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“It’s not a what,” he says, hitting thetespecially hard. “Rather, a who. A girl. I want to add her to tonight’s catalogue at Asta.”
“You know the process, Wes. I don’t handle that. Ruslan does.”
“I ran it by him. He also agreed you should get first dibs.” From the inside pocket of his coat, he pulls out a folded stack of papers and tosses them on the desk in front of me.
“What’s this?” I ask, narrowing my gaze on them.
“It’s the girl’s contract.”
Something about the way he says it raises a red flag. I take the contract and unfold it. My eyes widen as I begin to read. “This is an indenture.”
He grins. “She’s my servant. Whoever gets her gets the real deal for five years. Not that pretend shit you normally like to do there.”
I look at him. “We don’t force anyone onto Asta’s stage. If you’re selling her against her will—”
“She signed the damned thing!” he says exasperatedly. “She’ll be there of her own free will to do whatever the fuck her…” he trails off, his stare going to the side as if he’s trying to figure out a word. “Handler,” he finally says. “She agreed to do whatever her handler wants from her in exchange for something she wanted.”
“Handler.” I smirk. “You mean master.” I study him, wondering what exactly he’s playing at. “If she’s willing to do whatever you want, why sell her? Fuck her. Get your jollies and let her go.”
“Because of who she is.” He taps the contract with the tip of his cane. “I’ll be able to make more money selling her indenture. I can get enough to buy pussy to last me the rest of my life.”
“Not interested.”
Yes, I own Asta. It’s part of the Maxton underground empire, after all. The true source of our wealth. The Maxton Pierce Auction House sells art and antiques. Asta sells men and women to the highest bidder for their carnal pleasure.
They’re not slaves. These men and women are there because they choose to be. They have signed contracts with stipulations their “consignor” must follow, clauses that give them an out if needed. But if they break that contract, they stand to lose a great deal of money.
It’s nothing more than a game for most of them. A sexual fantasy both they and the bidders want to fulfill. One person to own. The other to be owned.
Sometimes, it’s all about the money. And there’s a lot of it to be made with sex. I suppose one could call them prostitutes. But they are so much more than that.
Only the best is offered on that stage. The rarest finds for the most demanding of tastes. Although women will grace us with their presence on occasion, it’s usually men who sit on the red tufted chairs, raising their paddles as the auctioneer calls out the obscene dollar amounts they’re willing to pay.
Not me. I’ve never been interested in role playing. Only in getting richer.
Wes arches a bushy brow. “I think you’ll change your mind when you read the name on that contract.”
I drop my gaze back to the document, to the very last line, and nearly stop breathing.
Imogen Skye Cameron.
“What the fuck is this?” Straightening, I look at him. “Is this a sick joke?”
Wes laughs and lifts his hands. “No joke, I swear.”
“How the fuck did you get this?” I demand.
“I told you. She got something she wanted in return for that signature.”
“What would Thomas Cameron’s daughter want from you?”
“Protection,” he sneers. “Her father’s enemies have come knocking. They think she has money. But her daddy’s life insurance doesn’t come in for five years. She was smart enough to seek out a man with power.”
As he’s saying it, I’m reading the contract. Though it would never be taken seriously in court, it would be upheld by our laws.
This Indenture Contract by and between Wesley Ritter (“Owner”) and Imogen Skye Cameron (“Trustee”) The Owner of this Indenture Contract therefore agrees to provide protection from any and all forms of physical harm until the herein Trustee’s twenty-fifth birthday,” I read aloud, then ask him, “If you’re the owner of this contract, and you’re obligated to keep her from harm, why bring her to me when you know what her father did? I’m the last person who wants to keep her from harm.” I toss the documents back to him. “Feed her to the wolves for all I care.”
His mouth quirks up to one side. “Just thought you might be interested. But I suppose now that Cameron is dead, the hatchet has been buried with him.”
