I took a bus to Sodom that afternoon. It was the last stop. The closer we got to the end of the route, the emptier the bus got, which was very fitting considering Sodom was the end of all hope. The second to last stop, only myself and two other girls dressed in glittery mini-dresses with perfect but heavy make-up remained. They talked in hushed voices and occasionally threw me curious looks.
“Last stop, Sodom,” the bus driver barked as he parked at a gray concrete bus stop covered in graffiti. He rolled down his window and lit up a cigarette.
The view outside the grime-covered bus windows wasn’t very inviting with the overflowing dumpsters and cracked pavement littered with more trash and dog poo. Worse than the graffiti-covered houses and cardboard-covered storefronts were the people creeping along the sidewalk. The term lost souls was more than appropriate. With their haunted eyes and worry-lined faces, they seemed to have assimilated too willingly to Sodom.
“Get off or buy a return ticket,” the bus driver shouted when I still hunched in my seat after the two girls had hopped off. I got up, grabbed my purse, and left the bus. I had every intention of getting a return ticket later—Sodom wasn’t going to be the end for me—but first I had a mission. Outside a cool breeze tugged at my hair and dress. Considering that Sodom seemed the best way to hell I was surprised that it wasn’t warmer. I immediately regretted keeping on my white summer dress, and not just because of the temperature drop. People stared at me as if I was an alien.
Squaring my shoulders, I jogged after the two girls who just turned the street corner. I had a feeling they were heading where I needed to go. Breathing heavily, I caught up to them. They paused, giving me puzzled looks. Clutching my purse to my heaving chest, they must have thought I was a madwoman.
“I’m looking for the Doom Loop,” I gasped.
They exchanged a look then scanned me from head to toe.
“You sure?” the girl with black hair asked, cocking a mocking eyebrow.
I didn’t even blame her. I had no business going to a mob hub in a white church dress with caramel fake suede ballerina flats no less.
“Maybe it’s a virgin act. Probably brings lots of money in with the right crowd,” her friend said
I blinked, losing track of their conversation. “Can I tag along?”
“Sure,” the black-haired girl said.
We soon arrived in a warehouse district with buildings so decrepit I was surprised they hadn’t crumbled to the ground yet. The men walking these streets gave me the creeps with their haughty, leering eyes, and many of the women looked more hopeless than I’d felt in my darkest moments.
My two companions on the other hand, chatted animatedly about snatching up a sponsor. “What’s a sponsor?” I eventually asked.
The storefronts glowed in reds and orange, and half naked women sat on barstools behind the shop windows, selling the only ware they had: their bodies. It reminded me of photos I’d seen of the red-light district in Amsterdam. I had never left Ireland before my trip to New York, so my knowledge about other cities came from TV or the internet.
They exchanged another look that made it clear they thought I was as stupid as bread. “Someone who provides you with a nice standard of living in exchange for sex and company.”
“Right,” I said. “I’m not looking for a sponsor. I don’t have much time.”
“If you only offer business on an hourly basis, you have to head down there.” They pointed to the worst part of the Doom Loop. “We’re going to the night clubs where rich men look for an affair or a girlfriend.”
I followed the direction they indicated. It was a huge building which used to be a slaughterhouse, if half the peeled off letters could be trusted. I swallowed but before I could ask them if they were sure, they stalked off on their pointy heels.
As I approached the slaughterhouse, an elderly man leaned against the front of the building. I stopped beside him. “I’m looking for a place where I can get money.” I refused to believe that Imogen would have set foot inside this place to borrow money.
“The Cunt Yard is over there,” he grunted, motioning at the slaughterhouse.
I blinked at him, sure I hadn’t heard him right, but he flashed me a dirty grin full of missing teeth. “Anything else you need from me, sugar?”
I vehemently shook my head and backed away.
Taking a deep breath, I headed toward the wide, steel double doors that marked the entrance to said Cunt Yard.
A huge man with slicked back blond hair guarded the doors. His eyes roamed over me. “What are you selling?”
“I’m not selling anything. I’m here to look for information.”
“If you’re not selling anything, then you can’t go in. Either you’re here for business or you can carry that pretty ass elsewhere.”
I gritted my teeth. “Then I’m here for business.” I could pretend to offer something for way too steep a price and not accept any lower offers, right?
“Then, in you go.” He opened one of the doors and I stepped inside. It was a huge building with steel pillars and a ceiling several stories high. The walls and floor were stone. Hooks hung from the ceiling close to the walls. I assumed they had once been used to bleed animal carcasses. In the very back, I could see a stage with round tables set up in front of it. Men sat around them, and even if I hadn’t been in the Doom Loop, I would have known these were gangsters. They looked shady.
