When the fifteen minutes were over and she had objected that she hadn’t finished reading, she had been told if she didn’t sign, she wouldn’t get to participate. So she had signed, telling herself that, NDA or no NDA, and no matter how many intimidating lawyers they shoved in her face, she had a right to report abuse and assault.
“Why would I want to read a boring legal document?” the blond returned. “The lawyer covered all the important stuff.”
“You’re not worried?”
Kimani wanted to blurt out how her roommate, who had participated in the Scarlet Auction, had ended up covered in bruises.
“Showtime,” announced an older woman. “Remember your stage assignments, ladies.”
Kimani was assigned to stand stage left of the podium and noticed that the blond virgin was stage right. Kimani’s roommate, Marissa, had explained that the virgins always stand stage right.
“Eww, these guys are so much older than I thought they would be,” the brunette whispered to Kimani.
“Most billionaires are,” Kimani whispered back. She made sure the broach with the hidden spy camera was secured to her choker.
“And not very attractive.”
“The guy in the middle row is cute,” said another woman.
Kimani scanned the crowd of mostly older white men and one lone woman in her forties to find the one dubbed “cute.” She gathered her fellow participant was referring to the guy with wavy brown hair flanked by a shorter man with a receding hairline and a tan-skinned Asian. They sat a little too far back for the camera in her broach to capture their faces well, but maybe with some technical wizardry, an image specialist could enlarge the fo
otage enough to be clear.
“We will begin the bidding with item number one,” declared the woman at the podium.
Item? Kimani shook her head. This was so much worse than Marissa had described.
The people in the audience all had bid cards, which they held up when they wanted to meet the price announced by the auctioneer. The blond virgin was sold to the cute one for eighty-thousand dollars. The young woman looked ready to jump for joy.
We’re being sold like livestock. Kimani shivered. What’s wrong with these people?
The thin woman with long black hair was sold to the only Asian man in the audience, and the other friend of the cute one had purchased a redhead. Kimani was the last one to be bid on.
At first, no one raised their card. Kimani flushed a little. The lack of bids couldn’t have been because of her appearance. She was young enough—twenty-five years old—and attractive, with her light mocha skin and naturally long eyelashes. She kept herself in shape through running every morning but still had curves in the right places. Maybe this crowd just wasn’t into her type.
“Why don’t we start the bidding at five thousand,” said the auctioneer.
The lone woman in the audience raised her card.
“Ten thousand? Do I see ten thousand?” asked the auctioneer.
A card went up from a man who had already purchased the brunette. Kimani perked up at the idea that she wouldn’t be alone.
“Fifteen thousand?”
The woman raised her card again.
“Twenty thousand? How about twenty thousand for this exotic beauty?”
Kimani stifled a gag. Just think of the job, she told herself. If written well, maybe the story would even be worthy of consideration for the Pulitzer.
“All right,” Sam had relented when she declared she was doing the story one way or another. “I’ll support you in any way I can—unofficially, of course. Who knows, maybe you could be the next Alex Dolan or Nellie Bly.”
“Thirty thousand.”
Kimani started and saw that the cute one was holding up his card.
“Thirty thousand. Do I have thirty-five?” asked the auctioneer.