The Auction: A Dark Romance: Chapter 1

‘Into you,’ I belt out in a long, smooth note.

The few people in the dark lounge clap, but the lights Jarrod has positioned on the stage don’t let me see any of their faces.

‘Thank you. I’m Blakely Fox. Have a great night,’ I state. I smile, put the microphone on the stand, then get off the stage as the next act takes my place. I go behind the bar, grab the envelope Jarrod left with my name on it, then stuff it in my purse.

It takes thirty minutes with traffic to get to my next gig, which isn’t as fun but pays the bills better than the Lizard Lounge. I pull into the parking lot, then slide the plastic keycard into the slot. All the girls who work at Cheeks have one. I still have to load it with money to park, but it’s better than walking ten blocks at four in the morning. Traffic in L.A. is a nightmare no matter where you go, and parking is a luxury. Plus, it’s not safe. Muggings happen a few blocks over too often to keep track of. There have even been a few murders over the years. So I make sure my parking card always has funds on it.

I step out of my car, make my way across the dimly lit lot, then nod to Troy, the bouncer who stays in the back alley.

He opens the door the strippers, bartenders, and servers use, then booms, ‘Blakely! You got any new notes?’

‘Working on some,’ I reply.

‘Hit me up when you’re ready,’ he orders.

I give him a tiny salute, replying, ‘You know I will.’

Over the last few years, Troy and I have gotten to know each other. He heard me singing when I was cleaning up tables one night after a shift, and one question led to another.

He has a friend in the music industry and said when I’m ready, he’ll slip him my demo. The only problem is I’m far away from creating a demo. Shortly after my twenty-first birthday, I moved out of my parents’ house. Living in L.A., even as frugally as I do, doesn’t make saving money easy.

My father always told me my head was in the clouds. No daughter of his was going to live the seedy life of a singer. I didn’t understand why he thought that, but then I realized I could have wanted to do anything, and he would have given me an excuse about why I shouldn’t pursue it. It didn’t matter that I graduated early from Berkley with honors in Arts & Humanities. My degree was strictly for his bragging rights and to show the world I could accomplish something. In my father’s mind, I was to become a wife and follow in my mother’s footsteps.

Her life of charity committees, day drinking with friends at the country club, and having too many affairs to count doesn’t appeal to me. It’s not that I don’t like to support charities, but it baffles me how people rationalize spending way too much money on dinner and entertainment in the name of those less fortunate. It doesn’t make any sense. If they really cared about the charity, why wouldn’t they donate the money it takes to pay for all the amenities of their over-the-top events?

So not only don’t I agree with luxury charity events, but I would die of boredom if I had to spend my life planning them. The housewives in Beverly Hills on those committees are as fake as they come. Plus, I want my life to mean something.

Since I was little, all I’ve wanted to do was sing and write songs. My parents used to think it was cute, but then I entered high school. That’s when the comments from my father that I needed to focus on what was important started.

Once I turned twenty-one, I couldn’t take it anymore. My parents began inviting men to our house. They claimed they were eligible for me to marry. The last thing I wanted was to get hitched, especially to one of the stuck-up guys they deemed appropriate.

When I moved home after graduation, my future became clear. The only way to follow my dreams was to leave. So I moved out.

At first, I stayed in contact with my mother via phone calls. My father wanted nothing to do with me, stating he would speak to me when I returned home and chose to follow his wishes.

My mother would call and beg me to return, telling me about different committees she wanted me to join or what was happening at the country club. She’d always have a list of their social committee events and try to convince me to sign up to plan them. I always refused. Then one day, my father sent two of his men who run security during our parties to bring me home. It took me by surprise when they showed up at my apartment, and I went kicking and screaming.

My father locked me in my room for a week, reiterating every night how my behavior was embarrassing to him. Toward the end of the week, he came in and told me to get dressed. A team of makeup artists, hair stylists, and a fashion designer came into my bedroom. They fitted me into a cocktail dress, spent an hour on my makeup and hair, and reported to my father I was ready.

He ordered me to go downstairs, and I’ve never felt so sick. Six men were waiting for me, each drooling to get access to my father’s fortune. He took me aside and demanded I pick who I wanted to marry.

It was horrifying. As the night went on, and my parents drank more, I managed to escape. I grabbed any cash I could find in my room, packed a small backpack of clothes, then hid in the catering van until the next morning.

I spent a few nights on the street. I couldn’t return to my apartment and finally found a shelter. I showered, went to several bars and lounges looking for work, and finally ended up in front of Cheeks.

A strip club wasn’t where I anticipated working, but they had a server position open, and I was desperate to find work. The manager tossed me a black leather thong and a blingy black bra. He told me to put them on and then come to his office.

