The Flesh Cartel #2: Auction (6 page)

“Take the fighter to the holding pen with the others. As for the brother, I’d like to speak to him alone before he’s brought out. And Clarice, stop worrying over that crying bitch’s makeup, would you? I’ve never seen mascara running down a crying woman’s face
lose
me money in this business.”

She swept out again, her entourage following behind.

As soon as she’d left, one guard turned to another. “I don’t care what she says, that animal needs a fucking gag, so bring one along just in case.”

Just then, Mat’s fingers drifted briefly, inconspicuously, across the tray on the sink where the bloody razorblade lay. But before he did anything else, he met Dougie’s eyes again, just as briefly.

No,
Dougie thought as hard as he could.
No, no, don’t be stupid it’s too risky no no no.

Mat’s hand fell, empty, to his side.

They were separated again.

But God it had been good to see Dougie. A little bit gaunt, but clean and still with light in his eyes, not beaten yet. And not wearing that plug anymore, although Mat wasn’t sure how relieved he was on that point. Dougie was okay. There was still hope for them. They could still get out of this. Live to see the other side. He just didn’t know how.

He wished he hadn’t put that razorblade down, but to have taken it after Dougie’s emphatic
no
would have been a betrayal.

Two heavies frog-marched him down a different hall. Up a flight of stairs. Another hall. How big was this fucking place?

At last, they stopped in a room whose feel, if not its exact appearance, resembled the changing room before a fight. Except against one wall was a row of tall cages, just big enough for a single man to stand up in. Or a woman. Several of the cages already held an occupant, a placard on each door displaying a string of letters and numbers. A man dressed all in black, wearing a headset and holding a clipboard and a portable scanner, approached Mat when the guards walked him in. No words were exchanged, but clearly this was an old routine, because one of the guards wrenched Mat’s left arm out to the side and held it there while Clipboard Guy passed the scanner over the microchip buried beneath his skin. The man nodded, checked something off on his clipboard, and said, “Cage fourteen.”

They dragged Mat to an empty cage, unlocked it, and shoved him inside. It was tiny—no bigger than a shower stall at a public gym—and barred on all four sides. The cage to his right held a beautiful girl, naked like all the people in cages, and so young he felt sick with fury just looking at her. He hoped like fuck she was eighteen, but then, what did age of consent matter in a place where
consent
didn’t matter? The cage to his left was empty.

He noticed one of his guards handing Clipboard Guy a bit gag on their way out. Well, at least they hadn’t forced it on him yet.

“I’m Leslie,” the girl to his right said. She was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, staring him right in the eye. She had an intense look about her for someone so young. It made a mockery of the pigtails they’d done her up in. “I just wanted you to know that. Then at least somebody does.”

He nodded solemnly. “Mathias. Carmichael.” The exchange seemed too weighty, too significant, to give her his nickname. “Do you know what they’re going to do with us?”

“Kill us, hopefully.”

Mat swallowed back sudden tears and the urge to scold, to tell her not to talk like that, not to give up. Who was he to decide what someone else could or couldn’t bear? “How old are you?” he asked instead. He didn’t know why. He didn’t
want
to know.

“Not old enough for this shit.” And then she smiled. “I turned nineteen in August.” No tears in
her
eyes. They were hard, resigned. She shrugged, laughed humorlessly. “I spent the last two months hooking, anyway. Aged out of the system. Maybe this is God’s way of punishing me for all the shit I’ve done. But at least here I get three square meals and a roof.”

Aged out of the system.
A cold chill chased down Mat’s spine.

It had to be a coincidence.

“No bed though,” she said, in a tone like she was just talking to herself.

Things were quiet after that. Between them, at least, though he heard murmurings now and then from some occupants. Others kept to themselves, afraid or ashamed, huddled and averting their eyes.

Slowly, the remaining empty cages began to fill. Mat kept waiting for Dougie to appear, but it kept not happening. The cage to his left, the one he’d thought—
hoped
—would be Dougie’s, was taken by a too-pretty Asian twink who met his gaze and then quickly looked away. Early twenties maybe, black hair spiked with gel, eyelids painted a sparkling metallic green. Not a bruise on him, at least not that Mat could see. None on Leslie, either. Maybe Mat was just fucking
special
.

Or maybe he was the only one stupid enough to keep fighting when the match was rigged.

Maybe he should’ve kept that razorblade, after all. Maybe Leslie would’ve thanked him for it. Maybe she really would be better off dead.

No. Don’t think that way. She’s someone’s daughter, sister, cousin, friend.
Someone
must love her.

Aged out of the system . . .

Maybe not, then. And yet
he
loved her. Fiercely and irrationally and undeniably. He thrust a hand through the bars of his cage, wanting to touch her,
needing
it, to confirm they were still
human
somehow, still held the power to love, to connect, to make choices. “Leslie,” he croaked, voice thick and choked, and she lifted her chin from her knees to look at him. Eyed his hand for a long moment, as if contemplating what he wanted from her, if he’d hurt her, if he’d take from her like everyone else had. But then she met his eyes, and he smiled, and her whole face seemed to
unfreeze
, come alive, just for a moment, and the pain in her eyes was so raw and naked he could barely stand to see it. Knew, with certainty, that his eyes reflected the same.

She climbed to her feet, reached through the bars, and took his hand.

