Page 20 of Souls and Sorrows

The tendons in my neck stretch, bulging against my skin as I sit up straighter. My feet slap against the floor, the heels of my Oxfords glued to the sticky linoleum.

My gaze catches on long chestnut locks as they fall back over bare, sun-kissed shoulders. A dancer’s body, long and lithe and touched by the softest curves, wrapped in complete lace sin. The white bodice of the little number she has on clings to her like a second skin, pushing her breasts up so they’re front and center while a massive amethyst rests between them.

A high-cut pair of panties attach to a garter belt around her waist, and sheer stockings encase the length of her legs. The announcer holds her close by the leash hooked through the thick metal collar around her neck, like he’s afraid she’s capable of bolting, even with the skinny six-inch heels on her feet.

Where the previous woman looked terrified,sheseems comfortable. Like she was born for the stage and does her best work there.

I’m not familiar with this kind of performance.

I don’t like it.

My skin grows exceedingly warm, and I reach up to tug at the collar of the white dress shirt beneath my black suit jacket. Red-hot fire burns bright in the pit of my stomach, its flames growing and scratching at my chest.

“We have a special little item up for bid tonight,” the announcer says, chuckling low in his throat.

A wicked murmur spreads through the crowd, and I see people sit forward, hanging on the edge of their seats.

“Thispiccolinais certainly a well-used model, but, hey, at least we know you’ll be satisfied.”

Men jitter, lewd thoughts bouncing around in their brains.

I swallow, forcing down my discomfort. There’s no reason for it anyway.

A single conversation—and years of an unhealthy fixation with her family—does not give me the right to have feelings about Ariana Ricci or her poor decisions. If Jay hadn’t forced me to come out tonight, I wouldn’t have even known this was going on at all, and I would’ve carried on with my life tomorrow as usual.

But Idoknow, and I recall that night last week at the club outside of town. How she was ready to dip but stuck around because she wanted to see what I was about.

Too bad I couldn’t really show her. Not fully anyway. That’s a secret I keep hidden, tucked away with the depravity in my veins.

I think about how badly I wanted her in that moment though.

For a split second, a fraction of time, she eclipsed all reason and forethought. Everything that’d ever caused me to resist or pass over women evaporated with just a single glance, and as absurd as it was, part of me liked it.

Liked that she couldn’t seem to look away either.

And I certainly don’t like the attention she’s gathering now. As if anyone in this establishment has somehow earned the right to leer.

Still, I pace myself, trying to maintain a shred of cool in front of Jay. Exhaling as someone in the crowd asks to sample the merchandise, I grip the tops of my knees and glance at the floor when they break away and haul themselves onstage.

A sharp gasp breaks through the music and low chatter, and my eyes snap back up. Ariana’s bent over some sort of makeshift pillory, her head kept in place by the shortened chain around her throat, which they’ve bolted to a hook in the floor. Her hands are stuffed into the holes on either side, and she glares at the man sliding his palm over her exposed ass.

“A live wire,” he remarks into the mic offered by the announcer.

Suddenly, three more men take the stage, Ariana’s body like a magnet to their groping. One stands at her head, shoving his thumb into her mouth, while the other two flank her, reaching around to cup her breasts.

“We’ll start her off at the steep end of things.” The announcer stands back a few steps, watching the assault with a glint in his eye.

My jaw tenses, working back and forth.

Jay turns his head in my direction. “You okay there, Primrose?”

I nod, silent. Unable to speak through the anger fusing my teeth together.

“Fifty grand!” someone calls out, and the flames in my chest grow taller, more feral.

“One hundred!”

“Threehundred!”

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