It was the most embarrassing job interview I’d ever had. Three men assessed every part of my body. And I don’t consider myself a tiny girl. Sometimes I feel as if everyone in L.A. could be a cover model. While I’m not fat, I’m more voluptuous, which doesn’t make me fit in with the skinny standards of the city.

They discussed my body parts, tossing out phrases like ‘thicker thighs,” ‘nice rack,’ and ’round booty.’ Their comments made me believe they would send me on my way, but they offered me the job. So I filled out my paperwork as Blakely Fox, which I had wanted to use for my stage name since I was a child. And since my parents weren’t ever super active in raising me—leaving the nannies to deal with me while I grew up—I’ve never told them what I wanted to call myself. So I figured it was safe to use.

When the manager asked me for my documentation, I tried to bluff, telling him I was mugged and didn’t have any. He called Troy to the room, who helped secure me a fake ID and social security card. I’ve been using Blakely Fox ever since.

Then, I stayed in the shelter until I could afford an apartment with several women I met at work. Slowly, I secured some lounge gigs singing during the day or early evening.

Now, Cheeks is like a second home to me. Nothing shocks me anymore. I’m used to hustling around the club half naked, seeing the strippers do all sorts of things my sheltered life kept me in the dark about, and fending off comments and offers men make.

The naive girl I walked into Cheeks as is no longer in existence. And not a day goes by that I regret leaving my cushy old life behind. I may not be the definition of successful yet, but I’m living my life in a way that makes me happy. The people around me are real. And every time I get to take the stage and sing, it refuels my desire to keep going.

And I could earn more, but I can’t seem to bite the bullet and take the management up on their offer to change my position. I don’t judge the strippers. I admire their ability to do what they do. They excel at it, and I don’t believe I could. I may wear barely any clothing during my shift, but it still gives me a thin layer of protection.

‘Blakely, can you handle two sections tonight? Cindy called off again,’ Savannah, the night manager, asks in an irritated tone.

‘Sure,’ I reply, happy to be offered the extra tables. I’ll have to work my butt off, but it’ll pay off at the end of the night when I’m counting my tips.

‘Thanks.’ She pats me on the shoulder and cries out, ‘Phoenix! What are you doing?’

The bartender freezes in the middle of pulling a fifth out of a new case. ‘What did I do now?’

‘We have six open. Did you check the cabinet?’ she questions.

‘Oops,’ she says.

‘Yeah, oops,’ Savannah mimics.

I go into the dressing room, toss my purse in my locker, then remove my jeans and top. I’ve found it’s easier to wear my Cheeks clothes than take the time to get changed. The sooner I get on the floor, the more I can earn. I exchange greetings with several girls, then go to the main room.

Some of the regulars are at their usual tables. Within an hour, more customers fill the room. I hustle between the two sections, doing whatever I can to keep the men happy and earn higher tips.

It’s after midnight when two beefy white men I’ve never seen sit down in my section. One has salt-and-pepper hair and the other is bald. They’re wearing expensive suits, which isn’t out of the ordinary. Cheeks is a higher-end club, and many rich men from around the world frequent it when they’re in town.

I approach the table, set two drink napkins down, and chirp, ‘Welcome to Cheeks. I haven’t seen you two in here before. Are you in L.A. traveling for business?’

The bald one firmly answers, ‘No.’

They both study me, and a chill runs down my spine. It’s not the first time I’ve experienced it, but it rarely happens.

‘Are you enjoying your shift, Blakely?’ the salt-and-pepper-haired man asks.

Goose bumps pop out on my skin. I blurt out, ‘Sorry, have we met?’

The bald one replies, ‘Not exactly.’

My mouth turns dry. I question, ‘What does that mean?’

They stay quiet.

‘How did you know my name?’ I inquire.

‘Lucky guess,’ the salt-and-pepper man states.

We all study each other for a moment, and I suddenly feel extremely exposed. I lift my chin, asking, ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

‘Two waters,’ Baldy replies.

‘Coming right up,’ I say, then go to the bar, punch the order into the computer, and motion for Savannah.

She steps next to me. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Table fifty-five. They knew my name. I’ve never seen them before, and when I asked them if we’ve met, they said not exactly,’ I relay.

She glances behind us and then leans closer to me, muttering, ‘They’re watching you.’

My gut drops. I gaze at them, then turn back toward the machine. ‘I don’t know them.’

Savannah offers, ‘Let me see if the bouncers told them your name. I’m sure that’s how they know it and they’re only interested in getting into your pants. You know how these men are when they’re let out of the house for the night.’

‘Both of them?’ I question, not convinced.

She shrugs. ‘Maybe they’re into threesomes.’

I cringe at the thought of doing anything with one of them, much less both at once. I’m not a virgin, but I haven’t had too many experiences. I spend most of my time working and trying to get on new stages to sing. And those two are definitely not my type.

Phoenix calls out, ‘Blakely, orders up!’

