Chapter 1
Evangeline
"The crotchless one would look ah-mazing on you!"
With a furrowed brow, I glance toward the source of the unsolicited opinion. I’m met by bright green eyes, a lithe figure and lavender-hued ombre highlights. She's wearing a body chain with a thong and a pair of silver nipple pasties.
That’s it.
She looks like a slutty fairy straight out of some pervert’s most depraved fantasy. And she is way too comfortable in this environment. It’s definitely not her first ‘rodeo’, so to speak.
Slutty Pixie points her chin toward the shimmery bodysuit hanging on the rack of outfits that I’m scanning. Most of the clothing options are revealing – itty-bitty triangle bikini tops covered in glitter, lacy thongs that are practically see-through, one-piece lingerie sets made of strings and swaths of fabric that barely cover the essentials – but this bodysuit she’s referring to is more daring than them all. It’s woven from transparent threads and clusters of strategically-placed golden sequins. And it has no freakin’ crotch.
Thanks, but no thanks, Slutty Pixie. I’ll pass on your fashion advice. I’m not the biggest fan of underwear but come on!
Striking a pose as if we’re backstage at any regular show at New York Fashion Week, she waits for my response. I’d usually have a catty retort right at the tip of my tongue. But tonight, I’m too knotted up with anxiety to find an artful way to tell her to take her opinion and go to hell.
Because this isn't your typical catwalk and there isn’t a crowd of overzealous fashionistas sitting beyond that curtain. It's a goddamned auction, a room full of filthy rich closeted-freaks who are each willing to pay obscene amounts of money to have an unrestricted, month-long license to some desperate girl's body.
And I’m nothing if not desperate.
Only a woman who is decidedly out of options offers up her (non-existent) hymen to a bunch of wealthy strangers waiting impatiently with their dicks hard and their checkbooks at the ready.
I just try to keep my focus on the reason I’m doing this. In 30 days, my debt will be paid and this nightmare will be over. Once and for all. Then I can move on with my life. Or what’s left of it anyway. My family will never have to know about the mess I’ve gotten myself into.
I’ve already disappointed them enough throughout my life. That’s why I’m so eager to fix this situation on my own. I can’t bear to see my father leaning back in his recliner with his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and his scotch dangling between his fingers, gloating, saying ‘I told you so, Evangeline.’
“Why aren’t you more excited about this?” Slutty Pixie chirps.
Looks like she’s a talkative one. Yippee!
“Do you realize how much money is on the line? You submit to one of those rich pricks for a few weeks, and you’ll be jet setting for the next six months. I mean – partying in Barcelona, beaching it up in the South of France, shopping in Beverly Hills.”
This girl really seems to be oblivious to the biggest problem with this whole set up.
“You’re conveniently forgetting that you actually have to have sex with some random creep with a pocket full of cash,” I mumble under my breath as my fingers flit across the string of freshwater pearls and colorful beads cinched around my left wrist. It’s supposed to be a wish bracelet. I bought it from a roadside vendor on a modeling trip to Brazil a few months ago. She told me that wearing it would make all of my dreams come true. That was obviously a load of crock because my current situation was definitely never one of my dreams.
Pixie Chick scoffs, looking at me like I'm an idiot. "Do you know how many men have fucked me over and broken my heart for free? The last guy I fell for had a pocket full of chlamydia. So call me crazy but I’ll take a guy with oodles of cash, a spotless background check and verified medical records this time around." She lifts her nose with a dignified huff. “I won’t settle for anything less.”
What a classy dame…
Speaking of ‘classy dames’…Right at that moment, an elegant, throaty voice rings out, carrying undertones of irritation. "Ms. Pittman! Ms. Brooks! No socializing during the event!”
My attention snaps over to a tall, sharply-dressed woman. She wears her head of sleek, silver hair like it’s a timeless fashion statement, not a sign that she’s past her prime. In fact, she looks like the kind of woman that men of all ages and walks of life routinely get blue balls over because she’s hot but way too intimidating to approach. The slim lines of her body are accentuated by the black, tailored skirt suit and the high designer heels she wears. Her jewelry is understated and timeless.
Very tasteful for a professional pussy-broker. She actually makes pimping look like an enviable career path.
But her expression is cold. I can’t tell if she’s just pissed that we’re talking during the event or if her face is actually frozen from all the cosmetic procedures she’s obviously undergone to keep her features youthful. Either way, she’s not done reprimanding us.
"No socializing! That was indicated clearly on your nondisclosure forms." She storms away without waiting for a response, disappearing into the crowd of girls eagerly preparing for the event.
Pixie Chick rolls her eyes behind the woman's back. "Ugh, Madame Gwendolyn is such a tight-ass. She acts like she's never had a pube out of place. Wouldn’t need all that damn Botox if she would just chill out." She snatches the crotchless body suit off of the clothing rack and wiggles it in my direction. "Come on, Eva, try it on." How the hell does she know my name?
That’s when I remember. I’m not exactly anonymous. I was on the cover of the first print issue of Hectic Magazine two months ago. I walked the runway for Gauthier and Pucci. I was on freakin’ Carpool Karaoke. People know me. My face. My name. Evangeline Brooks is not anonymous.
My heart beats faster. Fuck, this is such a bad idea.
