Page 1 of Auctioned to the Lumberjacks (Auctioned)

1

SKYE

SELLING MY SOUL

“You’re next.” The man beside me looms in the darkness, his face shadowed and emotionless.

My heart beats so fast against my ribcage that it makes me breathless. I scan the room as the overwhelming scent of smoke, alcohol, and stale man increases my panic. There’s another woman on the platform, illuminated by a bright light. Somewhere out of sight, a man is taking bids, his voice rumbling with each price increase. She’s not like me, though. She’s forced into this, but I’ve chosen to be here. The price she achieves will go to an unseen owner. My bidder will promise the money directly to me.

I focus on calming my racing pulse, breathing in for five and out for ten. In. Out. My palms hurt, and I glance down, finding my nails have marked grooves into my skin. I can’t think straight. My mind is a racing whir of thoughts, tangled with emotions, threatening to overwhelm me unless I get a grip.

I’ll be out there in a minute, displayed to a room full of men, set to be auctioned to whoever is willing to pay the highest price. Good man or bad, handsome, or ugly, I won’t have a choice. The arrangement is for a year of my life.

I strain to make out some of the faces of the men in the crowd, shuddering at the leering expressions. The girl on the platform is dressed in a tight black dress, which leaves next to nothing to the imagination. I glance down at my jeans and simple black tank, wondering if my clothes will work for me or against me.

My lips feel sticky with the lipstick I applied with trembling fingers. Beneath my arms and down my back, I’m already slick with sweat. I sway, gripping the arm of the man who will shortly send me to my fate. He shakes me off with a look of utter detachment, and tears burn in my throat.

I’m alone.

Alone and empty in a way I can’t even quantify. Where my heart used to be is just a bottomless pit of sorrow that can’t be filled.

I’m brittle and untouchable. Numb and hollow.

The only thing keeping me together is knowing that whatever happens next won’t hurt as much as what I’ve already been through. This decision, although risky and crazy, is my only path to becoming whole again.

“You’re up!” He nudges me forward and stays close behind as I force one foot in front of the other until I’m on the platform. The light is so bright that I have to squint, and even then, I can’t see anything in front of me.

The bidding begins, and with every rumble of the auctioneer’s voice, I feel closer to passing out.

I remember what the auction organizer advised: just be yourself in the moment to attract the most suitable bidder. A natural match, he said, as though I had a chance of finding my knight in shining armor, my Mr. Right.

Being shy or nervous isn’t necessarily a deterrent,he told me.Far from it. Men like this, the ones out there wanting to exchange money for flesh, like their women to be docile and subservient. The thought brings bile to my throat.

Struck with the sudden realization that this is my only chance to raise the funds I need, I’m gripped by a need to give it my best shot.

“Do you want some of this?” The once detached steward offers me his small silver flask, which I take gratefully. I don’t know what is in it, but it burns the back of my throat and settles into my stomach with unsettling warmth.

Male voices rumble, and the acoustics bounce the sound through my head to my feet and ground me to the spot. I can’t be scared. I can’t be ashamed or embarrassed. I have to be determined.

I turn with panic surging through me, giving everyone a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of what they can buy. If there is one thing I’m sure of, it’s that I’m attractive. Not in a film star way, but my girl-next-door innocence has always appealed to the kind of men who have wanted to corrupt me.

My chestnut waves settle around my shoulders, and I position my face as if in defiance. I keep my eyes focused in front of me, even though the crowd is dark.

Then, as though a surge of electricity momentarily interrupts the spotlight glaring into my eyes, the crowd becomes visible for a second. Directly in front of me are three huge men with stern faces half covered by unruly beards. Two have their beefy arms folded across their chests. The other, his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jeans. I blink, then squint as the light glares again, and they disappear, but this time, I know who’s looking at me, and somehow, that pushes a lightning strike of nerves right through me. I sway, reaching out to grab something to stabilize myself but finding nothing. My heartbeat swells like the beat of a bass drum, my lungs constricting so tightly, I gasp. As my vision closes in, I hear the word sold, and everything goes dark.

When I blink again, my vision is dark around the edges, and my mouth is dry and sour. I squint through the tunnel of darkness, becoming aware of a hazy figure standing over me. I hear my voice like a distant echo. “Where…where am I?”

“Here, sip this. You blacked out.” A huge man, Herculean almost, rests a glass of water against my lips. His hand lifts my head until I’m propped up enough to drink. The water is ice cold, sending a shiver through me that rattles my bones. There’s a kindness behind his soft gray eyes, which catches me off guard. It’s been a long time since anyone looked at me with anything other than disdain.

I scan his face, his tumble of fair hair, the bushiness of his beard, and the sinew and strength of his upper arms that stretch the fabric of his shirt to almost breaking point. His big legs strain against worn jeans as he squats to take care of me. Glancing down, I notice I’m covered with a jacket that I assume is his.

“Is she coming with us or what?” The voice sounds from behind me, and I swivel, staring up into a harder, meaner, older face. Where his friend’s eyes are filled with kindness, this man looks at me as though I’m a stray dog he intends to kick into a ditch.

“She’s coming. Give her a chance.”

I scramble against the sticky fabric of the liver-colored leather couch, gathering my wits. I want to ask who these men are, but my lips are frozen closed. Another man across the room rises from a small wooden chair. His close-cropped hair, dark beard, and intense dark eyes make me instantly fearful. “We need to get out of here. This place…” He shakes his head as though he’s as disgusted with the auction process as I am. “You’re coming with us.”

“Where?”

---