The nickname makes me hesitate; for not the first time, I wonder if he thinks I'm someone else—but that doesn’t make any sense. Libby is a nickname for Elizabeth.
That next second, they are all around us. Faces and equipment and voices, closing in on us. Hunter rocks his body into mine, urging me into the driver's seat. As he does, I feel his hardness against my hip.
His face is right by mine, his low voice like a warm breeze in the crook of my neck. "Remember there's a back exit if you loop around," he tells me, pointing in the direction I should go. "Just make a U-turn and floor it. It'll take you right onto the main road."
I nod, unable, to move my eyes from all the faces leering through the windshield.
"Libby, look right here." I feel a hand close over mine and I lift my head to meet his eyes. They are softer than I've ever seen them. "Don't get in a rush," he tells me. "Take your time. I'll take care of these pricks."
And that's it. My door is closing before I can even thank him. As I look over my shoulder to back out, I catch a glimpse of him clearing the traffic around my car, his burnt gold hair ruffling in the wind as he raises his arms. They create just the barrier I need to escape the camera lenses.
*
Driving from San Francisco to L.A., the flowered hills seem to roll past me too quickly. The sky above is flat, pale blue. Watching the horizon line makes me feel dizzy—like I'm stuck on a carnival ride and can't get off. I try to swallow back the sensation, but it builds within my chest, making my hands tremble on the wheel.
What am I doing?
I can't do this.
I just said I would do this.
Suddenly tears are pouring down my cheeks, and I want to pull my car over by the tall grass with its tiny flowers and sob.
I feel a thousand years old as I speed toward Mom's rehab. I have an appointment with her care worker. To lay the groundwork for my grand deception. I have an appointment at twelve-thirty, and my mom's expecting me, but I don't go there.
Instead I find myself at Cross's cement high-rise. I'm signing myself in and I'm sprinting down the drab hall, toward his room. I think that when I get there, things will be different. The gauze will be gone. Maybe he'll even be sitting up and extubated. All I want in the world is to see my friend again before I go to Vegas. Or maybe, if he’s already awake, I won’t even have to go…
When I get through the door, he’s still in bed, and he looks much the same. The gauze is partially unwrapped, so I can see the tube is draining blood from his head. His eyes are tapped shut. His lips are super chapped, but I have lip balm in my purse. I'm reaching for it when I realize he is extubated! There's no more ventilator, just oxygen tubing in his nose. I want to scream with joy, and at that moment, the door cracks open.
This nurse is petite, with short, spiky pink hair and a diamond nose ring. She smiles at me and says, "I heard about you. Elizabeth DeVille?"
I nod, and she explains that she has seen me on TV. That makes my belly clench, but I try not to show her how rattled I am.
"Are you guys an item?" she asks quietly.
"No. We're friends." I step closer to Cross, taking his hand, which feels warm and surprisingly soft.
"She put some lotion on him right before you came."
I frown, my head snapping around so I can meet her eyes. "Who did?"
“She comes in sometimes at lunch. I think her name is Sari.”
Well, hot damn. That's news to me.
"She was here when we extubated him." The nurse smiles. "His eyes were open because they were changing out the medicine in them. To keep them from getting dry, you know? It might have been just reflexes, but she thinks he smiled at her."
I stroke my thumb across Cross's cheek and squeeze his hard hand in my small one. "Geez, Cross, you guys are keeping secrets."
The nurse eyes our fingers. “So you really aren’t a thing?”
“Really. He’s been my friend since first grade.”
“Well, I think he’s lucky to have a friend like you.”
Is he? I’m not so sure, but I smile anyway. “Do you know when they’re moving him?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
"That's amazing."
"Your friend thought so, too. She seemed really surprised when I told her what you'd done."
I rub my eyes. "I bet she did."
*
My good mood has evaporated by the time I take the exit for Mom's facility, a “spa” up in the hills. If she didn't spend most of her time in places like these, maybe I'd already have some money, and my crazy plan could wait.
I'm bitter. I know I am. Her doctors sometimes say so. Caretaker, therapist, counselor, psychiatrist—they're all the same. So much sympathy for Mom and her many illnesses.
Dr. Bryers, one of the better ones, might be proud of me for admitting that I'm pissed. Usually I pretend I'm not that affected. Over the years I learned to cope, but the truth is, she's screwed up my life, and I haven't forgiven her. To be fair (to me), she's never really asked.
The spa building is a rectangular, white one-story on several acres of green grass, large trees, and well-kept flower beds. I park my aging Camry in the egg-shaped parking lot and walk slowly through the tall, glass doors leading to the lobby. This place looks a lot like a European hotel, all mod and minimalist, fraught with glass and straight, clean lines.
I fold my arms on the counter and ask for Mahin.