They took Mat away from him. They
took Mat away from him
and left him with a guard. One who, the minute they were alone in the hallway, pushed Dougie against a wall, twisted his arm behind his back, and rutted against his unprotected ass, fucking between his thighs and along his cleft.

“Gonna miss you, pretty baby,” he growled, coating Dougie’s inner thighs in cum. At least he hadn’t been bold enough to penetrate him, but it didn’t make it any less humiliating.

Wait,
miss
him? Where was he going? Was the guard going somewhere? Was Dougie?

The guard used a handkerchief—an honest-to-God old-school monogrammed handkerchief—to wipe up his mess, then balled it up and stuffed it into Dougie’s mouth. “Suck it clean for me, little hole,” he instructed as he zipped his pants.

They resumed their walk, Dougie chewing on the mouthful of fabric and trying not to gag.

A flight of stairs later, and they were in . . . a sitting room? There were two couches and a coffee table and a wall-mounted TV and a spread of mouthwatering food. Sliced fruit and veggies and rolled deli meats and a tray of fudge squares.

And then Dougie was alone. Completely alone for the first time since he’d been here. The guard had taken back his handkerchief and locked Dougie in from the outside, and he was here with these couches and this food and . . . oh God, it had to be some kind of test.

He went to a corner as far from the food as possible, and knelt by one of the couches. On the floor. He hadn’t ever been specifically
told not to use furniture here, but it’s not as if there’d been
much furniture to use, and he knew better anyway. He was a hole, not a man—he’d been told that over and over again—and
holes
didn’t get to sit on comfortable couches. Which seemed to be the right choice, because a moment later, Madame bustled in, flanked by two assistants: one with a clipboard and a headset, the other chasing after her with a makeup compact and a brush. Her eyes glanced rapidly across both couches and finally landed on Dougie where he knelt, and she
smiled.

“Well don’t you look lovely, my prize pet.” She wandered over to the buffet table, plucked up a strawberry, and ate it with cruel deliberateness. Watched him watching her eat.

He waited very patiently and didn’t say a word. Spread his knees apart a little where he knelt, like the guards had taught him.

When she’d collected a plate of food, she went to one of the couches and took a seat. Her two assistants vanished.

“I wanted to talk to you alone,” she announced, after he’d been waiting for what felt like an hour. “Come.” It was only a yard or so to reach her, so he shuffled on his knees, trying not to wince at the rug burn.

She held out half a fudge square between her perfectly manicured finger and thumb. Just out of reach. “Go on, take it,” she said when he didn’t act. He reached out, earning a stern frown. “Not with your hands. You must never touch your betters with your hands, not unless ordered or directed.”

With my mouth. She wants me to eat out of her hand.

He didn’t want to. Not even the temptation of the fudge was enough, even after God knew how long eating nothing but bland lentil stews and dry salads and drier whole grain bread. But she was
looking
at him, and he
knew
that look, knew it would end in violence—and maybe not just for him but for Mat also—so he sucked it up. Stretched his spine and neck. Tilted his chin. The fudge grazed his lower lip. He took it delicately, trying to touch as little of her fingers as possible.

It was
heavenly
. Ambrosia. It was all he could do to keep from groaning aloud.

“As I was saying, I wanted to talk to you personally,” she said. “As you’re about to make me an indecent amount of money. Just
how
indecent will depend on your behavior over the next little while. And lest you think you have no stake in this yourself, understand that when I sell you— Yes,
sell
you,” she said to the shock Dougie could feel on his face, “you may be sold with or without your brother. I’d like you to remember that.”

No.
No.
The fudge stuck in his throat and he couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe.
Without Mat?
She couldn’t, she
wouldn’t . . .

I’d die without Mat. Shrivel up and die and if I didn’t then I’d just
kill
myself because I can’t do this wi—

Madame chuckled and touched her palm to his hair. “Oh, pet. You won’t die, and you
certainly
won’t have the opportunity to kill yourself.”

 Oh, God, had he spoken aloud? He stared at her in horror, waiting for a blow that never came. Instead, “Calm yourself and listen, pet. Your brother has been . . . trying for me. And I wonder if I should have just killed him, as I’d initially planned. He’s not exactly easy to market, since my clientele are hardly the target audience for such a product. However, I think there’s . . . a loveliness to him that you bring out. A hidden value. But I also know that as surely as you could elevate him, he could drag you down. Make even you undesirable.
Taint
you with his presence, or his influence, or both. It’s a gamble, and you are a very,
very
costly wager.”

She plucked another fudge square off her plate and nibbled thoughtfully at one corner. He couldn’t help it; he followed it with his eyes, though God knew how he could be thinking about food when Madame was so casually talking about taking from him the last thing he had. Taking from Mat, too—taking them from each other. Just one more way this place had warped him.

“Please, Madame . . .” He ducked his head, wished he knew the right thing to do here to make her listen, make her receptive to his pleas, make her not hurt them like this. He couldn’t just suck her cock, after all; even if she had one, he didn’t think she’d want that. He pressed his forehead to the ground before her feet, instead, stayed there, prostrate and begging. “Please, tell me what I have to do, Madame. Tell me how to make this right, how to—” Money, she’d talked about money. “How to make your clients want me. Want Mat. Want
us.
Together.”