The paperwork in front of me would bind me to another three years of whoring. But this was my choice, something I could do to escape the life my mother believed I deserved. I no longer felt shame in my decision to become some strange man’s wife. Ruby Dawson was a survivor. A woman in charge of her own fate for the first time. If I had to secure my future on my back, so be it. I was ruined goods anyway. Garbage nobody wanted. If a man with a fat wallet wanted to dress me up and pay me to get his rocks off, parade me around his friends and colleagues as his arm candy, I’d act the part. Because ultimately, after my sentence was served, I’d be free.
The only thing that mattered was my sister. I would break my back. Bleed. Cut off my own arm to ensure her life was nothing like mine. Just nineteen, my sister had completed her first year at Glory Springs Community College. I’d never been more proud of anyone or anything in my entire life. But she deserved a better school and her own place to rest her head at night. I intended to make that happen for her. My sister was the smartest person I knew. She should have been in one of those big fancy Ivy League universities like Harvard or Yale. If we were different people, with a different upbringing, she may have been able to.
My sister got the financial aid for the tuition itself all on her own, but I was paying for the room she rented from a nice old couple walking distance from the school. Opal was going to be the first Dawson in our entire history that would amount to somethin’ special. I’d make sure of it. The quarter of a million dollars that would go into my bank account—provided I was chosen tomorrow night—would set my sister up and pay for a university tuition and dorm far, far away from the shithole we grew up in.
Madam Alana placed two sheets of glossy paper in front of me, each printed with at least thirty or forty images of men. It reminded me of the one time I was questioned by the police and was asked to identify a criminal they were chasing across state lines. Only these pages had a lot more faces on them, and they weren’t mug shots. Also, they didn’t exactly look like criminals. These were professional photos like you’d see on a website of doctors or lawyers.
“These are all the men who will be bidding tomorrow night. You are allowed to mark the picture of one man who you will not marry based on sight alone, if you so desire,” Madam Alana announced, gesturing to the pages.
I frowned. “I don’t get it.”
Madam Alana pressed her lips together as though annoyed. Not surprising. I’d gotten that look and press of lips a lot from my teachers back when I was in high school. I wasn’t considered the sharpest tool in the shed, but get me on the street and I knew my way around better than most people.
“Every candidate up for auction gets to refuse one man or woman,” she stated softly.
“There are women bidding?” I blurted as my mouth dropped open in shock.
A hint of a smile was her only response. “Women need partners too, whatever their sexual proclivities are. At our company we cater to all needs. And no one is being purchased. Each couple is entering into a legally binding arranged marriage that includes specific parameters and what I like to call ‘perks.’”
“You mean money,” I supplied with a grin.
“I mean benefits of marriage.” One of her eyebrows cocked as though daring me to say otherwise.
“So why don’t I see any female faces on these sheets?” I pointed to those in front of me.
“Because you’ve already completed the paperwork regarding your sexual proclivities and checked the box for heterosexual. That automatically reduced the pool of bidders to those of the opposite sex. Our goal is to pair like with like in the hope that the next three years for you and your future husband will be pleasant ones.” She stared at me in that way other smarter people did when I didn’t understand something they thought was simple.
“Cool,” I whispered.
That response got me an actual smile. “Agreed.” She handed me a red Sharpie pen. “If you see an individual you do not wish to marry, mark a red X over their face. No questions will be asked.”
“Okay, um, thanks.”
I scanned each photo. There was a hunky Viking-type guy with long hair, a beard, and mustache. He might have looked rough around the edges or scary to some, but it was often the guys who looked normal that were the most twisted. All the men were good-looking, with nice teeth, heads full of hair, and nothing nefarious in their eyes. There were even a couple cowboys.
At the very end I got to a pair of men with dark hair and dark, sexy eyes that looked like identical twins. Except one wore glasses and kept his appearance more buttoned up, reminding me of my intelligent, book-smart sister. However, the guy next to him, obviously his brother, was too hot for words. Smiling wide in the image, he looked exactly like the type of cocky, womanizing guy who would talk to you sweet until he screwed you, then throw you away after. Even though he was the best-looking of the entire bunch in my opinion, I scratched a big red X over his image.