she presents me with a little velvet box. She pops it open, and two beautiful, glittery diamond earrings wink at me.

“Surprise!” everyone shouts.

Loveless leans down. “I'll put them in your ears. Just hold your pose, girl.”

As she puts the earrings on me, I feel a sense of total peace. And okay, it evaporated as soon as they left the room and a little speaker on the bed told me I'd be live in two minutes. But before then, I felt valued and loved. Here in a brothel.

The ticker clock has big, red numbers, and as they inch closer to zero, I can feel my throat constricting like I might be sick. I focus on deep breaths and think about Dr. Bernard and how many good things have happened to me here. I feel older. Wiser. More capable. I can handle this.

Then the ticker reaches zero and the windows surrounding my bed change subtly in hue—getting a little paler. I forget to breathe for a second, but then I smooth my mouth into a generic smile.

When the first bid flashes across the ticker, I nearly die.

$50,000, just like Marchant said.
That's a lot of money.

The numbers quickly jump.

$80,000.

$100,000.
Oh my God.

$140,000.

$150,000.

$200,000.

$300,000. I feel dizzy, and it's hard to keep my smile.
You can do it, Lizzy. Just a little longer
. There is absolutely no way the bidding will go higher than 300 grand.

$400,000.

I want to barf, but I try to stay in pose as the light covers my face but shines on my body. I tell myself again it's almost over. Then the ticker moves again.

$3,000,000. I'm shaking.

$3,200,000.

$3,400,000.

Holy Moses.

$5,200,000.

$5,500,000.

$5,900,000.

$5,000,000.

$10,000,000.

This cannot be real.

I'm gasping for air as the windows grow darker, and lying sweaty and shaky on the bed, I can’t believe what I’ve done. I’ve sold my virginity. I can’t believe anyone paid $10 million for my hymen.