I don't think while I'm waiting for her. I play Angry Birds on my phone and I send good vibes to Cross. Hunter creeps into my mind, but I push him away. Just because he's an enigma doesn’t mean he's my enigma. Maybe going to Vegas will be good in that way. I'll forget him.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember that he has two homes in Vegas, but whatever. When he’s not playing he’s at the vineyard—or so I've heard. Regardless, I'm sure he’d never recognize me. Richard says they're blurring out my face on the billboards, and one thing I’m almost sure about Hunter is he’s not the type to bid on a woman’s virginity.
Vegas will be good for me. It's my choice, and I'm doing it for Cross. I will make it good for me.
Mahin walks out without my mom, wearing her familiar black slacks and v-neck, her white hair dyed black at the tips, her lipstick pearl-colored, making her look kind of dead.
"Hi," I wave, and step into her office for my performance.
*
I leave feeling heavier, if that's possible. Mom will be told I'm taking a trip to Denver. One of my best friends from undergrad lives there, and it’s one of my favorite U.S. cities.
I'm one third of the way to the freedom that I need to pull this off. My next stop is the University of San Francisco's main campus.
I'm nervous, knowing just how crazy my proposal is, but I think my second-year project manager, Dr. Kaitlyn Beauford, who also happens to be my student adviser, might be open-minded enough to sign off on it. If not, I'll withdraw from this semester. I don't want to do it, but I will if I have to.
I'm still wearing my courthouse pant suit and as I walk the familiar, green-tiled halls, I wonder if Dr. B has seen the news yet.
As soon as I walk into her office, she puts her blueberry smoothie on her desk and shakes her head.
"Elizabeth DeVille, stirring up trouble."
Despite myself, I smile, because Dr. Beauford always puts me at ease. "Doing my best," I say, wiping my sweaty palms on my knees as I sink into a faded orange chair.
She picks her smoothie up again and takes a long gulp, regarding me over the rims of her square glasses. "I read about you," she motions to her computer. "Thinking of being a savior?"
"Something like that."
"What brings you here?" she says. She's giving me that stare she's famous for, and for the very first time ever I feel kind of nervous.
"I have an idea," I say slowly. The heat in my face is humiliating, and for the millionth time, I curse my fair skin.
“What kind?”
“The kind that’s going to help me out
with what you read online, and the kind that could be made into an independent study or even a thesis maybe."
"And what's that?"
I tell her my plan. To her credit, she listens with a neutral expression, her chin propped on her folded hands, and when I'm finished, she smiles.
"From an Ethics perspective, that's very interesting, Elizabeth. But I'm afraid from a personal perspective I can't endorse it. Even from a professional perspective, it has some damaging potential—for me, that is—if I do."
My chest squeezes, but I take a deep breath and forge ahead. "So I couldn't use it for classwork, even if I came to you after the fact?"
"I didn't say that," she says pointedly.
"So I could write about it? Maybe use it as the basis for my thesis?" I wait for her answer with my breath held—as if it really matters. It won't change what I'm doing, but it might make me feel just a little better about it.
"You could do whatever you decide to do, Elizabeth. Just remember, you don't have to. You don’t owe your friend any debts.”
I nod, although I think that's a little cut and dry, especially for someone as smart as Dr. Beauford.
She reaches into a desk drawer and hands me a slip of paper. "If you decide to go through with your plan, you may want to fill this out." I look down at the approval form for PhD thesis topics. "For the record, let it be stated that I'm not recommending your course.”
Chapter Twelve
~ELIZABETH~
On my way home, I call Richard Waites, the man I spoke with this morning. He answers on the second ring. I can hear laughter and talking in the background, and through the phone line I swear I can smell stale smoke and alcohol.
Our connection is fuzzed by static, as if it's trying to discourage our contact. I think of Cross and press on. "Richard? This is Elizabeth DeVille again."
"Elizabeth, yes."
"I've thought about your offer, and I've decided that I want to do it. Can you tell me what the next step is?"
He pauses for a second, and I think he is surprised. "The next step? Well, you come out here. Come to Nevada and let me get this rolling."
"What does that entail?" I'm not going to a brothel without a detailed road map in my hand.
"It entails a lot," he says bluntly.
"Where does it start? I'd like to have some idea."
He pauses again, just long enough to take a drag on a cigar. "We do this from time to time, but never with a girl like you. Don't get me wrong. Our girls are beautiful, valuable, talented girls, but they don't have their own bottled water," he says with a chuckle. "They're not Elizabeth DeVille." Another pause, and I decide to put it to him straight.
"DeVille doesn't mean much anymore."
"Yes, and I appreciate your candidness, Miss DeVille, but let me share my own. Our bidders aren't buying your money. They're wealthy men, and what they'll pay for is your high-class hymen. You follow me? All I need from you—well not all I need from you—there's a lot to this— But what I really need is you to come here, do a little training—"
"Prostitution?"
