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“I am,” I say, suddenly relieved that someone is talking to me. Over toward the door, another name is called out, and a tall girl walks out of the room.
“I’m Lisa,” my new friend says.
“Aria.”
“Pretty name.” She looks around the room. “How do you think... this works?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what if nobody bids on me?”
“Oh,” I say. “I don’t know. I guess you just go home.”
“Can it be that simple?”
I shrug. “So far, I think so. They’re nice.”
“They are very nice,” she says. “Did you know that only rich men can bid on us?”
“I didn’t, actually,” I say, a little surprised.
“Yeah, that’s what I heard. This is only for very wealthy men. It’s why we’re treated so well. They don’t want a bunch of abused girls getting involved with these men. We’re supposed to be professionals.”
“I don’t feel like a professional,” I admit. “I just feel nervous.”
“Yeah,” she says, laughing lightly. “Me too. But we’ll get through this, right?”
I nod. “Right. Of course.”
Just talking a little bit to Lisa loosens me up a little bit. She smiles at me. “We’ll talk later. Good luck. There’s a glass of wine with my name on it.”
“Thanks. You too.”
She walks off toward the bar and I watch her go. My mind drifts back to the task at hand and the temporary reprieve from the nervousness is suddenly gone, and it floods back in.
But I don’t have long to wallow in it, because a couple minutes after Lisa walks away, the man at the door calls my name.
“Aria!”
It pierces through me like an arrow. I freeze, unable to breathe, as I stare at the man. He looks around the room for a second, eyebrow cocked, and I can’t move. I’m petrified.
“Aria!” he says again. “You’re up!”
I take a step. And then another. And soon I find myself walking quickly toward him. Being careful in my high heels. They make my ass look great but they hurt my feet like crazy. He nods and takes my elbow.
“This is easy,” the man says. He’s young, maybe in his thirties, with a long ponytail and a thin face. “I’m going to put you in a room right in the middle. Then a bunch of lights will come on. You stand there and wait. Men will be looking at you, so don’t pick your nose. You’ll be asked to turn, please obey. When it’s done, you’ll be taken into another room where you’ll meet your client. Understand?”
“I understand,” I say. “But how long will they get me?”
“Let’s see,” he says, looking at his clipboard. “You’re up for... one month.”
“One month?” I ask, surprised.
“That’s the minimum amount.” He shrugs. “You’ll do fine.”
“One month,” I repeat, shocked. I assumed it was for a few days, maybe a couple weeks. But a whole month?
I don’t have a chance to argue, because we step into another room and he takes me into the middle. He places me there.
“Good luck,” he says. “They’re watching now.”
He turns and leaves. The room is dark, very dark, except for some lights in the floor. I think there are mirrors all around me, but I can’t be sure. I see vague outlines of figures, maybe ten of them. A minute later, a bright light flares on, spotlighting me and blinding me to everything else.
I can hear some murmuring, like conversations happening far away, but I can’t understand them. I fold my hands in front of me and wait, trying not to freak out.
What the hell am I doing? I don’t know the first thing about being an escort, let alone being one for an entire month. They explained it to me at the beginning, that I’d be bought by a man and that I’d do whatever he wants for however long he gets me. I’d take home seventy percent of the money, which is generous considering how much we’re sold for, although I’m not really sure exactly how much that is. I assume it’s a lot, but I don’t really know anything.
Then, once I’m bought, I service him. Some men want sex, some want companionship, and very rarely men want something in between. I’m to provide whatever he needs. That will be my job for the duration of my stay with him. I’m his property.
Unless he hits me, hurts me, or threatens me in any way that makes me uncomfortable. I can text a number that’s basically my SOS with The Syndicate, and they’ll come help me if anything strange happens. There’s another number that I text just saying that I’m okay, and if I don’t contact them at least once a day, they’ll send someone to check on me.
