Page 14 of Auctioned for Her Blood
“Thanks.” Pride warms my body. I did do a good job and working hard distracted me from thinking about tonight. I don’t know which scares me more, seeing Zuben again or staying out after dark.
Shana pats my arm. “Plus, you saved Sanctuary House several thousand dollars by designing the decor and setting it up yourself.”
I hope that helps Shana from urging me to go on the auction block tonight. I can’t imagine I’d fetch much, anyway. Our volunteers for the auction include prominent socialites and politicians, plus some models and local TV personalities. Even if I participated, no one would bid on me.
Or would Zuben?My body heats, considering the possibility. But I’m sure I read too much into his attention last week.
I turn back to Shana. “Thanks for appreciating my work, but all I did was google a bunch of pictures and combine my favorites.” My words are modest, but I am proud of the results. Despite the hotel’s fancy address and reputation, the room wasn’t much when we started and it took tons of planning and a full day of work to set up. “Maybe I should go into the party planning business.”
“No way,” Shana says quickly, and the stab of reality bursts my pride bubble.
I shake my head. “You’re right. I plan one party and—”
“No, No.” She pats my arm. “You’d begreatat it. It’s just that I’d hate to lose you.”
Pride reheats my cheeks, but then I notice that one of the centerpieces isn’t placed correctly, and I head to adjust it.
Shana follows. “Who knew my accountant had such hidden talents.” She looks at her watch. “We’d best get changed. The patrons will start arriving soon.”
“Really?” All the air sucks out of my chest as the nerves start to set in. “What time is it?” I glance around the room for a clock. My phone is with my party clothes in a closet, and absorbed in the decorating, I lost track of time.
Shana puts her hands on my shoulders. “Lamby, the sun went down over an hour ago. And look… You haven’t turned into a pumpkin.” Her warm smile offers comfort as my anxiety rises. “Relax. You’re perfectly safe.”
Easy for her to say. I chew the inside of my lower lip, trying to pump up my courage. I agreed to attend this event and I’ve got to live with the consequences. While it might be the first time in my life that I’ve been outside my own house after sundown, I am not a baby. I am no longer afraid of the dark.I’m not.
Drawing a deep breath, I survey the room one final time. This fancy, Rittenhouse Square hotel ballroom doesn’t have windows, and so if I don’t let myself think about what’s going on outside, I can ignore the fact that I’m out after dark.
Shana drags me to the ladies room and we put on our party dresses and heels. Exiting my stall first, I turn back and forth, admiring my outfit in the full-length mirror at the end of the room. It’s my first fancy dress and I’m still getting used to how I look.
Never going out after dark eliminates the need for outfits like this, and the red dress the saleswoman convinced me to buy, has miraculously transformed me into an entirely different person, a differentspeciesperhaps.
But I feel naked without a bra, and the thong underwear is strange and intrusive, but the saleslady was right to talk me into those choices too. The barely there underwear does improve the line of the soft, clingy fabric that’s hugging my hips and butt and skimming over my breasts.
The longer I look into the mirror, the less the reflection looks like me. Maybe that’s the key to surviving this evening—disassociation. I’m not here, my alter ego is. An alter ego who happens to be adventurous and up for fun. An alter ego who might even flirt with the stunningly hot Zuben if given a chance.
After tucking strands of dark hair behind my ears, I press my hands into my belly to calm the butterflies—more like bats—flapping their wings in there.
The door to the handicapped stall opens, and Shana steps out in a floor length gown in a bright African print that’s gorgeous on her. She digs into a big cloth shopping sack, pulls out a huge flowered cosmetic bag and plops it onto the counter. She glances toward me. “Oh, Ember!”
“What?” I ask, looking over my shoulder into the mirror, hoping I don’t have a stain on the back of the dress.
“You lookamazing,” she says. “A-ma-zing. Who knew you had a body like that hidden under all the loose clothes you wear.”
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly self-conscious. Digging into her cosmetics bag, she steps up to the mirror and applies deep purple lipstick.
“Want some?” she asks, holding the tube toward me.
I shake my head.
“You’re right.” She nods. “With your pale complexion, you need red.” She digs into the bag, extracts a dark black tube shaped like a bullet, and squints at its bottom. “Can’t read for shit these days.” She shakes her head. “But I think this is the one.”
She hands me the lipstick, and I lift the cap and slowly roll out the lip stain. It’s a very deep red—the color of blood—and goes well with my dress.
“I don’t know…” I’ve never worn make up.
“Trust me,” she says. “With your pale skin, dark hair and violet eyes, this will be per-fection.”
Leaning in close to the mirror, I paint my lips, careful to stay inside the lines, and then step back to survey my work.
