Page 7 of Once Upon A Sale

We all three roll our eyes, knowing the fucking head of the mafia is giving me lessons on staying away from danger. He’s the fucking definition of it.

“Says…” Well, I can’t outright give his title over an unsecured line, can I? “You.”

“Touché.”

“Thank you, Marco. I owe you one.”

“Yes, you do. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to collect.” He hangs up before I have time to question him so I look up at my girls, phone forgotten.

“I know what you’re going to say.”

Tabby places her hand on mine and squeezes but doesn’t respond. Opie, on the other hand, speaks enough for the both of them.

“Are you fucking insane?”

“I suppose I am.” That shuts her up, her mouth hanging open and her eyes narrowed. No matter how we turn the situation over, this is the best option.

As soon as I’m alone with James Smith, I’ll fucking end him for the part he plays in trafficking innocent girls.

“Well, I guess we’re going to Detroit.” Opie’s tone is defeated with a hint of excitement. Adrenaline is our only addiction and this is prime quality shit we’re about to test.

Not an hour later, an email notification pops up on my phone from an unknown.

“A Night to Remember”

“Fingers crossed, girls. Let’s kill some dirty bastards.”

Chapter Four

Ophelia

Waking up with a hangover used to be so much more bearable, but I still made myself crawl out of bed and go for a run this morning—quickly followed by copious amounts of coffee and a plate of protein.

Filling in the required forms for the auction thing turned into an all-day drinking session by the pool. Some of the questions had us cackling like hyenas, and Tabby had a great time making me over for the photos to send.

There’s no guarantee I’ll get chosen, and there’s also no guarantee that James Smith will be the one to buy me for the weekend, but this is the best opportunity we’ve had with regards to this guy. He’s an elusive fucker. So, we’re sticking with the plan and hoping fate is on our side.

Now, though, it’s a waiting game to get accepted.

Tabby booked a table for the three of us tonight at Fleur, insisting that we all needed a night of dancing that didn’t consist of posh gowns and tuxes. She keeps us all in the real world, because without her, it would be all galas and vengeance. Orin Opie’s case, she’d spend all her time in front of a computer screen.

It didn’t take too long to get ready for our night out. I’m not precious. At twenty-eight years old, I don’t dress to impress, I dress to make myself feel damn good. Every girl’s wardrobe staple should be the little black dress; they can literally be suitable for any occasion. This evening, I’ve paired mine with a long-sleeve white shirt tied up under my bust, large silver hooped earrings, and my faux snakeskin thigh-high boots with a four-inch heel.

The cab pulls up to the club and the three of us climb out. The Miami weather isn’t on our side tonight because it’s raining. Of course it is. We run—well, walk quickly—to the entrance where Tabby checks us in before we head inside.

Seems as though Opie opted for the right footwear, seeing as she moved out of the rain more quickly than Tabby and me. Her silver strappy sandals are flat because if she were to try and walk in heels, she’d spend most of the night on the ground.

Fleur is busy, considering it’s only Wednesday evening. Red-velvet chairs are dotted around various wooden tables, some are rounded, others are square or rectangular, and the majority of them are occupied by couples or groups of friends enjoying a few drinks.

The dance floor is busy too and there’s a band playing eighties rock on the raised platform beside it. I love this kind of music, I can’t help but sway my hips in time to the beat as the girls and I stand at the bar, waiting for the bartender to prepare our cocktails.

I take a moment to check out my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Rain started hammering down on our way here, so we got a bit damp on our way into the club from the cab, and I just want to make sure I don’t have racoon eyes from getting rained on. Nope, I’m good. My hair’s a bit flatter than it waswhen we left, but a quick ruffle through it with my fingers fixes that.

The bar covers just over half of the back wall in the club, fancy bottles of alcohol nobody will ever drink are lined up to look inviting on a clear shelf above it. There are a few raised booths lining the wall next to the dance floor with a great view of the band playing, the theme of red-velvet seating continuing throughout. Everything has a red hue in here, the lighting sees to that, with red neon signs placed on the walls around the room. The signs vary from the word ‘Fleur’ to martini glass shapes, champagne bottle shapes, lips…then there are the red drapes from ceiling to floor in every corner of the room, set as if each wall is a window.

Our cocktails are eventually placed in front of us and I pay, giving the friendly looking bartender a generous tip. He’s cute, but not for me. He looks like he’s a college freshman and I don’t plan on being a cougar just yet. Hopefully he’ll remember the tip as the night goes on and won’t make us wait too long for refills.

I take a sip of my drink and it’s delicious; vodka, peach schnapps, and cranberry juice, a simple but effective cocktail with an awesome name: Sex on the Beach—something I’ve surprisingly never tried…but there’s still time. If I don’t get killed while I’m on this path of vengeance, of course.

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