Rhodium

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

IT WAS A Wednesday afternoon when my world fell out from under me. Quite literally. Disaster number one.

The rain fell faster than the stock market on Black Monday as I ran out of college, already late for my date with a man who liked me to wear an adult-sized onesie covered with teddy bears. And I’d forgotten my umbrella. Typical. I paused in the doorway before muttering to the heavens, “Anything else want to go wrong?”

Yes. Yes, it did.

I slipped on a candy wrapper and tumbled to the bottom of the steps. I knew I’d done major damage the instant I landed—the crack from my arm was a dead giveaway, as was the bolt of pain that burned all the way to my shoulder.

Do you know how much it costs to pin a broken arm? I didn’t then, but I do now. Thousands. Thousands I didn’t have, not least because I needed to take six weeks off from Rubies while it healed. Not many men had fetishes for being stroked with a cast. Believe me, when the rent came due, I checked with Octavia.

Then my little brother phoned. I called him little, and I called him my brother, but in reality, he was sixteen, my stepbrother, and at five feet nine, three inches taller than me. Mom married his father when I was ten, a year after my daddy died. At first, the speed with which she moved on upset me, and for a couple of years, our relationship stumbled as I came to terms with it. But now I saw what I couldn’t back then, and what she would never admit. She needed a man to complete her. Alone, she’d been a shell, a half-woman. The big wide world and Maxine Amor did not mix. And I swore I’d never become her.

Ten-year-old me forgave her perhaps faster than I would have, because with Chester, her new husband, came my new brother. All too often Mason used to steal my candy and borrow my dolls to become victims of his action men, but he was so damn cute while he did it I forgave him every time.

And now he had a problem. I’ll call it disaster one point five because, in the grand scheme of things, it didn’t warrant a whole number of its own, not when compared to the rest of my life.

“Stef, I had an accident.”

“What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, but Pop’s new truck’s got a bit of a dent.”

“Bit of a dent?”

“It needs a new fender.”

I couldn’t keep my groan in. “What did you hit?”

“The gatepost at Reggie’s place.”

“Oh, Mason! What were you doing there? Reggie’s always getting into trouble, and he’ll take you with him.”

“Just hanging out. But Pop’s gonna kill me for the truck. He told me not to drive it.”

“You should have listened.”

“I know, I know. But you gotta help me. If I don’t get rid of this dent before him and Mom come back from vacation, I can kiss my trip with the band goodbye.”

Mason played the tuba, and he’d been invited over to England to play in a parade along with the other students in his school’s marching band. He’d talked about little else for months, and knowing Chester, who was big on discipline, Mason’s fear of being grounded was justified.

Shit. I cursed silently in my head because Mason and his potty mouth didn’t need any more encouragement. “They’re due back next Tuesday?”

“Yeah. Joey’s dad can fix it at the shop, but it’ll cost six hundred dollars. Can you lend it to me? I’ll pay you back, I swear.”

He wouldn’t. He never did. And six hundred dollars was my emergency fund. But Mason was Mason, and when I used to sneak out at night to see my boyfriend back in high school, he’d covered for me every time. I owed him one.

“I’ll wire it over. Just promise me you won’t drive the truck again.”

“Cross my heart.”

The combined total of disasters one and one point five, plus the bill that landed for my tuition, led me to the most shameful night of my life, at least pre-Oliver Rhodes. The night Octavia, who may have been lovely but would always be a businesswoman first and foremost, auctioned off my virginity. It was the only thing I had left of any value.

As the bids rolled in, each one from a man with more money than morals, I thought time and time again about giving up and going home. Mom would have welcomed me back, but I knew if I did return to Hartscross, I’d be stuck there. Stuck with the I-told-you-sos and the whispers of “poor girl, she never was cut out for the city.”

Chrissie did her best to help by preparing me for what was to come. Luckily, she had no inhibitions when it came to talking about s*x—in fact, it was her favourite topic of conversation.

“Will it hurt?” I whispered one night over a glass of wine.

“Maybe a little. A sharp pain, but it’ll be over quickly.”

I closed my eyes and took another slug of wine. I felt ill at the thought of it, but how else could I pay off the bills? So many times I nearly pulled out of the deal, quit college, and ran back home, but the prospect of my stepfather’s disappointment stopped me. He was the one who’d convinced Mom I could do this, and if I returned to Georgia with my tail between my legs, he’d lose face as well as me.

No, I needed to go through with it.

And, to be honest, it could have been worse. The auction winner, a wealthy businessman, prided himself on the number of V-cards he’d collected. If his brags over dinner were to be believed, he’d moved into triple figures. So I lay there, half-drunk, while he lubed me up and eased himself into me. Chrissie assured me s*x could be pleasurable, but I just felt dirty, and not in a good way. I counted the seconds as he pounded away, trying not to wince at the scratch of his beard against my chin and, worse, the burning ache between my legs.

But he paid, and he paid well. Half of my medical bills were gone in just one night. And after him, the floodgates were opened. Only metaphorically, of course. Getting wet for a man wasn’t something I’d ever experienced. A month later, after some tuition from Chrissie involving a large black dildo that scared the crap out of me, I learned how to use my hands and mouth and moved up to the lofty position of three rubies.

I hated myself, but I survived. Mason sent me a calendar every Christmas, and I used it to count down the days until I could escape the lifestyle I’d fallen into, graduate, and get a job that didn’t involve spreading my legs for any man who cared to pay my hourly rate.

One hundred and sixty-nine days. That was how many I’d had left when disaster number two happened. And as disasters go, it would take some beating.