“Of course.”
“Are you going to…sleep with them tonight?”
She smirks and glances past the curtain to the men and women waiting on the main floor. Then with a shrug, she says, “I’m at the club, aren’t I?”
I’m filled with dread again. What the fuck has Emerson signed me up for?
I watch from the sidelines as the girls go, one by one, onto the stage, where they strut around half-naked while men and women in the crowd bid for their time. Some of the girls have offered up their company for drinks while others, like Eden, have promised time in a specific room.
They start the bidding at one thousand dollars, and most girls are going for over five, and my jaw nearly hits the floor when a man in the back wins a night with Eden for fifty grand.
My heels click against the stage floor as I make my way into the spotlight.
Be sexy. Be confident. Be Charlotte.
The MC introduces me, and I barely hear a word he’s saying as I scan the crowd. Everyone is staring at me with warm, curious expressions. They’re making me a little more comfortable, even though they all look like they want to devour me—it’s better than looking uninterested or bored.
I instantly notice a familiar man in front. He’s in a black suit, sipping on a glass of something amber brown. He’s the same man who was playing poker on the first night in the club, with a woman kneeling at his side while he petted her head. Something about him terrifies me. He exudes power and wealth, and I can only assume he would be equally as terrifying in bed.
Looking up, I catch a glimpse of Emerson standing near the back wall. His arms are folded tightly in front of him, and there’s something about his body language that seems off. He’s tense.
“Give us a little turn, darlin’，” the man with the microphone says, and I force a bright smile as I circle the stage, letting the crowd see my ass, complete with bright red teeth marks.
Thanks, Emerson.
“Ten thousand,” a dark voice calls from the floor, and I spin in surprise, searching for the source.
The man in black winks at me as he takes a sip of his drink. My body floods with heat. This man will pay ten grand to spend an hour with me. Will he be disappointed if I don’t have sex with him? Surely, he must know he’s just winning my company. I can’t sleep with him. Emerson wouldn’t let that happen…would he?
“Ten thousand for Mr. Kade. Do I hear eleven thousand?”
Movement in the back of the room catches my attention, and I squint through the spotlight to see Emerson raise a hand. We lock eyes for a long, tense moment. He has to win. What if Mr. Kade outbids him? I’m trying not to let my panic show, but I’m shivering in my heels up here. Why would he do this to me?
“Mr. Grant for eleven thousand,” the man calls.
“Fifteen,” the man up front barks.
“Twenty,” Emerson replies. I can barely move as the men volley back and forth, the room thick with tension as they continuously outbid each other. When the man in black shouts fifty with a smug grin on his face, I want to cry. I’m about two seconds away from telling them to stop. I’m not worth this much money. They can’t possibly be willing to pay this much for me.
I shake my head at Emerson, making it so subtle I hope no one notices, but I think I might lose it if he actually coughs up over fifty thousand dollars just for an hour with me.
“Please, don’t,” I whisper, although no one can hear me. I know he can read the words on my lips.
He clenches his jaw and glares at me in anger.
The man in black looks back at Emerson, waiting for him to bid. I cover my cheeks, praying that this will end. I’m a nobody, not nearly as sexy as Eden or half as beautiful or as interesting as any of the other women that came up here. How can he just throw away money like that?
“Fifty thousand, going once…”
“Seventy-five,” Emerson says, staring at me as if he’s angry at me. My eyes are wide as saucers, and I must be pale as a ghost.
The man in black laughs loudly. “You’re worth every penny, sweetheart, but I think Mr. Grant wants you to himself.”
I’m still staring at Emerson with my mouth hanging open, trying to wrap my head around seventy-five grand.
“Sold!” the announcer yells. “For seventy-five thousand dollars to club owner, Emerson Grant!” The crowd begins to cheer, and I catch Eden clapping with a bright smile, while sitting on someone’s lap in the back of the room.
Before I know what’s happening, I watch Emerson march toward me, looking more irritated than elated at his win. Is he mad at me? Did I do something wrong?