Page 2 of I’m The Worst

I watch in the mirror as she combs through my long, matted hair. Her eyes meet mine, and for a split second, I think I see pity. Then the emotion is gone.

I look at my reflection. The girl staring back is someone I don’t know. Her bones jut out at sharp angles, and her eyes are vacant. The drugs they’ve given me have kept me alive, but they’ve also ravaged my body.

“Where am I?”

The woman doesn’t answer. She just keeps brushing, gently working through the knots.

I want to scream. I want to rage. I want to rip her throat out, her eyes, her hair. To tear her to shreds for what she’s doing—helping them groom me for whatever the hell this is.

But I sit there, silent and numb.

“What’s going to happen?”

The woman still doesn’t respond, but I notice the slight pause in her hand.

My eyes search her face for answers. “Please.”

“Shh.”

“Where am I?” I demand. “I want to know.”

The stylist glances over my shoulder and shakes her head slightly.

“Where. Am. I?”

“The auction.” Her voice is barely a whisper. She looks around the room before continuing. “They’re auctioning you off for the night.”

Those words suck the air from my lungs.

“To the highest bidder.”

Her eyes flick over me, the pity returning, before she ducks her head, her mouth close to my ear. “Just try to survive. Do what they say, and don’t fight.”

My body tenses, blood freezing in my veins as I stare at her. But her expression has gone blank again. She picks up a hairdryer and begins drying and styling my hair. After she applies makeup, she steps back, her eyes scanning me with practiced detachment.

“That’s the best I can do.”

I don’t respond. It feels pointless. The guard doesn’t seem to care either. He grabs a white silk dress from a hanger, shoving it into my chest.

“Put this on.”

The dress is too short, too tight. Silk clings to my skin, sliding over bruises and cuts.

“Let’s go,” he snaps, and the zipper of the dress bites into my back as he yanks it closed.

I stumble as he pulls me toward a set of heavy double doors. The muffled noise on the other side grows louder with every step—voices, music, something that almost sounds like cheering.

“Stop,” a deep, familiar voice calls out to us.

My throat tightens.

No. Not him.

He comes into view, his suit perfectly tailored, the crisp, white shirt unbuttoned at the top. His blond hair is cropped short, framing a strong, masculine face.

I keep my eyes glued to the floor.

He stops in front of me.