“I don’t want to abandon you this weekend. Are you sure?” His voice was closer, his hand moving around my side, the settle of his body against my back so perfect that I sighed, looping my fingers through his and holding them to my chest.

“I’m sure. Trust me.”

Trust me. Part of me wished he did. The other part of me was grateful he didn’t.

Tonight, I will be sold. I repeated the line over and over again. I would not be rescued, I would not escape. I would be sold and become the property of a new man. And the chances of freedom would be further reduced.

As much as I hate to say it, He was right. I would, if I presented myself correctly, be more valuable to buyers. And I had to imagine that, the more a buyer paid, the higher the investment, the better I would be treated. And vice versa - the more worthless I was, the less kindness and care I could expect to receive.

So... I should behave. Act subservient, act broken. Become valuable. Sell for a high price and invest in my future. Pray for the type of owner who is kind to his sex slaves. An impossible prayer yet I whispered it anyway.

Tonight, I will be sold.

Turns out repetition of the phrase doesn’t make it any less painful.

***

Tonight I would get answers.

Everything started to fall into place around nine, after a long dinner, then drinks. My foot jiggled under the table, I barely touched the food, and I checked my watch so many times that Brett signaled for the check. “I’m sorry babe. Do you need to get to that work? They can cork the wine.”

I glanced at the wine, freshly opened, a bottle worth more than my car, and hated to nod, hated to throw away the wine - and the moment - of which there’d, most likely, never be another. I nodded. “I’m sorry.”

He grinned. “Don’t be. I hate to see you stress. And I’ll be drinking all night with the clients. It’ll be better if I stop now. Keep my wits about me.”

I returned the smile and studied the lines of his face, the loose freedom of his posture, the compliment he gave the waiter as he scribbled a generous tip on the bill. I just didn’t see it. Maybe I was blinded by love but I couldn’t picture Brett engaged in an illegal drug ring. Or arms trafficking. Or questioned over missing drug mules. Despite the red flags, despite all the evidence to the contrary, he felt innocent.

Or was it just that I didn’t want to see the truth? Was I just so blinded by love and the thought of love that I washed over anything to the contrary? I watched Brett shake the waiter’s hand and stand, pulling out my chair.

Can’t be. No way.

We walked back to the room, he stole a kiss in the elevators, pinning me against the wall. “Time for a quickie before your work?”

Not this man. Not Brett. Anyone else.

“I can’t baby. But when you get back,” I promised, smiling at the glaze of his eyes, a glaze of arousal that wouldn’t wait till later, a hypothesis proved when he lifted me over his shoulder and carried me to our room, tossing me on the bed, his fingers quick, cock ready, the access of my dress making his first thrust easy and incredible.

I am wrong. I will prove it tonight. I will follow him, and watch him sell a boat. Woo a perfectly legitimate client. Be the man that I desperately want to believe that he truly is.

I rolled off of him, moving to the bathroom, running the shower before unzipping my dress and stepping in. “That’s not fair,” he groaned from his place in the doorway, his hands busy at his cuffs, the rest of him in perfect place except for his hair. I watched him pull on his jacket and shot him a grin, stepping into the shower and wiggling my fingers at him. “Go. Sell your little boats.”

I kept my hair out of the spray and ran a bar of soap quickly over me. Wasn’t the slightest bit surprised when the door opened and Brett’s hand stole in, caressed the soap bubbles on the closest breast.

“I can’t leave you without a kiss.”

I stepped forward, rinsed the soap off and turned the knob. Waved off the steam and stepped out, into the fluffy towel that he held open. Blushed as he wrapped the terrycloth around and rubbed me down, lingering over his favorite places and finishing the process by tugging at my hair tie, his eyes smiling as my curls bounced free, his mouth coming down soft and sweet on my own. I smiled against his mouth. “Happy? You got your kiss.”

He stole another. “Completely,” he whispered.

I am mistaken. There is nothing wrong with this man.

I heard the door click behind him, and sprang into action.

I had a secret weapon in my pursuit of Brett: My iPod Touch, a mini MP3 player that had one awesome feature - the ability to be found via the Find a Phone app. I slipped the iPod into his jacket before sex. Watched him walk out the door and I pulled up the app. Checked his location *the lobby* while jerking on my black jeans, tight sweater and superhero boots. I left my hair down - then, remembering Brett’s eyes on my curls, the fascination he had with their bounce - I twisted it into a low knot. Stuck a room key in my pocket and jogged down the hall and back to the rear stairwell. Thank God we were on the fourth floor and not the twenty-fourth. I hit the ground floor running and burst out the side, coming out in the loading zone, a flash of yellow taxis visible around the side of the building.

More jogging, the low heel of the boots thudding across the empty space, the last taxi in line spotting me early and jerking into reverse, skidding its way into a tight U-turn and pulling up to the side curb.

“Please pull through the front,” I called out to the man, slumping down in the seat. “I want to see if my friend’s out front.”