CHAPTER ONE
Rule No. 1: Do not enter the game unless you intend to finish. Once accepted, there is no escape.
For many people, and as is typical of our present society, first impressions are a truth driven into the psyche, a subtle, subliminal message that engenders a response from the brain of one person meeting another. It's a judgment of sorts that never truly evaporates through time, no matter how often one shows that the moment you first met them may not have been their best.
I've never been a fan of first impressions. I certainly don't make a good one, not with average looks and a mousy demeanor. Most people see me as weak, quiet, demure to a point of forgettable in a world where it's every man - or woman - for themself.
Knowing this, I've never relied on first impressions to gauge a stranger's worth, or lack thereof. It's unfortunate I can't say the same for my former employer...former being a new distinction, especially while the freshly printed pink slip in my hand was still warm, the inked words writing me off as forgettable and unworthy still fresh.
"Mia! Hey woman, slow down."
The clatter of heels ran up behind me as I stalked down the sidewalk outside my former place of employment, a flash of scarlet hair catching in the breeze as my best friend and only confidant came barreling toward me. Rachel and I had been friends since grade school, two hopeless loners who'd somehow found each other while being picked on and scorned by the popular kids.
We'd clung to one another through the tormenting years of growing into adulthood, and now that we'd settled into the lonely lives of two women bound to boring, repetitive schedules, we cling to one another still.
Whereas Rachel had grown into a fiery personality that matched the red of her hair, I was still that quiet, timid girl who'd been teased relentlessly all through childhood.
"Damn, Mia. Where's the fire? I've been calling out to you for the past five minutes."
The thin sheet of paper flapping in my hand almost pulled free of my grasp within the turbulent wind of the city. Tall buildings loomed above my head to the left and right, peering down at me with dark windows and locked doors, mocking me for the failures I'd endured.
I held the paper up to Rachel, tears in my eyes. Studying my face, she slipped it from my fingers. "What's this?"
"Just read it," I begged, my choked voice barely audible.
Jaw dropped and sculpted brows drawn together, Rachel’s eyes moved quickly as her hands clenched the oddly cheerful missive.
"This is a joke, right? You've been with that company for five years. They can't really be doing this to you."
We were supposed to meet for lunch, but with a bag packed full and slung over my shoulder, I was heading home at eleven thirty in the afternoon rather than to an upper class restaurant in the heart of the city. Not that I could have afforded lunch. Rachel always had to pretend like she didn't mind floating the bill.
A particularly violent gust of wind blew past, wrapping my brown hair over my face so quickly that I struggled to pull the strands from where they'd locked over the crease of my lips.
"Five years," I answered. "Five stupid years dealing with arrogant jerks and prissy women who never let me show them what I’m capable of doing. What is the point of a degree in marketing if they won't let me prove to them what I'm worth?"
Her touch on my shoulder was meant to be comforting, but it burned my skin instead. Stepping away, I glanced up at her with an apologetic grin. I hated being touched. I could barely tolerate it during happy times, and sad times only made it burn worse.
Rachel frowned at the distance I placed between us. "Sorry."
Our meandering pace matched as we strolled up the street toward the parking garage.
Move your car and hand the parking attendant your keycard. He'll be sure to return it to us. They were the last words spoken to me by the polished receptionist my firm had hired only two weeks ago. Her smile told me that while I'd been given a pink slip and escorted out, she'd found a way to climb the corporate ladder. I wondered how often her legs had spread for that particular promotion.
"My rent is due next week. I have nothing in my account," I admitted. "Mom and dad won't help me again. They want me to move home and give up life in the city."
"You'll figure something out," Rachel insisted, but I didn't sense hope within the tired placation she muttered.
The elevator car in the four story garage smelled like piss and body sweat, making me wonder how many vagrants called this box home before the night attendants found them and chased them off. Silently, Rachel rode with me, stepping out and holding the door when we reached the third level.
It didn't take long to reach my car. Staring at her over the roof, I asked, "Would you like a ride back to work?"
"No," she answered, taking a step back. "The restaurant is just around the corner."
Surprise flickered through me. "Did you still want me to go?"
A subtle shake of her head was my answer. "Go home, Mia. Scour the internet. Find a new job. I don't want you to leave the city."
I was still nodding my head in feigned agreement when she walked off. Listening to the click of her heels, I waited until the elevator doors closed, leaving me alone inside the confines of the garage. Every sound I made was a hollow echo: my keys pulled from my purse, the slide of metal against metal as I unlocked the car, the loud scream of rusted hinges as I opened the door, and the groan of blown shocks as I climbed into the driver's seat.
Leaving the keycard with the attendant like the receptionist had asked, I pulled my car out onto the road.
My apartment building wasn't more than a twenty minute drive in the crush of lunch hour traffic, the small lobby empty and bleak as I let myself inside. Another elevator ride had me standing at my door within seconds, my keys jingling again as I slipped one into the lock.
I doubted death could be as quiet as the interior of my five hundred square foot home, my studio apartment that was as sad and lonely as me.
Kicking off my shoes, I changed out of the skirt suit that filled me with pride on the day I'd bought it with my first paycheck. It wasn't much, a trendy find left over on a sale rack at the back of the store, but it had been a mark of my growing up at the time I'd purchased it. Carefully hanging it up, I pulled on sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt, choosing comfort over style while I evaluated the course of my life.
