Shocking myself further, I reached out and took Ruby’s hand. Then, as if we were about to have a kumbaya session out in the forest under a full moon, the six of us locked hands with one another.
“Let’s make a pact to stay in touch regularly. We can call ourselves ‘The Candidates Club,’” Savannah suggested, smiling widely.
“To The Candidates Club.” I offered my best fake smile. These people were nice, and each of us had our reasons for entering into the auction, but none of their situations had life and death stakes. Ultimately, this was a competition, and I needed to keep my head in the game and my eye on the prize.
I was out of options.
This was my last chance at having what I desperately needed…a way out.
Episode 6
Makeover Madness
RUBY
“Shit, shit, shit!” I raced down the hallway of the swanky Vegas hotel in my bare feet with the clothes I intended to wear today thrown over my arm. My long blonde hair was in a wonky, messy bun at the top of my head that I’d slept in last night. I jetted into the sleek elevator and pressed the button to go up where this morning’s meeting was supposed to have started fifteen minutes ago.
“Please don’t kick me out of the auction for this.” I groaned as I shoved off my pajama shorts and wiggled into my nicest jeans. They had rips in the knees, but my sister, Opal, swore it was the style nowadays. I don’t have a clue what’s in fashion. Being born and raised in a trailer in one of the poorest towns in Mississippi meant I didn’t have a plethora of beautiful clothes at my fingertips. No, everything I owned, even what I was currently wearing, was thrift store to the tenth degree. Heck, these jeans might even be men’s, as they had five buttons that were giving me hell as I tried to get them all buttoned up before the elevator brought me to the right floor.
I had on a plain white ribbed tank, the same I’d slept in, and no bra. I immediately shoved my arms into the one decent black blazer I owned, slipped it over the tank, and closed the button at the front to hide my braless breasts.
In my hands I held my favorite pair of black patent-leather stripper heels. I tossed the shoes to the floor and tugged my hair out of the messy bun. I slipped on the shoes, thankfully without falling on my ass with how fast I was moving, bent over and shook my hair out, then stood up. My hair fell into a sheet of golden messy bed-head waves that would have to do. I didn’t have makeup on, but from what I understood, today we were getting assessed by the beauty team before tonight’s auction. That meant I didn’t have to do my makeup—so point for me. I quickly balled up my pajama shorts and tucked them into my ratty purse before slinging it over my shoulder.
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened to the unmarked offices of The Marriage Auction. All they’d given us originally was an address. Now I knew what was behind the sleek glass entry doors and wasn’t surprised to find Madam Alana waiting for me in the reception area wearing another fierce suit. This one a chic cream color. Her legs were shiny and golden, as though she’d just been sunbathing, though I knew better. That shine came in a bottle. We had the same stuff back at the strip joint. Except she didn’t look like she was about to go ride a pole, but maybe a rich CEO.
“Ms. Dawson, do you always arrive to your engagements after the scheduled time?”
I frowned. “Are you askin’ if I’m always late? If so, then no. I swear, ma’am. But I didn’t hear the wake-up call from the front desk and the alarm clock contraption that was on the bedside was too difficult to figure out.” I inhaled and continued on a rush. “Every time I messed with it, music came on. Then there were these drunk guys that shared the wall with my room, and they were up all hours of the night partying, so I put in ear plugs to get a good night’s rest, and then…”
She held up her hand to stop me from continuing. “You woke late. I understand. No need to go into further detail. Follow me. Your stylist awaits.” She snapped her fingers and took off at a brisk walk down the long hallway. I quick-stepped after her because the woman was damn fast on those high heels, and I knew how to walk in stilettos. Technically, I knew how to rock a pole in sky-high platform stilettos too, but I’d neglected to put the stripper part of my job on my application. I didn’t think a rich man wanted an exotic dancer on his arm, so I kept that info to myself. I just hoped it didn’t get me into a heap of trouble when it came out. Not that I’d be telling anyone.
I figured it was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission in regard to that bit of my history. Maybe I’d tell my future husband once I was chosen, if we became friends. I imagined we’d become friends if we were getting married and planning to have sex, but I didn’t know any rich people. Even the heavy tippers back at the strip joint didn’t have millions. They might have owned the local mechanic’s garage or a Subway sandwich shop in the second town over, but they didn’t have suit-wearing, city-type money.