Chapter 5
I try to force myself to relax, but there’s no way: I have less than five minutes to pick an outfit and get out the door if I have any shot of getting to The Meet on time.
The invitation explains where to show up (a fancy reception hall uptown) and when (noon), but not what to wear. All it says is, However you see fit.
What the hell does that mean?
Do they want me in formal wear, or casual? Is the atmosphere going to be like a club, or like a banquet? Is it going to be a lot of standing around, or will we be dancing? I have no clue, and my attempt to contact The Exchange for clarification has not been answered.
I started getting ready with more than an hour to decide, and have been trying on every piece of apparel I own, one after another. Nothing I’ve seen in the mirror has really made me think, Yes, this is it! Even my favorite standbys for a night out with Radha look either quaint or inappropriate for the event.
So I put back on my blue jeans and gray sweater, my baseline outfit — a sartorial palate cleanser — but I was only supposed to keep it on long enough to choose something else to try on. That was twenty minutes ago.
My phone beeps angrily — it’s time to go. I have six blocks to walk just to get to my train, and that’s assuming the uptown express is running today. On a Friday night there’ll be too much traffic for a cab — it would be too slow and too expensive.
Shit!
Frowning and moaning in frustration, I throw on a pair of sneakers, grab my purse, and fly out the door.
I look ridiculous, I think to myself as I stride down city blocks on the way to my stop. How can I show up for this looking so plain? I’m not showing any skin, and I didn’t have time to do anything with my hair. I put on a subtle, pink lipstick while riding the subway, hoping the cars don’t swing too hard until I finish, but that’s hardly enough to make me feel better.
What if nobody wants to bid on me?
I didn’t think to ask how often they hold these auctions, or whether I can apply to another if this one’s a bust. Radha will be relieved, of course, and she’ll again insist on paying for our entire vacation.
Screw that.
I’m not gonna let that happen.
However, when I arrive at the reception hall, I discover I was one-hundred percent correct about not being dressed properly. Dozens of men and women mill about, enjoying hors d'oeuvres and mingling; all are dressed for business casual at least. Button-down shirts, flattering skirts, custom suits, tight blouses… and then there’s me.
The hall is surprisingly well-lit, perhaps so the men — who vastly outnumber the women — can better see what they’re looking to buy.
That’s probably what Radha would say, I realize.
On the other hand, she wouldn’t believe what I’m seeing: a room full of studs. An ache grows between my legs as I check out each of the hunks milling about the hall, most laughing and smiling like they’re having a great time. As I take in the scene, I notice a few men who may have let themselves go a bit, a few who are old enough to be my grandfather, and a couple with stern or angry expressions.
Okay, there are a few I should stay away from, I admit. But Radha would be amazed at how many of the potential buyers seem nice enough. If one didn’t know any better, they might see this gathering and wonder what it is, but there’s no way they’d expect it to be something shady, or even illegal.
Of course, if Radha was here, she’d point out that I look like a prude. All the women here are dressed more provocatively, without exception. It explains why I spend the first fifteen minutes standing by the bar sipping a glass of Pinot probably a little faster than I should. No one has approached me, and more than one group of guys has taken a look at me and kept on going.
Maybe this was a mistake.
Yet, mixed in with my disappointment is something else: an undeniable sense of relief. The more I think about the other women here, the less I want to be one of them. They dressed nicely, put on nice perfume, and smile non-stop, but they’re clearly uncomfortable and nervous — it’s plain from their body language. Who could blame them? Going out looking to sell one’s virginity is a weird thing to do, and I think that’s dawning on all of us more every minute.
Maybe Radha was right.
I’m torn between ordering another Pinot and just leaving when I hear a coarse, gravelly voice. “Hello, can I get you something to drink?”
Turning to face the man who spoke, I see he’s very pale and exceedingly tall. He wears a dark suit, and he’s a little on the old side, but far from geriatric. Still, even his weak grin appears forced, with gaps in his lips exposing his teeth, as if he never learned how to smile properly.
“Hi,” I say, my voice catching. “Wine?”
“Champagne,” he says, as though correcting me. The bartender opens a fresh bottle, hand gripped over the cork to keep it from shooting. He hands the flutes he pours to the tall man, who then passes one to me.
“What’s your name?” he asks before taking a sip.
“Wendy.” For a second, I cringe, wondering if I should have made something up. Too late now.
“Wendy, hello. I’m Orson. Have you ever been to one of these before?” he asks, settling over one of the bar stools, but not sitting.
I look up to meet his gaze. “Do a lot of women come here more than once?”
He laughs, a raspy sound that curdles my blood. “No, I suppose not. It’s very rare we have a woman turn up here and fail to get any bids. The Exchange makes its selections with great care.”
