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 need to get out of here.
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.”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“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.
He locks me in place and forces me to watch the TV as Serena meets her suitor. He shoots up from the back row. When he says, “Thank you,” I exhale a breath of relief for her—this man is American, not Irish.
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.
But the guard doesn’t let me do that either.
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.
As I walk onto stage and feel what seems like a bazillion eyes land on me, I ask myself a really smart question: What ifnobodybets on me?
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.
Maybe it’s not enough to look unpresentable. Let’s face it—when I ended my grocery store shift two nights ago, my hair had endured eight hours in a bun, and my eyes were red-raw from the bright lights. My outfit was also horrendous.
I couldn’t have looked more homeless if I tried, and Conradstillapproached 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 watch the cards sail into the air, more furious than anything now. The amount of money should blow me away, but it doesn’t. It sickens me to my stomach. Every last man in here needs tasering.
I want to go back to the world I know. The one where my child needs me.
