Page 122 of Stand: Part One
I cocked a brow. “Rumors?”
“Oh, yes. The one where Mr. Davis purchased you himself at his very own auction?”
I gritted my teeth, my jaw set to grind the back of my molars to dust.
“I didn’t realize that was a rumor,” I replied.
“So it is true,” Lucinda pressed, her red lipstick smile looking like a fucking bullseye.
“Yes,” I stated flatly.
Her eyes lit up. “Ah, see, girls!” she gestured to me. “There is hope for you yet. Play your cards right and you could snag a wealthy powerful man just like she did!”
I nearly threw up in my mouth when I saw the smiles form on some of the girls’ faces.
“Okay, no, no, no,” I argued, turning to address the girls. “My life is not some rags-to-riches romantic fairy tale. The life I live is incredibly dangerous and brutal,” I said, pointing at the makeup-covered bruises around my neck. “I have no privacy. No friends, no one I can trust. Zero choices or autonomy.” I then turned my wrists over to show Darren’s name on my wrists. “I’m property to him,” I emphasized. “And I’ve had to learn how to do some pretty terrible things just so I can survive because people are constantly trying to kill us. Trust me, 10 out of 10 would not recommend.”
They were silent for a moment, their eyes bouncing all over me, from my tattoos to my collar, wrist and ankle cuffs, to the diamond ring on my finger.
“But you’re taken care of, right? He still keeps you safe? Comfortable?” one of the girls asked.
The idea was so fucking laughable I actually snorted at the question.
Define comfortable.
Considering what my own “husband” had put me through just days ago, comfortable was a spectrum that shifted almost daily. And safety? There was no such thing.
I’d literally been shot on his own property by his own guard. By accident. He was the very reason I would never be safe so long as I was tied to him.
“Sure, if you consider being kept under constant lock and key, beaten when you step out of line, and getting shot at on multiple occasions comfortable and safe.”
Madison scoffed. “So not much of a difference then.”
“At least you only have to fuck one man a night,” someone else muttered.
“And you’re basically a queen now,” another added.
Fuck. How was I losing this argument?
Was I truly in a better position than they were? I guess, if I was really comparing, they were probably just as free as I was, but their obligations were to more than one man a night. And in truth, their cages were probably a lot smaller and not nearly as luxurious as mine was.
But did their customers torture them physically, emotionally, and psychologically on a daily basis because they enjoyed it? Did all of them take pleasure in their tears? Their screams? Did they make it last for days at a time? Did they threaten their families? Rewire their brains so they became literal robots?
I seriously fucking doubted it. Right?
Testing the already hot water, I voiced the question I was afraid to ask.
“Are you all here willingly?” I asked. “Can you leave this job if you want to?”
Most of them seemed to hunch in on themselves, their silence and deflection a deafening answer.
“Of course they can, but they have debts to pay off,” Lucinda offered in response. “They are free to pay off those debts however they like, but if they want to beat the interest rate, this is the fastest and most efficient way to do it.”
Sure, it was.
I nodded in disappointment. It was just another scheme these poor girls had fallen into and would likely never get out of.
“Besides, we provide them with housing, food, security, healthcare. What kind of creditors provide that for their debtors?”