A crowd of women had gathered around me, waiting for two men to write down their names on iPads. Most of these women were dressed in a very sexy way, but a few surprised me with school uniforms or latex outfits. One even wore a cat costume with a collar.
When it was my turn to give my name to one of the guys, I was still so stunned by my surroundings and the people that I hadn’t made up my mind on what fake name to use to register. “My name’s…—”
“No names,” mustache-guy sneered.
“Okay.—”
“One night or more?”
“Uhhh .., one,” I said. I had no intention of returning to the Doom Loop, so access for one night was enough. Would I have to pay for access?
“Works better with the virgin role, right?”
I didn’t say anything. A drag queen got up on the stage and began to perform “The Best” by Tina Turner. More and more men were taking their seats around the tables close to the stage.
“What are your specialties and talents?”
I blinked, completely taken aback by the question.
“What’s taking so long?” a woman called from down the line.
“Uhh, well, I can carry six pints of ale at the same time and I can turn wheels,” I blurted. The look of the guy told me that wasn’t what he’d expected or asked. Snickers sounded behind me. I flushed, realizing my mistake and what he’d really asked. I tried to come up with something that would entice men, but my mind was blank. I’d never been adventurous.
“The Irish maiden, pure as the first snow,” the man snickered. “That’s going to drive the bids up.” He shoved me forward.
“What? I’m not—” I paused. “Bids? I have a fixed price.” Fifty million dollars at least, so nobody would buy —me, my body. Obviously, there was only one thing women sold in this place. Cunt yard, indeed.
While that man ignored me, another man grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the line of women waiting to be led on stage once the drag queen was done with her performance. With a bow and a wave, she took her leave and the first auction began. The starting bid for the woman was twenty dollars for a night.
“Hey,” I said, trying to free myself of the man’s grip. “I have a fixed price.”
“Women don’t determine their price. The auctioneer does.”
He released me at the end of the queue.
“This is a misunderstanding. I’m not here to auction myself off. I should go.”
The man barred my way. “You are here. Now, you’ll be auctioned off. The only way to get out is after your buyer’s done with you … or if nobody buys you.”
I tried to argue with him, but he led me up the line until we arrived at the stage. He pushed me, and I stumbled on the stairs. My heart throbbed furiously. As my gaze traveled over the gathered guests, my courage evaporated. The men leering at me looked like criminals, as if they’d been transported here straight out of Sing Sing, or whatever the name of the worst prison in the States was. Most of them were tattooed and scarred with cold, prying eyes. They wanted to devour me, consume me, and hurt or kill me from the looks on some of their faces. As a waitress in a touristy part of Dublin, I’d,—on occasion,—felt like a fresh piece of meat and I’d been on the receiving end of an ass slap or two, but it didn’t compare to the deep fear of being prey.
My pulse skyrocketed. I fumbled inside my purse for my phone but realized it was gone. Mustache guy must have taken it when he frisked my purse. Cold sweat broke out all over my body.
I turned on my heel, suddenly overcome with terror. I couldn’t do this. I’d have to figure out another way to find Imogen. Maybe Gulliver would find it in his heart to help me.
A massive guy smiled broadly but prevented me from leaving the stage. “No chance, puppet. You signed the contract. No escaping.”
What contract?
I froze, my breathing ragged. “But—”
“No but. Back on the stage or I’ll carry you there. We even have chains if that’s not enough.”
I stumbled backward, away from him and into the spotlight. Swallowing hard and trying to hide my panic, I faced the crowd of hungry men.
“Up for bidding: a shy redhead straight out of Dublin.”
Another light came on, blinding me momentarily.
“Starting bid: twenty dollars until sunrise.”
Until sunrise? Twenty dollars? My throat became dry and my panic grew wings and began to flutter madly in my belly. I prayed that no one would want me. What could I do to repel them? My mind was whirring with too many thoughts. Maybe puke? I wasn’t far from it anyway.
“Here,” a man with a hard accent, definitely east European, called. My heart sank. I desperately searched the crowd for the source of the voice but the spotlights made it hard to see. I could only make out indistinct shapes, especially in the back of the building.
“Twenty-five,” called an American.
Finally, the lights were dimmed slightly and my eyes could focus on the crowd again. Though, this provided little consolation as I was again faced with the leering of dozens of men.
“Thirty!”
“Fifty!”
The bids rose higher, reaching low three digits when an Irish accent caught my attention. “Two-hundred,” a deep, commanding voice said.
