"Where did you get those?"

The limo stopped, and Charlie didn't come around to open the door.

Instead, Finn slid from on top of me and straightened his suit pants.

"I told you already, I should have fucked tonight, she begged for it and wanted it, but I didn't. Next time know whose name you should be fucking screaming when you come. Twice."

Then he left me to sit in my own filth.

I'd never felt like a whore before, but in a roundabout way, I was a whore, his whore.

Finn paid me.

Finn pleased me sexually, when he wanted.

Finn dressed me in pretty clothes and made me go on dates with men. Told me when to be home and made sure I obeyed.

And Finn almost fucked me on the balcony at Luke's party.

Would my mother be proud? I couldn't think about it.

For the next few weeks, I lived in my own personal hell. Jesse rode my ass, Paisley bitched me out, and Finn disregarded my every move as if I were invisible. Abbie even ignored me. Luke flew to New Zealand to meet with a client about the Texas mural project to be painted inside of an oil tycoon's corporate office, and Lori was on a month-long vacation to Amsterdam with Jeffery, her Number One. All the other girls were in and out, and paid no attention to little ole virgin me.

I became bored with books, TV, exercise, and even eating. I was going stir-crazy. Several meet-ups happened over the course of a few weeks, and I wasn't allowed to go because Luke had paid enough to reserve me for him, and him only. Drinking and sleeping didn't even curb the oncoming depression. Nothing could save me from myself.

It crossed my mind to go back home, but I had nowhere to stay, and I didn't want to rent a hotel room. Better to stay in Vegas.

Two nights before Luke arrived back, I dressed myself like a cheap whore: fishnets, a tight black skirt, and low-cut shirt that made my breasts pop out. Black eyeliner and eye shadow accompanied my teased hair. Forget a bra and panties, I was going to the Vegas Strip. I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.

I needed fast, pulsating music, so I could dance the night away.

And I would find it.

On the corner, a club bled the music and flashing lights that I so desperately craved. It would be my kryptonite. After three shots of tequila, I made my way to the dance floor. The liquor quickly found its way through my bloodstream because I hadn't eaten. I felt as light as a feather as I shook my ass, dry humped a few guys, and even got asked back to a hotel room or two. Even a few girls hit on me and wanted to take me home. I never knew gay clubs had so many straight people.

Three more shots of liquid gold and I was the pretty girl on top of the world: the virgin who could command them all with her toned legs and tight ass. The one wearing the slutty outfit and dirty mouth that made the filthiest of filthy blush. I gave them fake names, and numbers, batted my fake eyelashes, and said nasty things I wouldn't normally say.

In a matter of hours, I had transformed into someone I didn't know. Another person wore my skin, used my voice and body, and I watched from the sidelines as she acted out, fulfilling the destiny of becoming the little slut that Finnley created, in a place where creeps and perverts roamed and ruled. No one would judge me where the sin of the city ran wild. How could they? And there was no one around to reel me in from my mistakes. Not even Finnley could save me from the shadows of wickedness, and for a moment, I thought I might lose myself.

Once I was tanked on the brink of oblivion, I called Charlie to deliver me back to the mansion. While I waited, a young man, no older than me, offered me a shot, and I took it as I spoke filthy things to him: sucking cocks, eating pussy, and other nasty things that I never said to strangers. He wanted to leave with me in tow. If I continued to act out, virgin girl would be no more. But I had standards no matter how much of a whore I pretended to be.

A few more shots and my face went numb.

I barely could stand. The cute guy carried me to the parking lot, and I could hardly see. My world rocked and swayed, and my vision went hazy, then black.

Hard slaps across the face, pointless cursing, and I had come to—barely awake, alive even. I felt like I was dying and I had no control of my body.

Finnley held a flashlight in my eyes, and I tried so hard to talk.

Nothing.

"She's been fucking drugged. Who the fuck let her go alone? Jennifer?"

Finn's voice echoed like my name had been said a million times, but I was fading.

Fading away to nothingness.

"Jennifer. Stay with me. Please."

Blackness.

Then silence.

I woke to an empty, dim-lit room. I didn't know which day it was, or whether it was early morning or late afternoon. The last thing I remembered was going out, alone. Oh god, and being ridiculous.

I reached for my phone. It wasn't there. Damn it.

My mouth, sticky like I had swallowed liquefied sugar, needed water.

Stumbling from bed and down the stairs in a T-shirt and underwear proved to be harder than I imagined. My legs felt weak and shaky. Damn, my whole body did.

I chugged the water like it was going out of style and could hear a steady beat of music coming from somewhere in the house. The microwave read 6:21 p.m. I peeked out the window; no cars lined the drive except for V.

But the music continued and my head pounded along with it. I needed to find it and ask someone really nicely to turn it down.

As I walked to the stairs, I stopped and listened.

Was that… I heard it again… jazz music? Ray Charles?

Leaning my head against the basement door, I knew it was Ray Charles. "Get Around, Woman." I had danced to it one time in school.

Since no one was home, maybe Finn forgot to turn off the radio or something.

I opened the door and stumbled my way down the steps. The lights were low. But bent over the bed, ready to fuck, was a face I never thought I would see in Vegas.

Abbie.

Abbie and Finn.

My Abbie? My Finn?

What. The. Holy. Fuck!

I reached for something, anything to grab as my legs went from under me.

Finn carried me up the stairs in his arms, alone. He laid me on the bed and sat down. We looked into one another's eyes and refused to speak a word.

Not one single word.

I wanted to, but how could I? What would I say?

The last time we spoke to one another—and seeing him almost fuck my best friend—left me speechless.

A few minutes passed, and I turned my back toward him and stared out the window. No words could describe how I felt.

Betrayed?

Jealous?

I hated that I cared. I hated that I hated my best friend for wanting to be with him. There, in that room. But if I were single, and not contracted, would I have done the same?

The shadows of the trees floated past the window, nightfall was upon us, and I knew he wouldn't leave regardless if I demanded.

"Why is she here?"

"Because you almost died, Jennifer. I had to let someone know. She was on your emergency contact list."

I rolled over and peered into his eyes. "What did you just say?"

"You were drugged at the club. Almost overdosed on Rohypnol. You didn't respond well to it, and you were out for almost a week. In the hospital for a few days until you were stable and then I brought you home. I didn't know when you'd wake up. We were all worried."

The last thing I remembered was the cute guy at the bar handing me shot after shot, and I took each one like a damned idiot.