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Stupidity is the best way to describe it.
Guilt.
How fucked am I?
I feel guilty about the guys. About leaving them. Letting them down.
But do they feel badly about what they’re doing to me? I doubt it.
I take one more look at Alexei’s doughy, pock-marked profile, and I know.
I come out from behind the screen and slowly walk across the room, like I have somewhere to go.
Miraculously, no one notices me. No one is paying any attention to the coveted prized possession that I am. Their ace in the hole. Their sure thing.
And then I’m outside. The bright street lights blind me for a second, but I manage to make out a taxi that just dropped off some passengers. They look at me oddly in my gold dress, as if they’re not sure whether I’m the actual woman up for auction, or someone working for the club.
I smile at them. “You’d better hurry, gentlemen,” I say, gesturing toward the door. “The auction is about to start.”
They nod in appreciation and pick up the pace.
“Go,” I yell at the cab driver after I slam the door.
He hesitates, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
“Please. Please. We need to go,” I plead.
And bless him, he peels out of the parking lot and takes the first highway exit. I slump down in case anyone catches up, looking for me.
The anger overwhelming me seconds earlier is replaced by terror, terror that I’ll be caught at any moment. It won’t take the guys long to realize I’m gone.
When they do, how will they feel? Betrayed? Angry? Sad?
Will they feel guilty like I do?
Which is such bullshit.
And if it is, why do I feel like my heart is breaking?
The cabby throws a baseball cap and hoodie over the seat for me. “Here,” he says. “Someone left these behind. I was gonna turn them in, but you look like you need ‘em.” Grungy as they are, I pull them on. I am grateful, wrapped in a momentary layer of safety.
God bless him, as my mother would say.
“Where to, ma’am?” he asks.
I give him an address, and he nods.
Am I finally getting my break?
* * *
