Sell My Soul (Sixty Days 1)

“Maybe they’re just finding their feet.”

“They can find them elsewhere for five fucking grand.”

“I guess they’re trying their luck.”

He had that right.

I returned to the screen and clicked on the side bar for a sub menu. The suspend button was a joy to press on their user accounts. I could imagine their faces on the other side as the notification sounded through.

Offensive. Their paltry cash gesture was nothing more than offensive.

“What was that?!” Eric asked, clicking around in the aftermath of my flash decision.

He’d signed these two up a month back, his first two client handshakes. Just as I feared, he’d either missed vital aspects of the introduction guidelines, or they’d taken him for an easy player.

“Wait,” I told him, leaning calmly against the worktop and enjoying the nicotine rush a damn sight better than I’d enjoyed pinking Annabel’s perky ass cheeks.

It took less than a minute for the pings to pop up on screen from the two user accounts. Again, the action was simultaneous from both of them.

A fifty grand account reinstatement bid from both profiles.

I was smiling as I clicked accept, intuition validated.

“Send over an additional copy of our contract with a compulsory I understand button. They need the refresher. Maybe put in a call for a guideline conversation, also. Bad legwork, brother. They should be considerably more familiar with our processes before going live on our network. Five grand is a pitiful offer, if they go anywhere near it again I’ll be booting them out on a permanent basis.”

I watched his crestfallen expression as he took hold of the keyboard. Poor kid. I almost felt sorry for him.

“Feeling a pressing desire to challenge me about any of the remaining bids?” I prompted.

I was relieved when he shook his head.

At least he was learning something.Chapter FivePaigeThe profile picture was mostly in darkness. A guy in a suit. No real defining features, just shadow and stubble and a look that screamed money. Even though it was a vague enough picture that I’d never be able to pick the man out of a line up, the butterflies swarmed fast and deep.

My nerves had jangled loud enough that I’d worried Carolyn would hear them as she’d relocated to my side at the dinner table and passed her handset across for better viewing. I’m sure my eyes were saucers as they’d fixed on the guy’s shady image and the brief text listing to the side.

Dark pleasures. No limits.

High stakes, higher rewards.

Private message with a description of how dark and dirty you’re willing to be for your ultimate pay day.

“This is him,” she’d explained in a hushed whisper. “Well, one of them. Whoever they are. My sister met him on the beach one Saturday night after the clubs kicked out.”

I was still wondering how meeting some random guy on the beach in the early hours of the morning would lead to signing up to sexual torture for sixty days straight, but Carolyn didn’t seem to have many answers to my questions.

Ten hours later and I was in my bed with the lamp on low at my side, staring at the same profile on the backwater social media site like it was a winning lottery ticket ready to cash in.

It shouldn’t be.

Carolyn really had needed an ear in the chaos. She was on the edge of sibling concern, which I could well relate to. Her sister was living the high life in the aftermath, but the full extent of her experiences were beyond even the worst of the rumours circulating round campus. Carolyn had told me plenty enough to make me edgy as all hell, wondering with a fractured resolve whether I could stand to deliver what these men, monsters, would want from me.

One thing was sure, I’d have to try.

I called up my sister’s earlier text to refresh my determination.

Help, Paige, please. I need money. Whatever you can spare. Please. I need you.

Nothing. That’s what I could spare.

My loan was maxed out with weeks still to go of term time. I had no way of paying back any side loans I took out on her behalf, leading me into nothing but certain financial despair just to fix her up with a temporary solution.

My thumb hovered for a long moment over Phoebe’s message before pressing the back key. Dirty guy’s profile was right there waiting, the private message button beaming bright for me to click on.

I took a breath as I clicked, holding it tight in my lungs as my phone browser jammed then refreshed slowly. A profile of my own. I needed a profile of my own to message his. Shit.

I made up the first thing that came to my mind.

NervousbutReady

I keyed in my actual birth date, and gave my actual name and email to the admin panel. My profile text was a blank box begging for words, but I had none. The backspace was used so many times I lost count as I began to type then changed my mind. I had no idea what to say on a profile which may ultimately lead to a sixty-day mission of filth for money.