Page 3 of The Seller

“Being in a club,” she says. “A guy bought me a drink…”

“Never take drinks from strangers,” I chide gently. “They rarely have good intentions.”

“I know,” she says, looking at me with those strangely calm eyes. “That’s why I drank it.”

Jesus.

Siri

He is handsome, but it is the kind of handsome which is just a veneer for evil. His face is generic in an attractive way. Dark hair, dark eyes, smooth voice. His bone structure is square and well balanced. The worst things come in the most attractive packages in my experience, and he is no exception.

“What’s your name?”

My survival depends on understanding this man. As much as he is trying to work me out, I’m trying to do the same - except I can’t let that show.

“You can call me Stavros.”

I nod.

He is a bad man. He has fucked up intentions. But he hasn’t hurt me, not yet, anyway. That’s good. I was bracing for pain. I thought he might be a sadist. I know he’s a sicko.

“So, why do you have me, Stavros?” I ask a question I already know the answer to.

“This is what I do,” he says, brushing another strand of hair away from my eyes. “I collect fine women, and I train them for service. When you are ready, you will be the pleasure toy of one of the richest men in the world.”

His words sound somehow far away, but I think it’s because I’m not breathing. I can’t believe he just said all of that, and so calmly too. I’m doing my best to stay collected in front of him. I have to toe a fine line. If I’m too calm, he’ll know something is up with me. If I give into my fear, then I’ll be useless to myself.

I’m already fucking this up. When I said the thing about drinking that laced drink, his head shot back like I’d socked him right on the nose. I can’t give into my nihilistic tendencies right now. I have to pretend I’m someone this would matter to.

“But, I have to go back to school. I have two more years… I have…”

“Nothing to worry about except me,” he interjects.

I like the way he speaks. His voice is low and calming. He doesn’t have the hectic energy of a madman, even if he is one. It’s helping keep me together, even as my world falls apart.

“Are you going to hurt me?”

“There is no benefit in hurting you,” he says. “And there’s certainly no point in traumatizing you. Nobody wants their toy to come to them broken.”

“Toys only get broken once they’re opened.”

His eyes light up with something like mirth. “Exactly,” he says without any kind of remorse or concern.

I swallow. There’s no point trying to appeal to his better side. I don’t think he has one. And there’s definitely no point in trying to make him feel sorry for me. He doesn’t care. My mind is racing. What do you say? What do you do? There are no scripts for moments like these. He said he was going tosellme.

“How much am I worth?”

His brow rises. “Why?

“I’m curious. I study economics. How much am I worth?”

“Depends,” he says, running his gaze up and down me with the critical eye of a marketer. “Are you a virgin?”

“No.”

“Less, then.”

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to discover that people who sell women are misogynistic.

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