My computer came to life with a cheerful chime after I took a seat at the table I’d fashioned into a makeshift desk, the sound mocking me and my crushed state of mind.
Back to the wanted ads, I go...
It only took me a few minutes to update my resume and send it out to any job I could find. So desperate for anything, I didn't bother checking the pay scales, education requirements or job responsibilities. I would do whatever it took, even if it involved cleaning toilets.
After posting several dozen responses to the ads, I scrolled through other job types. Until now, I'd only had experience as an executive assistant. I'd taken the job hoping to eventually land a position as a marketing specialist, but the opportunity never panned out. Maybe it was because everybody saw me as meek and mild. They didn't recognize the person I was inside.
Get paid to play. Starting bonus of up to five thousand dollars. Only serious applicants need apply.
My gaze locked to the bold letters of an odd ad that appeared out of place among the professional job opportunities. Scanning the company name, I wondered at the offbeat moniker. Dark Realities wasn't much of a description. The company wasn't incorporated and wasn't a Limited Liability Company either. When my curiosity became too much to ignore, I clicked the link.
A black screen with white lettering popped up.
Rule No. 1: Do not enter the game unless you intend to finish. Once accepted, there is no escape.
Below the writing was another link that would take you into the site. With the inside of my lip trapped between my teeth - a bad habit that left me with a permanent indentation - I clicked the link.
A flash of video played just before the page loaded, a woman's mouth opening as a moan rolled over her red glossed lips.
The video ended and I stared at a listing of sexual fantasies, at a link that would take you deeper into the web.
There was an information tab labeled Help conveniently located at the top of the screen. Clicking it, I waited for the next page to load, my breath an even rhythm in my chest until the next heading popped up. Reality Television for the Brave and Depraved.
My breath caught in my lungs.
The game is simple. You pick a fantasy. We arrange for the fantasy to occur. All of it will be available for the audience to watch. Only certain games are for participant profit.
Exiting back to the second page, I glanced up at three tabs spaced evenly over the list of fantasies.
Audience Log In. Predator Log In. Prey Log In.
I clicked Audience.
Three choices were a running list beneath the page heading.
One Night Stand. Threesome. Orgy.
My finger hovered over the button of the mouse. My interior lip shredded by how long I'd been gnawing it. "One night stand, it is," I said to myself.
Curiosity has always been my downfall. It's what led to broken hearts when I'd been in high school. It's what led to awkward sex when I'd been in college. It's what drew me like a moth to a flame even though I wasn't the type of person who could tolerate human contact.
Scrolling through the screen, I hovered the arrow between three separate videos. The first two were open for viewing, the third locked with a login requirement. I chose the first.
A woman stood at a bar, her back to the camera that looked as professional as a smartphone recording. Music and the thrum of conversation were a mass of chaos within the speakers. One voice rose above the others. "Is that her? I think that's her. Let's go."
Whoever was filming stood up and moved forward.
A man came into frame from the left. Darting a glance and a quick smile at the camera, he approached the woman at the bar. The cameraman stood back just enough to keep them both in the frame and catch their conversation. The man talking to the woman bought her a drink.
Bored, I skipped to the next video.
The same man and woman were now leaving the bar together, the cameraman trailed a short distance behind. He helped the woman into a car before rounding the back. Flashing another wicked grin, the man grabbed the camera from who I assume must have been a friend and climbed into the driver's side. The phone was in his lap, the frame filled with only a view of his head. The conversation between the couple became more flirtatious, promises being made that forced my lips apart on heavier breath.
I shouldn't have kept watching, but again, I was curious.
They arrived at an apartment building and he made a point to film the back of her body while she dug through her purse for her keys. Pausing on a shot of her ass in a slinky red skirt, he only moved the camera away when she opened the door. I couldn’t tell if she knew he was filming or not.
Up the stairs they went. Her apartment was so much nicer than mine. Decorated in a silver and blue motif, the space was open and airy, not a cramped box, like mine. Comfortable couches were positioned near a wood burning fireplace in the distance, the grey rugs beneath the sleek glass and chrome coffee table still with vacuum lines.
The woman's high heels clicked across the stone floors, her head twisting back once or twice to smile at the man who followed. It wasn't hard to see by her unsteady gait that she'd had a few too many drinks. Entering the bedroom, she smiled shyly when she turned around and sat on the bed. The man set the camera on a nearby table facing her just before she looked directly at it.
So, she does know this is all on film.
My breath was heavier, anticipation dripping in to mix with the curiosity already clogging my mind.
My thighs tightened together when the man approached her, slowly unbuttoning his shirt to strip it off his broad shoulders. I stared at the ridges of hard muscle across his back. The woman stared at the naked side of him that I've couldn’t see. Her eyes widened just slightly, her hands shaking softly over the surface of the bed.
She was nervous. So was I. It made me question my fascination.
The man stepped closer, his hands running over her shoulders and up the back of her neck. She peered up at him from beneath sinful lashes just as her hands reached for the buckle of his belt.
The video cut off, bold white lettering filling the screen that said, "Third video for paying audience members only."
Swallowing down the feeling of unease that had formed into a fetid lump in my throat, I clicked the browser closed and lay my head on the surface of my desk.
While I should have been focused on finding a job, I was wasting my time stumbling through a website that would become my greatest, and most sinful secret.