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The meeting continued on in much that same strain. There was talk of killing off some competition literally, and paying back a trifling amount of money owed to the Mafia. The group was so civil and composed about these matters, it was almost like this was a dental conference or something. I voted when necessary, but otherwise kept mum.
At last, it was time for a break in the proceedings. Fine Cuban cigars were passed around the table. Each man pulled from his pocket a branded match box bearing his casino’s name and imprint, and struck a flame. Caviar was circulated as well — beluga, I believe — while the men talked of national elections and favorite local call girls.
Jordan, a younger owner who sat to my right, attempted to draw me out on the topic of yachts and Santorini in the summer. I gave him a terse reply, quickly ending the hatchling conversation.
Three seats down from me, Mac was making a stir with his raucous laughter, slapping on the table and spilling drops of his drink.
Mac was the owner of RES, one of the top-tier casinos that traded in fine foods, rich clientele, and the highest jackpots in town. He was famously close friends with various sheikhs, and had what papers described as a “legion” of Ferraris, each in a different hue. Mac himself was completely bald, just under five-ten, and attempted to counter this by having invisible heels inserted into his shoes. His clothes rioted with ostentatious brand names like Supreme and Gucci, and he wore a watch worth a small island.
He opened his gaping mouth once more and turned down to my end of the table, placing an elbow on the wood.
“Hey fellas,” he said, his small eyes gleaming. “I got a thing goin’ on in my place next week as I have a couple of friends flying over, you all in?”
Oh Jesus Christ.
A few of the guys chuckled and looked knowingly at one another. Darian, the newest member, glanced about in confusion. I should’ve taken him under my wing, seeing as he was the newest — and youngest — casino owner besides myself and had officially adopted my position as runt of the litter. However, I knew that if he associated with me, he’d be tainted. The fellow members were polite to me, but everyone was clear on the fact that I was there because I had to be, not because I wanted to.
“Mac?” Darian asked, his voice quivering a little.
He was only twenty-two, and though he’d been rich his whole life, the money hadn’t seemed to bestow upon him the confidence it had in these other men. He was wiry, with pitted skin and a bulbous nose. Perhaps even money can’t overcome an appearance like that.
“Yes, kid?” Mac replied, dripping with derision.
“What’s a ‘thing’?”
I wanted to reach across to Darian and whisper that he was better off not getting an answer to this particular question, that his life would be simpler if he didn’t know.
Mac grinned. “Oh, Darian. You have so much to learn.”
Darian swallowed, fidgeting and waiting for an answer.
Mac drew this out for a moment, then continued, “What I mean is, we’re having a sale. A very specific kind of sale.”
The boy brightened. “Is it of your cars? I like cars.”
“No. Something even finer than a good Lambo. RES is going to be hosting a very private, very exclusive virginity sale.”
“What?” Darian blustered.
I sighed.
Mac nodded. “You heard me right. One beautiful woman, one virginity for auction.”
“Who is she?”
“Dunno, not yet. We have a stable of girls waiting at the drop of the hat for an auction. We look through our books, check out their social media, and see who’s in the best shape for the sale.”
“But what if you go schedule it and then there’s no girl?”
Darian was so innocent, just getting hung up on the details — not the fact that women were giving themselves to the highest bidder.
Mac laughed with ease. “Oh, Darian. Here’s something you oughta learn. It’s Vegas. There is always a girl willing to sell herself and a man happy to help her. We’ll find somebody. We always do.”
“Okay, enough,” I cried out, slamming a fist on the table. “You can’t talk about the women this way, like it’s some kind of fucking blood sport.”
“Oh ho ho, is wittle Tate a wittle upset?” Mac sneered.
“This is gross and antiquated, and you know it. Who the fuck cares about virginity? I mean, what’s in it for you?”
“You get to fuck them however you want,” he answered, as though it was obvious. “Virgins say yes to everything. They don’t know any better.”
“You repulse me,” I spat.
In a clamor of chair legs scraping across the ground, Mac pushed away from the table and clambered out of his chair, walking over to me. The conversations at the opposite end died down as he lowered himself to my eye level, looping a thick arm around my shoulder. Our noses were inches away and I could feel my heart galloping through my chest. I wanted to strangle him, to put him in the ground where he belonged.
