“Sixty thousand!” I scan the crowd, landing on one of the younger guys. He’s only twenty-two, and the guy is a sick piece of shit. Every girl he’s won the bid on hasn’t returned.
“Sixty thousand dollars. Do I have sixty-five?”
“Sixty-five!”
I roll my eyes. This is going to cost me. Although I’ve never seen a new girl go for over one hundred thousand.
“Seventy. What do you say? How about seventy thousand?”
The three left bidding look at each other, giggling like schoolgirls picking out their ice cream flavors.
I raise my hand, flashing an open palm.
The EV member acknowledges me, accustomed to my gestured bids. “Seventy thousand from the back. Do I have seventy and a half?”
All three men strain to look behind them, but I ignore them in favor of the man counting down until he announces, “Sold!”
The girl lets out a strangled sob while she’s led off stage. The rest of the room resume their conversations, cigars, and drinks while they wait for the next woman. I drain what’s left in my glass and force my face blank. It’s over for the time being. Or perhaps the relief settling over me isn’t comfort, but corrosion.I’m too used to this.
“Your grandfather is missing out this week.” Senator Graves bulldozes over the tufted leather barstool in front of me.
Kenji rolls his eyes behind him, hands tucked in his pockets, while the bartender hurries to place a drink in front of one of the Eight before he complains. “I’m going to see if Knox will let me play with his comms. Let me know if you need me, Slade.”
I nod, and he strides off.
Senator Graves studies me. Dump the words sleazy and sinister into a box, shake it up, then dump it out—you’ve got Senator Graves. I’ve made it a point in the years I’ve known him not to be alone with him, so I finish my drink and set the glass on the bar.
Then I walk away.
CHAPTER THREE
SLADE
The blubbering girl sits curled farthest away from me in the back of the limo. Her thick mascara is smudged, her cheeks damp, and every so often a silent sob shakes her shoulders.
“Please,” she whimpers into the window. The pitch-black night reflects her wrecked expression as she presses a fist to her mouth.
I shift on the cold leather seat, turning away as I watch the golden lights from my iron gate come into view. The towering bars trace the edges of my house on the shoreline of Lake Michigan.
Most people assume I live in my grandfather’s high-rise in the heart of Chicago, and I do keep an upper-level penthouse there for good measure. But my home is the lake house.
I purchased the two-story lakefront property three years ago, about a year after I realized the depth of how far I’d fallen with EV. Here, everything is slow, a place I can pause without demands from my grandfather. I fall asleep to the lake lapping against the shore and wake to my favorite cereal in a bowl.
The girl bolts upright as we pass through the entrance, and her mouth falls open as the car rolls over the long shadows cast from the lantern-style lampposts. Crisp white siding contrastswith the sleek, black-trimmed windows that line the house, flooding it with natural light during the day. Views of the lake just beyond aren’t visible at night unless the moon is full, but when the sun rises the water sparkles.
The stone driveway curves gently, leading the car beneath a porte cochere of heavy timber beams before it stops at the double wooden doors.
“W-where are we?” The girl stares at the dimly lit house.
I run my palms over my suit pants and work my jaw back and forth before exiting the limo. My driver hurries to escort the girl, and I stride toward the front door, only to stop short of the handle when it opens.
“Good evening, Congressman.” Edmond, my butler, stands tall and composed. He gestures inside with one hand while holding the door with the other.
I nod and glance behind me. The young girl screams as my driver and security guard haul her from the car and coerce her toward the house.
“Another one, sir?”
I nod again.