"Well you can't do that. Not and have a decent auction. But I'm saying you learn from my girls. The ropes. It's not for long. Maybe two weeks, three. Whatever's enough to get you ready for your big night.”
I nod. "I follow you."
I'm navigating the interstate, headed back up to San Francisco. The sky is purple. Dramatic, like it knows what I'm up to. "And you said the prices on this are pretty high?"
"In the hundreds of thousands, yes ma'am. We've done two this year and both were over five hundred thousand. One last year even fetched a million." There's another pause, while I zip around an eighteen-wheeler. "Now all of these girls were models, and we had them on the menu for several months before their auctions giving other types of pleasure, so the men had built up some interest in them. Curiosity."
"Are you saying I have to...have my own clients?" I hold my breath. This wasn't mentioned earlier, but now that I've signed on to pay for Cross's care I don’t think I can back out.
After a moment, he says, "Well, no. You're a different sort of girl, or so we're going to say."
"But I don't want to use my real name."
I hear his low intake of breath. "You don't want to use your name? Well Elizabeth, what do you think we're selling?"
"My body," I say. "Isn't that what you sell? Women?"
"I don't sell anyone,” he says, and I bite my lip because he sounds a little defensive. “The women—and men—that work here sell themselves. I’m more landlord than pimp. And with all due respect, Elizabeth, the photos I've seen of your body...well, it's not compliant with the standard of this industry."
I bite my lip, trying my very best to swallow back my pride. For Cross. Telling myself it's nothing personal, I plunge ahead.
"I understand what you're saying, Richard. The truth is, I've recently lost some weight, but I can lose some more."
"I'm looking at the photo you sent me, taken in November. Why don't I put your weight at 165. Is that about right?"
I gape. "You really know your stuff." I'm not 165 anymore, but I was in November.
"I'd like you to have it down to 140. I'd still like some curves, so I want you tight and toned."
I look down at my body, already so much leaner than it was. Screw the numbers. I know where I look my best. I'll make that mark.
"You do that," Richard says, "and then come here. We'll take care of the rest, and you can use an industry name. We could do a wig or something, too. We'll put you up on bill boards around Vegas and we'll talk you up. Something like… 'Selling Scarlett'.”
“And I’m Scarlett?”
“Yeah. You like it?”
I’m not sure how I feel about it, but I say, “Yeah. Scarlett sounds good.”
I hear his fingers snap. “There, the hardest part’s over.”
He laughs, and I know my chuckle has to sound weak. “How soon can we hold the auction?” I ask.
“I think three months, if you want to rush it.”
I feel a wave of cold sweat wash over me, and I want to kick myself for not going into detail this morning when we first spoke. "Three months, no. That's not soon enough."
"Miss DeVille, we aim for healthy loss and toning. We care about our girls—and boys."
"I understand, but I need the money in a month."
I can practically hear his shock in the static coming through the phone line. "A month?"
I rub my brow. "Is that doable?"
"Doable." He chuckles. "Isn't that the word? Of course it's doable. Let me get off the line and get you started. We take twenty percent of the final bid, and we reserve the right to manage the bidding. Understand?"
I swallow. "Yes." I don't know what 'manage the bidding' means, but does it really matter? I've already signed on for this. I'm in.
"One month." He laughs again. "Why don't you get up here as soon as you can, and we'll get you started with the girls.”
I nod and drive the rest of the way home in a fog of disbelief. The only thing left now is to tell Suri.
*
"You're doing what?"
Suri's mouth is filled with cashews, but she doesn't spit them out or even choke. She simply speaks around them and then swallows, and I have the hilarious thought that Suri would probably be a great prostitute.
"I'm selling my V-card," I tell her again, leaning on the iron breakfast table.
Her face is comical. All her features twist, like she might laugh. Then her mouth pulls down, like a sad clown. "Lizzy, why? Why would you do that?"
I think for a second before replying, because I need to give Suri a certain impression. One that will prevent her from trying to stop me. I shrug, hoping for casual.
"I have it, and I definitely don't need it." An image of Hunter and Priscilla flits through my mind; I shove it away. "I figured why not do something useful with it? I'm thinking of making it a project for my PhD. You know, writing about value judgments people place on thi
ngs. One sexual encounter is just that: it's a ten minute thing. And virginity? It's just a hymen, an antiquated measure of a woman's value," I say, pleased with myself.
Suri is shaking her head, her horrified face the same color green as her polka-dotted blouse. "Lizzy, you don't know." She shakes her head some more. "You're wrong. It's not like that. Sex is intimate, it should be done with a lover or a boyfriend or at least a really good friend."