Another woman slides into our conversation, her voice chipper even though her face is etched with worry. “Oh, you know how it goes. You try to make a livin’, get arrested for it, cop strikes a deal with you. Suck him off, maybe let him bang you on the interrogation table, then go play dress-up for some high rollers at a club.”
“And then, when it’s auction time,” adds my pseudo-friend, “we play nice and do our best to not get sold to a complete asshat.”
I swallow the dry lump stuck in my throat. “‘Sold’?”
They fuckingobitch me. “Yeah,” the second woman says. “Didn’t you know?”
The first one sighs and looks at the other. “I don’t think she’s here on her own.”
“Well, f**k. That sucks.” She folds her arms around her waist. “I’m so sorry.”
I can’t wrap my mind around what’s going on. It’s
