Page 61 of Auctioned

It was time to put my foot down.

“I’m not sure that’s my job, sir,” I said, in the mildest tone I could manage. “I don’t want to step on someone else’s toes. I wouldn’t even know where to get that level of liquor.”

That last part was because I was certain Mac required different liquor than the shitty stuff we kept in back. Hopefully that would shut down this test or game he was playing.

“Call me Mac. And you can get it from the basement, just tell them it’s for my office. They’ll know what you mean. Don’t worry about whose job it is. I’m assigning you this responsibility, and I’m confident you can handle it. Understood?”

He was mildly irritated, and I decided not to push my luck.

“If you’re sure…”

“I am. Go on, now.”

With a slight bob of my head, as though I was an English maid at some country manor, I took my leave of Mac and, as directed, walked to the elevators.

I’ve never been to the basement of a casino before, I thought with absent-minded interest. Maybe it’ll be cool.

Probably not. More likely than not, it’d just be a football field’s worth of food and drink, nothing too fabulous.

I tapped my toe, and the elevator dinged.

The basement, as I predicted, was dull, just miles of concrete and stockpiles. I found the first employee I could, a man with a trim mustache and a beanie. He was conveniently stationed right near the doors of the elevator, almost as if he’d been bored and waiting for a visitor.

In a higher voice than I intended, I asked, “Excuse me, do you know where the liquor for Mac’s personal office is kept? I’ve asked to replenish the bar. He said that you’d all know where it was kept.”

A shadow of recognition crossed his face, and he nodded.

“Yes,” he replied, in a thick Eastern European accent. “Come with me.”

I followed him for what felt like two whole minutes, traversing an entire city block as we wove through mountains of cheap gin and gas station cigarettes. It was like a particularly sinful panic room for the apocalypse.

At last, we reached a heavy steel door.

“You keep his liquor in its own room?” I questioned, skeptical of this arrangement.

“It is very expensive. Workers sometimes steal it.”

Well, that did make sense, I supposed.

He took out a key ring and found the appropriate key with little effort, as though he did this often. Guess Mac must like a drink, I thought.

The man unlocked the door and swung it open.

That’s when I felt a swarm of hands descend on me.

I heard my own screams as though through another’s ears. The sound was dulled by the thick walls.

There was a chair beneath me, and now the foreign hands were tying my hands behind my back. A gag was in my mouth, and I felt dizziness swim into my vision. There was too much flesh-colored movement — I couldn’t track it. I’m going to die here.

I wanted to fight back, but I knew immediately that whoever was holding me — and however many of them — was far stronger.

I tried to cry out “Help!” but of course, the gag muffled my words.

Just as I was feeling unconsciousness envelop me like a warm embrace, a familiar voice sounded.

“Glad to see you’re cozy.”

My eyes refocused as I fought to stay upright or, rather, awake — the binds of the chair forced me into a seated position.

Oh my God.

It was Mac.

He was standing a few feet in front of me, looking as smug as the cat who caught the canary.

I struggled in my chair, trying to kick out and connect with his shins, but he was too far and my ankles had apparently been bound as well.

“Shh, shh,” he murmured with a smile. “Calm down.”

Tears stung my eyes and I furiously bit them back. I wanted to ask what was going on, to demand answers. He’d robbed me of my voice, the most powerful part of myself.

“I imagine you’d like to know why I’ve brought you down here.”

At this, I had to laugh or at least, as much of a laugh as I could manage. The noise was strangled but distinct. The You think? was implied.

“There’s some money I’m owed,” he said casually, as though we were discussing this over brunch.

Oh fuck. I didn’t know my dad frequented any casinos besides Dazzlers — I thought he was fairly brand loyal — but apparently, he’d racked up debts with RES as well. Despite myself, I had an insipid urge to apologize for my father’s shortcomings.

But then Mac continued, “And you’ll be making the payment on Tate’s behalf.”

Wait.

Huh?

I leaned as far forward as I could manage, waiting for some kind of explanation.

The last thing I remember was a damp rag on my face and the world receding into black.

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