Savannah hightails it to the front door, and I pick up the tray of drinks. I drop off orders at several tables, trying to ignore my flipping gut. I return to where Baldy and Salt-and-Pepper are, then set down their bottles of water. I force a smile. ‘Can I get you anything else?’

‘Nope,’ Baldy replies.

I nod, then leave, trying to focus on the rest of my customers.

Savannah joins me when I’m adding another order into the computer and informs me, ‘No one told them your name.’

The hairs on my neck rise. I fret, ‘Then how do they know it?’

‘No idea, but they could have been in here before. You’ve worked here a long time,’ she suggests.

Worried, I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so. I have a great memory. I rarely forget a face. Besides, why would they remember my name?’

‘Honey, when a man wants to screw you, he’ll remember your name,’ she states.

‘I would have remembered at least one of them,’ I insist.

‘Maybe only one’s come into the club before,’ she proposes.

I’m not convinced.

She snaps her fingers. ‘I know! They’ve probably seen you sing!’

‘And they just happen to know I also work here? I don’t exactly get on stage, sing, then announce I’m running off to my job at the strip club,’ I say, then add, ‘No offense.’

She laughs, then teases, ‘That would leave quite the impression. Maybe you should? We could get some new clientele in here.’

‘Ha ha,’ I reply.

She slides her arm around my shoulder. ‘Listen. Go work your sections. I’ll have the bouncers keep an eye on them, but as long as they don’t do anything, they’re probably just two horny men trying to get you to go home with them. No different than any other night.’

I take a deep breath. She’s probably right. Plus, I’m safe as long as I’m inside the club. Out of caution, I’ll make Troy walk me to my car tonight. It’s not the first time I’ve had him do it. ‘You’re right.’

She releases me. ‘Of course I am. Now, go work those tables.’

‘On it,’ I say, then try to focus on my other customers. I try to treat the two men like all my other tables, but I can’t shake my nerves. Plus, they don’t seem interested in any of the strippers. They shoo them away whenever one comes over to try and grab their attention.

About an hour before the club closes, they disappear. Relief hits me that they left. I finish my shift, go into the locker room, and put on my jeans and top.

I step into the main room and walk over to Troy. ‘Hey, do you mind walking me to my car tonight?’

He furrows his eyebrows. ‘Did someone bother you?’

I admit, ‘Not anything I can report. But two guys that were in here creeped me out.’

He slings his arm around my waist and leads me to the door. ‘Best to keep you safe, then. I got you.’

I sigh. ‘Thanks.’

‘Sure.’ He guides me to my car and waits until I pull away.

I’m halfway home when I get the chills again. I could be wrong, but I swear someone is following me. There’s an SUV that stays far enough away that I can’t see who’s driving it.

I debate about what to do, then I gun the engine and go through a red light. The SUV disappears, and I continue on to my place. I pull into my apartment complex lot, and a car with a group of my neighbors in it parks next to me.

‘Blakely,’ Tim calls out, sounding intoxicated.

I laugh. ‘I take it you had a good night?’

His girlfriend Sarah shakes her head and then points at him. ‘He needs food to soak up his shots.’

I wince. ‘That great of a night, huh?’

She rolls her eyes.

Matt, who also lives with Tim, sings, ‘Blakely, Blakely, Blakely!’

‘He drank more than Tim,’ Sarah announces.

I smile bigger and say, ‘Sounds like—’

Floodlights glow around us. Tim puts his hand over his forehead and squints. ‘Dude, turn your brights off.’

I spin, and bile rises in my throat. An SUV is pointed right at us.

‘Let’s go inside,’ I say, then take one step toward the building.

‘Turn your lights off, assholes,’ Matt shouts.

‘Matt, don’t!’ I warn, then tug on his arm.

Sarah asks, ‘Do you know who’s in that SUV?’

I shake my head, not sure what I would tell her. Is it the guys from Cheeks or someone else? And maybe I’m assuming they’re following me but it’s really some drunk idiot from our complex. I answer, ‘No, but I think it’s best we go inside. We don’t need any altercations.’

‘Agreed,’ she says, then links her arm through Tim’s.

The four of us get to the entrance. The SUV doesn’t turn off the lights or move. I punch in the code, and the lock unlatches. We step inside, and I shut the door.

As quickly as possible, I make my way up the stairs to the second floor, helping Sarah goad Tim and Matt to follow me.

I finally get inside my apartment. Both my roommates’ bedroom doors are shut, so I assume they’re sleeping out or have company since neither had to work tonight. I go to the living room window and peek through the blinds.

The SUV is still there with its brights on, except the bald man from the club is standing next to the passenger door, looking up as if he knows which unit I live in.

My heart beats harder. I stare at him until he gets back inside the vehicle and it takes off. I have no clue who the men are, but I’m officially freaked out.