“Seriously?” I snort, looking down at my thick sweater. “Then what am I doing here?”
“Oh, you’re here for me, Wendy.” Orson finishes his champagne, which makes me realize I haven’t even tried mine. I take a tiny sip, too nervous to drink any more.
“For me?” I ask.
“Yes. The Exchange probably took one look at you and said, ‘That’s Orson Bishop’s type, send her an invite.’ They know me very well here,” he explains.
“Is that so?” I’m not sure if that’s creepy or comforting — he may like his virgins, but at least he’s probably not leaving them in a dumpster somewhere.
“It is. That’s why I’d like to offer you twenty-five thousand dollars, right here, right now.”
Holy shit.
“I don’t need to look at any of the other girls,” Orson continues. “And I don’t need to bother with the auction. I’d be willing to pay that much if you agree now.”
A connection in my brain misfires and I feel lightheaded, the room spinning slightly. It’s not the champagne.
Twenty. Five. Thousand.
Holy shit!
Airfare, hotels, food, drinks, entertainment, souvenirs — all of that would be no problem. I’d probably even have enough left over to pay a few months’ rent.
On a dime, my opinion of the virgin auction turns around.
This is incredible!
I never imagined I would get anywhere close to that much. Also, this Orson is a bit off-putting, but is he really that bad? Maybe if I get to know him better…
“I can pay however you like: direct deposit, cash, certified bank check – whatever you want, I can have it done in ten minutes. But you have to decide immediately. I’m sorry if that’s a lot of pressure.”
“It is,” I say, my wooziness not getting much better. “I don’t understand, why do you have to know right now?”
“Wendy, I’m a man of many virtues, but patience is not one of them. I know what I want, and when I see it, I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Oh, well, nobody likes to be kept waiting,” I babble, still trying to wrap my mind around his proposition. My stomach lurches, and I have to close my eyes and shut the world out. I expected to have more time to get used to the idea of losing my virginity to a stranger — I don’t know if I’m ready! This is too soon!
But if I don’t take the offer now, I may not get another!
What if The Exchange won’t take me back for a second try? I could miss the only chance I’ve got of affording the trip to Europe.
“What’s your answer, Wendy? You have to decide now.”
My brain feels like scrambled mush. “I… think that I’ll…”
“He’s lying to you, Wendy.”
Orson and I turn to the new voice at the same time. He’s no one I’ve met, but I’ve never been so glad to see someone else in my life. His calm, soft smile hits the reset button in my head, and I start to feel better right away.
Dressed in a light gray suit that tightly hugs his broad shoulders and chest, with matching slacks and a bright, turquoise tie, he winks at Orson as he stops in front of us.
“Hi, I’m Cassius Swain. My friends call me Cash. What’s your name, Ms…?”
“Wendy Hart,” I answer, past the point of having the wherewithal to withhold my real name. Every second I look into Cash’s emerald eyes, my body seems to loosen and relax. He’s an impossibly gorgeous man; I want to run my hands through his thick brown hair and feel the stubble of his strong jaw brush against my cheek. His perfect, white teeth and slight dimples lend his smile an irresistibly warm glow.
Best yet, I can imagine what he’d look like without the suit: a built, chiseled physique, bulging with raw muscle. The sleeves of his suit bulge, barely containing his biceps. His trunk-like legs look like he could kick right through a brick wall with ease.
“Wendy Hart,” he repeats, taking my hand in his and bringing it to his lips. “I hate to interrupt my friend Orson, but he’s playing a trick on you. You can do a lot better than twenty-five grand.”
“Goddammit, Cassius,” Orson mutters, nostrils flaring. “Every damn time. You’re the biggest pain in the ass I have ever known.”
“And you know the reason why, Orson,” Cash replies, his tone darkening. “Or have you forgotten how this all started?”
Clearly, there’s history between these two men.
Orson shakes his head then turns back to me. “Wendy, I can promise you one thing: a fortune beyond comprehension. I will pay whatever it takes to claim you. Whatever Cassius offers, I can triple it,” he says. “Have a good night, Wendy. I’ll see you in a few days.”
He gives Cash one last sneer then marches off, fists hanging at his sides.
“I’m sorry you had to see that, Ms. Hart,” says Cash.
“It’s okay.” My is head still swimming, trying to process everything.
“Good,” says Cash. “Now, I have a question: what are you doing tonight?”
Is he asking me on a date, or something? “Uh, nothing much… why?”
Cash takes a deep breath, and his expression turns somber. “Because we need to talk about that man. About Orson Bishop.”
“What? Why?” I’m so confused.
“Because Orson is determined to have you,” says Cash. “And I can’t let that happen.”