Filthy Beautiful Lies (Filthy Beautiful Lies 1)

Prologue

Tonight I will be sold to the highest bidder. As I stand here in this quiet room, I try to find that little voice of reason telling me I’m doing the right thing. She’s nowhere to be found. Traitorous whore.

I meet my dim blue gaze in the mirror and remind myself that I’m entering into this arrangement knowingly, and by choice. Not the choice I want to make, certainly not my life’s ambition, but it’s a choice I have to make in order to save someone I love.

In another hour I will belong to someone – a man with sick needs and fetishes that propel him to purchase his companion rather than date a normal girl. Heaven help me.

Chapter One

Sophie

I’ve been told that I could go for more than two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and maybe more given that I’m still a virgin. The money will mean the difference between life and death for my twin sister and best friend in the whole world. It will mean I can pay the fees to get her into the experimental treatment program for advance stage ovarian cancer. We’re both just twenty-one years old and have barely lived. When she got cancer at age nineteen and had a hysterectomy, I promised her I’d carry her babies someday, a promise I intended to keep. And now she’s facing death in a matter of months if I don’t intervene, which is why I’m standing in the dimly lit dressing room applying my third coat of mascara and dressed only in a pair of panties.

I’d found out about this place completely by coincidence. A few weeks ago, I would have never believed places like this existed. I’d been searching online for money making schemes – something, anything, that could help me raise the three hundred thousand dollars we needed. My parents made ends meet, but just barely. So I knew it was up to me. My job searches turned out to be a joke. My skills could earn me minimum wage waiting tables. That’s when my internet searches got more interesting and my attitude bolder.

I agreed to an interview at a local strip club. As if the interview itself wasn’t embarrassing enough – being asked to undress in front of the club’s owner and prove my non-existent dancing abilities – when he’d asked how much money I hoped to make dancing and I said three hundred thousand dollars in the next few months, he’d laughed in my face and told me to get dressed. It was obvious to us both that based on my dancing skills, I’d never earn that kind of money. Let alone in my small Northern California town.

When he saw the tears swimming in my eyes and inquired about why I needed the money, I’d given him, a complete stranger, the entire sad story. Once I was dressed, he brought me into his office and made me promise that what he was about to say would stay only between us. The shifty way his eyes danced around the room told me whatever it was, it probably wasn’t legal. I didn’t care. I’d never so much as run a red light, but I was willing to do anything – go to any extreme to save Becca. I promised him complete secrecy. He asked how serious I was about saving my sister and warned that I wouldn’t like what he was about to tell me. That was how I learned about tonight’s auction.

Bill, the strip club owner, entered me into tonight’s bids. He’d arranged everything for a ten percent cut in my earnings. I’d seen a doctor, who tested me for pregnancy and STDs, and verified my virginity. Bill had also made me an appointment at a local salon for full body waxing and a makeover – a haircut with long layers and caramel highlights in my otherwise chestnut brown hair, along with a manicure and a pedicure. All of which would come out of my earnings too. If I didn’t sell, I would be responsible for paying him back. But Bill all but guaranteed I’d sell. He said that virgins were very rare and that someone so natural and beautiful would go for a high price. I just hope to keep my nerves under control so that I can actually follow through with this. I feel like throwing up and I haven’t even eaten all day.

I turn to the sound of a light tapping on my door and Bill pokes his head in. My arms fly over my chest as I try to cover my breasts. My modesty is pointless and a hysterical giggle bubbles up in my throat. All too soon I’ll be exposed to a roomful of men and expected to give my body to one of them, but I focus on maintaining my innocence while I still can. Bill raises an eyebrow at me. "Are you ready?"

I glance in the mirror one last time and draw a steadying breath. I look down at my toned legs, thanks to hours spent jogging – my only form of stress relief – to my stomach that is a bit softer than I would like, to my breasts that jiggle when I move. The eyes looking back at me are harder than before. Good. I will need that hard exterior to survive the next six months.

I hadn’t known this side of the world existed and now I was entering into it. I’m doing this for Becca, I remind myself. Drawing every ounce of strength I can, I uncross my arms from over my breasts and nod to Bill. "I’m ready."

His eyes give me a cursory once over. I’m grateful he doesn’t leer. "You look great. Very natural. That should work in your favor," he remarks, leading me from the safety of the dressing room.

I see what he means as we progressed down the hallway. There are a few other women ranging from early twenties to late thirties and each of them seemed to have embraced the stripper look – big hair and layers of thick makeup, red stained lips, fishnet stockings and sky high heels. All of them are wearing g-strings. I’d been told the only article of clothing allowed was a pair of panties so I’d chosen my most modest pair – light blue briefs with lace along the hem. They’re cute and feminine and comfortable. It had never occurred to me to try and make myself look sexier. Regret churns in my stomach. What if no one wants me? I’ll have done all this for nothing, plus owe Bill for the expensive makeover he provided. The concrete floor against my bare feet sends an icy chill up my body, pebbling my nipples into hardened points. My arms once again cross over my chest as I clutch my breasts.

I might be more covered than the other women, but somehow I feel more exposed. Completely ripped open for the world to see. I’m dressed as me, not some sexified version of myself that I can portray to the men waiting on the other side of that door. Suddenly I don’t want them to see the real me. I wanted to be caked in makeup with perhaps a long blonde wig and tassels hanging from my nipples. I could be whoever they wanted me to be. Instead I’m just Sophie and that seems much more dangerous to me. I can’t let my new owner get inside my head. He might be buying the rights to my body, but he’ll certainly never have the real me. I need to remember that.