Page 11 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

I swallowed hard, my eyes darting back to the room. The men were watching, their gazes sharp even behind their masks. And somewhere in the middle of it all, I felt myself shrinking, folding in on the edges of who I thought I was.

Was this really control? Or was it the most beautiful lie I’d ever been told?

My uncle’s question hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting. “What’s it going to be, Sloane?” he asked, his voice smooth and patient, like he had all the time in the world. But the weight behind it felt anything but patient. He was waiting for me to decide, his hand still resting lightly on my shoulder, anchoring me in place.

The room around me seemed to be shimmering at the edges. The laughter, the soft clink of glasses, the hungry looks of the men—all of it swirled together, threatening to drown me. Everett’s words played on a loop in my head.Privilege.Security.Control.

“What’s it going to be?” he repeated.

I looked at him, his face as calm and unreadable as ever, and then back at the glittering scene before me. My pulse pounded in my ears as the memories came flooding back, unbidden and overwhelming.

Again, I thought of my mother’s apartment, of the nights I’d gone to bed hungry because there hadn’t been enough food to go around. I thought of wearing the same clothes for days at a time, of the embarrassment when kids at school noticed. I thought of the foster homes, of being handed secondhand scraps and told I should be grateful.

The hollow ache of those memories clawed at my insides, filling me with a fear I could taste. I remembered the sting of shame, the bitterness of being powerless, of having nothing, of knowing there was no one in the world who cared whether I sank or swam. It would be like that again if I had to leave. I would have nowhere to live, no job…no car.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. My uncle’s voice pulled me back to the present, soft and insistent. “You don’t have to go back to that, Sloane,” he said. “You don’t have to live that life. Not if you make the right choice.”

The right choice.I hated how his words sounded, like the decision had already been made, like I’d be a fool to refuse. But the truth was, Iwasafraid. I was terrified. Of being poor again. Of struggling, of never having enough. Of falling back into that pit I’d spent so much time trying to climb out of.

My hands trembled as I clenched them into fists, my nails biting into my palms. I stared at the room again, thinking of those women, at the way they seemed untouchable, invincible. I thought of how my uncle had described them:masters of their fate.

I grasped onto that. Because theyhadlooked powerful. Beautiful. Like they were enjoying every glamoured second. It was a far cry from my other option of having nothing. I couldn't go back to that. I just couldn't. So even though my heart was pounding so hard I was having trouble breathing, I knew what I needed to choose.

My throat felt tight as I gave my answer. “Okay.”

“What was that?” my uncle asked, tilting his head slightly.

I forced myself to look at him, my voice trembling but a little louder this time. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

His smile was subtle, almost smug, as he gave a small nod. “Good girl,” he said, his tone smooth and satisfied, like I’d passed some kind of test. I couldn't help but feel relieved that I'd pleased him. “You’ve made the right choice, Sloane. You’ll see.”

I didn’t feel right, or powerful, yet. Right now, all I felt was hollow. But that would change. One day, when I wasn't so scared, I'd be more like those confident women…I hoped.

“Gentlemen, shall we begin?”

I glanced up at him, but he was staring around the room, a challenge in his gaze. “Sloane turned eighteen today. She is a certified virgin. Let’s start at three million,” he said casually, as if he were talking about stocks or cars or artwork…and not me.

Three million.

The words took a second to filter through my consciousness.Certified virgin? I squeezed my eyes closed in embarrassment as I thought about the gynecologist appointment I’d had last week. I’d been having terrible cramps, and Everett had set me up with an appointment. The doctor had questioned me about my sexual history, but I hadn’t thought anything of it. I’d thought that was how they were supposed to go. I’d never dreamed the doctor would tell Everett.

The bodies shifted around the room, and there was a beat of silence. I wanted to run, but I made myself stay still. I’d made my choice.

“Three and a half,” one of the masked men said, his voice deep and calm, like this was just another night for him. Another game.

My skin felt too tight, like it didn’t belong to me anymore.

“Four.” Another voice called from across the room. It was a slow, deliberate drawl, tinged with amusement, like he was savoring the moment.

“Five million,” said a third. My legs shook beneath me, and I thought I might collapse. The numbers kept climbing—six, seven, eight million—and with each bid, the air grew heavier, suffocating.

Everett leaned in closer, one of his hands sliding from my shoulder to the small of my back. I flinched but still didn’t move, my pulse fluttering like a trapped hummingbird, its tiny wings beating faster and faster, desperate to break free. But I still couldn’t get myself to move. I was paralyzed.

He whispered in my ear, his voice smooth and almost affectionate. “It’s all for you, Sloane. You should feel honored. This…this is power.”

It didn’t feel like it. I felt like I was being torn apart, like everything inside me was breaking, unraveling with each new bid. This felt like something else. Like something dark and twisted that I couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

But I wanted to be safe. I didn’t want to be homeless and penniless and alone. This was the only way.

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