What a difference a few months make. Things have just flipped on their heads. It feels like just yesterday, I was at the top of my modeling game. I was sought after. I was booking casting after casting. I was invited to make appearances at all the hottest parties. But what people don’t realize when they see those big, beautiful faces smiling up at them from those glossy magazine pages is that most models get paid in free clothes and booze. Not in cash.
Unfortunately, my banker isn’t willing to accept mortgage payments in the form of pink spandex leggings and snakeskin-leather bullet bras. I’ve got the foreclosure threats to prove it. A girl needs money to survive. Especially when she’s constantly on the road, traveling from city to city for work.
When my earnings ran out, my modeling agency started giving me cash to stay afloat. As long as I kept booking work, they kept funneling borrowed money into my bank account. But then the season changed and so did the trends. In the modeling industry, the definition of beauty evolves every few months. And now, suddenly my Kate Upton curves aren’t as in-demand as they were two seasons ago.
I am no longer in style.
The agency wants their money back. My agent, Simon Leroux, used to be a friend. He would hit the clubs with me whenever our travels brought us to the same city. But now that I’m officially broke and out-of-fashion, there’s no more ‘hanging out’. There’s just menacing telephone calls and texts warning me of what will happen if he doesn’t get his money back. Soon.
The auction was his idea. He said that if I don’t pay him back immediately, he’ll go after my parents who begrudgingly co-signed my modeling contract with me when I was 17. I begged him not to do that and he suggested the auction instead.
Of course, I freaked out at that proposal because who the hell wants to be sold off to some stranger, sight unseen? But Simon went out of this way to assure me that it wasn’t a big deal. He and Madame Gwendolyn have a longstanding business relationship. Whenever his models run out of money, he funnels them into her ‘service’ as a fast fix for their financial woes. He promised that once I pay what I owe, he and I will cut ties. We’ll go our separate ways.
So what happens when I step out on that stage matters. A lot. I glance at that shimmery crotchless bodysuit one last time. I have to do whatever it takes to make sure that someone buys me tonight.
That Pixie Chick is still talking. "The bidders will go crazy over you when you step on stage in this outfit, especially since you're a virgin."
Will she shut the fuck up?
I snatch the hanger from her fingers. "No socializing," I growl as I stomp away. I find a quiet corner of the bustling dressing room and strip down to nothing. Staring at my reflection in the mirror as I shimmy into the bodysuit, shame simmers in my chest.
Is this what I dropped out of school for? What I left Reyfield for? To become some rich, old perv's fuck toy? How did I end up in this predicament?
Six months ago, if you’d told me I’d end up here, I’d have sprinkled you with some holy water, tossed you a handful of clozapine and gone along my merry way, laughing all the way to my next runway show. But now, here I am.
My mind goes back to the day I told my parents that I'd been scouted by a modeling agency and that I was foregoing college to pursue that career. They didn’t handle it well. They’re both intellectuals – my mother a Human Sexuality professor at the Reyfield Community College and my father, the chair of the Mathematics department. Saying that Bob Brooks had freaked out is an understatement. He went into lecture mode immediately. He even had his best friend, Raphael Silver call me and try to talk me out of my decision.
Mr. Silver...
Just the thought of him sends a rush of warmth through my body. I've always respected him. He's my father’s dearest friend. Smart and super successful. And hot. Really hot.
He has these sparkling gray eyes. They stare right through you with a force you can actually feel moving across the surface of your skin. His breathtaking facial structure is without a doubt the result of a painstaking exercise in geometry by Mother Nature. He has a perfect sprinkling of silver strands in his lustrous, dark hair. And don’t get me started on those wide shoulders and that tall, lean physique…
Total spank material.
I’ve been attracted to him ever since my body started having ideas about what to do with a person of the opposite sex. Maybe even before then. Over the years, my “interest” in him morphed into a full-blown crush.
But he’s totally off-limits, of course. He’s 22 years older than I am, my father’s best friend. They grew up together, served in the military together. And though I could totally overlook the age gap, I’m sure he wouldn’t be willing to. Yes, he’s handsome, confident, obscenely rich and he can have any woman he wants. But he’s also a good man. Even if I threw myself naked at his feet, he’d turn me away on the principle. Out of loyalty to my family. Besides, he views me as his best friend’s little girl. He always has.
And why am I thinking about him right now anyway?
I write it off as a coping mechanism I’m using so that I don’t have to face my immediate reality. Yeah, maybe if I can keep my thoughts on something else, I’ll get through this night without having a complete mental breakdown.
"Everybody, in line." Madame Gwendolyn’s throaty voice sweeps over the room, intruding into my thoughts. My eyes go to where she stands near the exit to the stage. “The auction is about to begin.”
Moving slowly to the line-up, I push my fantasy aside and face my cold, hard truth. In just a few minutes, I’ll be some stranger’s property. My stupid wish bracelet catches a screw on one of the clothing racks, the band snaps and beads scatter across the floor. My cheeks heat as Madame Gwendolyn eyes me sharply. She barks at one of her assistants to clean up the mess before one of us slips and falls.
Nobody buys damaged merchandise, right? Especially not at full price.
I feel even more naked without the bracelet. It was my security blanket. But I try not to fret over it too much. It was useless anyway.
Nothing can save me now.