I recognized the voice at once. I doubted I’d ever forget it. He didn’t need to raise his voice to catch the attention of the auctioneer or mine. My gaze found him as if tugged by a string. Lorcan Devaney stood behind the last row of chairs and watched me. A group of men sat around a table by him; only one chair was vacant, probably his.
Knowing Devaney’s reputation, I didn’t want to be bought by him. But I didn’t want to not be bought by him either. The other men weren’t better options and if I had read Gulliver’s cryptic words right, Lorcan was the man who knew more about Imogen.
Most of all, I wanted to run, but guards were everywhere, making sure the women didn’t leave without being auctioned off.
I was trapped, and my only hope was possibly Lorcan Devaney. I had to pray that his connection to my uncle would make him take pity on me. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem like a man who felt pity often. His expression was cold and calculating as he placed his bid on me.
The bidding took forever, and I wished for a miracle: for Gulliver to show up and save me. Many of the thugs wore crosses around their necks or had them inked onto their skin. They were God-fearing. That had to count for something. Right?
As the bids rose higher and higher, I seemed to become smaller and smaller. Finally, the auctioneer slammed the gavel, which was a figurine of a naked, bent-over woman, down on the table. “One night with our Irish maiden goes to Mr. Lorcan Devaney.”
I was dragged from my thoughts, my breath releasing in a rush. Lorcan Devaney had purchased a night with me for several thousand dollars.
It was the outcome I’d hoped for considering my other options, but now as I looked down at the tall, broody man, my blood ran cold. What had I done? He must expect something in return for so much money, and even if he didn’t, owing anything to a man like him was a horrible idea.
God help me.
Lorcan
Tired of the conversation and the display of desperate women selling themselves to the highest bidder, I was ready to leave. Most of them were hardly worth the minimum bid of twenty dollars and the embarrassing display by those who were too shabby to be bought even for twenty bucks grated on my nerves. I’d never paid money for sex, and I never would.
My moral compass was certainly impaired, but the idea of having a woman in my bed who didn’t want to be fucked by me was distasteful. Fuck, I had pride.
I nodded at my business partners, not sure why they favored this place. These sordid establishments seemed to have a special appeal to the good Catholic, married, old men of the IRA.
“Next up, a night with a genuine Irish maiden straight from the green island.”
From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of her flaming red hair. I turned to the stage and a strange sense of déjà-vu hit me. Aislinn Killeen stumbled toward the center with big, fear-widened eyes, clutching a shabby leather purse against her chest and still wearing the same dress she’d worn in church today.
Seamus followed my gaze to the stage. Recognition flickered across his face “Lorcan, that’s Gulliver’s niece, isn’t it?”
I nodded, but my attention was solely on the frightened redhead on stage. “I think I’ll stay for another drink after all.”
He chuckled. “The priest will have a heart attack when he finds out.”
I didn’t care about Gulliver’s feelings or his health.
But I definitely cared about this auction. It was obvious that Aislinn Killeen was in over her head. I didn’t believe that she knew what she was getting herself into when she walked into this building.
Aislinn Killeen had caught my attention the moment I’d spotted her sitting in the pew in her white dress, looking like a submissive Catholic girl—except for the keen attentiveness of her expression and the curious fire in her eyes.
She had eyes like clover leaves, like the endless grassy dales of Kerry. Skin as pale as the froth on the boisterous waves slapping against the brutal cliffs of Kent. Hair as red as the sunset over Dublin. She even smelled like home—of the salty wind carrying in over the ocean, of freshly mowed grass and something warmer. Touching her hand this morning had awakened a longing inside of me I’d suppressed for a long time, a longing for the beauty of my home country and the company of a sassy Irish woman.
Aislinn was everything I’d missed about Ireland and so much more. I wanted her. Her innocence. Her body. Her smile. Everything.
Tonight, unexpectedly, a chance presented itself. Of course, I could have asked Gulliver for her hand in marriage, for a long-forgotten debt that needed to be paid, but I had no intention of repeating history. No, this was a much better way to get my hands on Miss Killeen.
I sank down on the chair I’d vacated not too long ago. The old leering fools lifted their glasses in a toast. Soon several men were in on the auction, raising the bid to over three figures.
And for the first time in my thirty years, I joined an auction at the Cunt Yard.
Aislinn’s eyes flashed with recognition upon hearing my voice, and soon those green eyes settled on me. They were filled with a potent mix of hope and trepidation.
When the gavel slammed down, and I’d bought Aislinn for the night, the same emotions played across her face.
She wasn’t sure if I was her savior or her demise.
Neither was I.
