If This Bed Could Talk

Chapter One
They say you only get a few seconds to make a good first impression. Vienna James needed to make a great one.

It all came down to numbers. Numbers and time. How many strikes do you have? How many years did you get? When should you make your move? How long do you give it before you run like hell?

She gazed up at the shadowy figures of the men in the glass booths encircling the top tier of the auction round. They watched her as if they were spectators at a sporting event. As if she was the sport itself--with just seconds remaining in the final period.

Numbers and time. How many men have told you in so many words that they could fix your world if you just gave them long enough? How many actually have?

The odds of finding a buyer on a three-strikes sentence were practically nil. But not impossible. Seething inside that her life had come to this pathetic crossroad--where the best possible scenario would be another human being purchasing her for unknown service--Vienna did her best to smile on the platform. Not an easy thing to do when a pissy attitude, wrist shackles, and a grubby prison uniform were your only props.

The loudspeaker instructed her to turn in a circle. Vienna did exactly what she was told, her heart rate picking up again as she finished the 360 and came back around to face the front, where a row of green lights were extinguishing one by one. When the entire line of lights on the wall went out, the auction would be over. Two out of six dots left.

Smile, Vienna. Smile for the silly boys . . . oh, for God's sake. This is ridiculous!

She was just a weapons specialist. A gunrunner. A target shooter. End of story. This . . . this preening and putting her . . . girliness or whatever on display . . . it just wasn't her game. But you had to do what you had to do. Working this hard to impress men might not have been part of her old job description, but it apparently was a requirement now. And if this was what it took to convince a buyer to get her the hell out of this mess she was in, then this was what she was going to do.

Vienna looked up and scanned the booths again, noticing that in one of them, two men had leaned forward on the window and were staring intently down at her.

You there. Buy me. Buy me and you won't be sorry.

And I won't be sorry either, because once you get me away from here, I'll get away from you.

Michael and Devlin Kingston leaned against the glass of a cramped auction booth, glancing between a folder describing Docket 664291 and the woman down below--the real thing, Vienna James.