The Pawn (Endgame #1)(24)
*
Damon’s voice is loud and booming, the perfect auctioneer. I can hear him clearly from behind the velvet curtains. He greeted me briefly to make sure I was ready for him to introduce me. That was the word he used—introduce. Not sell or pimp.
Nothing dirty, even though that’s what this is.
“Welcome, distinguished gentlemen—and a few lovely women. As people of discerning taste and elevated interests, I know you’ll agree with me that today’s auction is the event of the year. The object of our desires is waiting right now, but before I bring her out, I want to tell you a little bit about what your hard-earned money will be purchasing.”
The low murmur of voices, the clink of crystal. How many people are out there?
“This particular fruit is ripe and ready to be picked,” Damon continues, his tone far too pleased with himself. “I expect she’ll be the perfect color when you open her up, juicy and sweet.”
There’s laughter in the audience, male and drunk.
“It’s not only her body you’ll be purchasing, though, but her mind—her ingenuity, her spark. I have here a letter of recommendation from her high school English teacher.” There’s a pause with a shuffle of paper. “A student of outstanding merit and exceptional integrity. And above all, a fertile mind that begs to be filled.”
There’s a smattering of laughter, and I flush with shame. That’s not what Mrs. Stephenson wrote in my recommendation letter to college.
“Here’s another one, this one from the faculty advisor for the National Honor Society.” Another pause, lengthier this time. Expectation fills the air, thickening it. “Her thirst for learning is surpassed only by her desire to help others. I’ve never had a student with such a large…heart. And the absolute sweetest…temperament.”
More laughter. I’m not sure what’s more humiliating—the sexual innuendo in the fake letters? Or the fact that he’s mentioning the real faculty members at my high school academy who wrote recommendation letters for me.
Damon isn’t reading the actual contents, but he must have read them himself to know who they’re from. My teachers were so supportive, so encouraging. And for what? So that I could stand in the center of rich men and be sold like cattle.
Of course I know who’s next.
Mr. Santos was the world history teacher and the sponsor for the chess club. Chess is a game of status and power. Of war. It’s a game of human nature, Ms. James.
I joined the chess club, not because I cared about human nature at the time, but because Daddy played with me every week. It had been the only way to win his approval, the only way to reach him.
It didn’t hurt that Mr. Santos had warm brown eyes. Under his gentle tutoring I developed a major crush on him. He was nothing but proper with me, but I had the kind of teenage dreams that would have been humiliating to admit.
“And last, but certainly not least, we have the sponsor for the chess club, who says in his letter: ‘Her presence at the weekly meetings was inspiring for all the other members. I’m sure the memory of her will continue to motivate the other students, who always admired her for her prodigious and impressive…talent.’”
The men respond with applause and hoots, shouting their praise for my talents. My stomach turns over, and I clutch my hands at my middle. I haven’t eaten anything all day, which is the only reason I don’t throw up all over the dark marble floors.
Daddy taught me chess.
And these men are laughing, laughing at it. Laughing at me.
Don’t they realize that the letters are fake? Don’t they care? There are toasts to my many large attributes, to the sweet taste of my ambition. And I realize that it doesn’t matter to them, whether the letters are true or not. It’s all a big joke. My entire life, a joke.
Damon speaks over the crowd, quieting them. “Due to the rare nature of the object of this auction, I had to keep her identity a secret. Once you see her, I’m sure you’ll understand why. And I think I’ve kept you waiting long enough. What do you say?”
The roar that follows makes me shrink back, away from the velvet curtain. I bump into the man with pale eyes, who stands with his arms folded, his gaze merciless. I swallow hard, almost lightheaded with panic. The small part of me that’s still sane knows that Damon is whipping them into a frenzy on purpose, but that doesn’t make it any less real. I’ll be in the center of that thinly veiled violence.
“Come on out, darling,” Damon says, his booming voice grasping hold of my throat.
I’m paralyzed. Heart, legs, eyes. Can’t move a thing. Not even my lungs can draw breath. Black spots dance in front of my eyes. Am I going to pass out?
Then hands push me firmly, inexorably, from behind. I stumble forward. The velvet curtain parts in front of me, and then I’m through the breach, standing on some kind of raised platform, looking out at a sea of faces. My mind catalogs them with chilling indifference—men in suits, ties loosened or missing, some sleeves rolled up. They sit on leather chairs strewn throughout the room, reclined, their comfort a stark contrast to my own terror.
My chest rises and falls with frantic breaths. Some of the men in the room I recognize, having met them at parties with my father, with Justin. They gave me genial smiles, seeming almost grandfatherly. They asked me about school, about my plans for the future. Now their eyes widen with shock—and something else. Vicious pleasure.