Girl Called Fearless: A Girl Undone Part 33

I laid a hand over my stomach, feeling for my security shield while Ho and Hawkins blabbed on, oblivious to the drama unfolding around us.

"Heads up, everyone, looks like we might have company." All the interior lights went dark. Deeps accelerated, and the motorcyclists both in front and in back increased their speed to keep pace.

Ho pressed himself into the SUV's steel-reinforced seat as a third motorcycle appeared on the right. The roar of the three engines drowned out the radio.

Deeps. .h.i.t the panic b.u.t.ton on the dash and the dispatcher's voice came on. "What is your situation?"

"Three motorcycles front and side, coordinated movements, two riders on each vehicle, weapon status uncertain," Deeps barked.

"Do you need escort?"

"Yes, escort requested."

"Sending escort. Confirming your location is-"

Deeps pushed the car faster and Hawkins grabbed my arm and pulled me down on the seat. "You okay back there, Avie?" Deeps yelled.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"The escorts are on the way and should rendezvous with you in less than two minutes."

Roik, my old bodyguard, had drilled me on how to survive a vehicular ambush, and his instructions repeated in my head. Don't panic. Keep your head below the level of the windows. Let the armor in the door and seats protect your core.

But even I knew enough about evasive measures to know that we were trapped between the ocean and the solid wall of white headlights coming toward us on the Pacific Coast Highway.

Deeps is in charge. You need to trust him.

But there's no place to turn or pull off.

For a moment, I was back on that empty Idaho highway with Maggie, holding on to the seat as the car plunged off the road to escape the agents on our tail.

I turned my head at the sound of screeching metal. The motorcycle rider on our right leaned toward the SUV and dragged something along the side.

Sirens blared, and red and blue lights strobed in the rearview mirror. The motorcycles peeled off, and the SUV slowed as two patrol cars pulled up alongside. Hawkins gave me a hand. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine."

I looked around, confused, as music replaced the roar of motorcycle engines. The dash lights came back on, and up front, Deeps was trying to get Sig to take a stick of gum. "Trust me. It'll help."

Hawkins loosened his tie, and I brushed back the hair that had fallen out of my updo.

"I don't understand," I said.

"What don't you understand?" Hawkins said.

"What just happened? We were boxed in, but those guys didn't do anything."

Deeps and Hawkins exchanged a look. "It was a warning," Hawkins said. "Okay, Deeps. Go ahead and investigate. You're right. We need to know who sent those goons."

I stared at Hawkins. What? Isn't it obvious it's Jouvert?

"The 'No on 28' movement is becoming increasingly violent," Hawkins added. "I'm not surprised I'm being targeted."

Sig reached over the backrest to hand me a mirror and we traded glances. I wasn't the only one who thought Hawkins was blowing smoke.

Ho and Hawkins went back to reviewing the guest list, and Sig talked me through putting my hair back in place.

I fumbled with the bobby pins. The danger I'd sensed was real, and getting worse every day. I couldn't escape it, but now I realized maybe Sig should leave.

I didn't want to lose Sig, but there was nothing more I could tell him about Luke, and the longer Sig hung around, the greater the chance that the feds would catch him or he'd end up as collateral damage. I needed to tell him to go.

Wilshire Boulevard was decked out for Christmas with white lights wrapped around the palm trees and a grinning Rudolph plunked down in the median strip. When we pulled up to the Los Angeles County Museum, I saw that police lined both sides of Wilshire and wooden barriers closed off one lane. Cops with riot shields walked along the barriers while protesters crowded against them.

Guys who looked my age and slightly older stood side by side with senior citizens. Men and women waved hand-painted signs.

SIGNING = SLAVERY.

SHAME ON YOU, PATERNALISTS!.

AUCTIONS DEVALUE WOMEN.

I reached for Becca's necklace, forgetting I'd taken it off. Suddenly, I felt vulnerable and exposed despite my high-tech corset and I wished I'd pinned the little dolphin to the lace trim.

Hawkins eyed the protesters. "What do you think, Adam? How big is the crowd?"

"Two thousand. Twenty-five hundred max."

"That's the biggest protest we've seen at one of these."

"Are you polling public opinion on auctions?" Sig said.

"Big money loves them," Ho answered, "so right now, we love them."

Not me. I don't love them.

We rolled up to the main museum entrance that was tented with bulletproof gla.s.s. Deeps got out first. His tux stretched across his giant shoulders, and underneath, he had his gun. He surveyed the wall of photographers before he motioned to Hawkins to step out.

Time slowed as Hawkins smiled and waved for the cameras. "I know you don't really want another photo of me, guys," Hawkins said. "Shall I bring out Aveline?"

The photographers roared out my name. "Aveline! Aveline!" Hawkins offered me his hand and I slid out of the car, holding my breath. Lights flashed in my face and I listened for the crack of a sniper shot as Sig positioned me on the red carpet. One leg slightly forward. Shoulders back. Left hand on my hip so the cameras could catch the Love bracelet.

"Aveline, who are you wearing?"

The man called out the question three times before I was able to answer, "Nosuki!"

The camera kept going as a voice I recognized too well came through a loudspeaker. "Let's all welcome Candidate Hawkins and his wife-to-be, Avie Reveare."

I wheeled around and saw Yates standing on the roof of a van across the street, a mike up to his lips. And the way he looked at me, the coldness in his eyes, crumpled my heart like paper.

Hawkins leaned over me. "Keep smiling. We'll be out of here in a minute."

But Yates was only getting warmed up. "Jessop Hawkins bought his wife for fifty million dollars, and they are here tonight to sell other young girls into marital slavery."

I wanted to smash my hands over my ears, but I couldn't in front of the press. Can't you please stop hating me? That's not why I'm here.

Hawkins took my elbow and steered me toward the long red-carpeted staircase.

"Is this the kind of man we want as governor of California?" Yates cried.

The crowd roared.

I tripped on a fold in the carpet and Hawkins caught me before I fell. My chest burned like I'd taken a bullet to the back. My corset couldn't protect me from Yates' disgust.

"He should leave you out of this," Hawkins said through gritted teeth. "If Yates Sandell wants to pick a fight with me, bring it on. But he should know you better."

Shut up. Shut up, I wanted to scream.

Photographers lined the stairs, snapping away. Every six steps we stopped on the wide landing, and I posed, beaming like a pro and fighting back my tears. Ho was almost giddy, naming the media outlets featuring us.

Yates is free, I kept telling myself, and that's all that matters.

Finally, we reached the top, and Hawkins guided me into a gallery where two or three hundred men milled around, talking and drinking at tall tables on both sides of a raised catwalk while television crews positioned video cameras and lights, and a DJ blasted music.

The room smelled of meat and cologne, and I began to feel slightly sick as a server offered me his platter of beef kebabs decorated with orchid sprays. Sig brought me a champagne flute filled with ginger ale. "I know that was rough out there, but try to hold it together. I'll see if I can get you out of here early."

I sipped my drink, trying to breathe through the nausea. CHRISTIE'S PRESENTS THE EXOTIC COLLECTION was projected on the wall above my head, and I kept hearing Yates tell the crowd that I was here to sell young girls into marital slavery.

Hawkins was busy shaking hands and chatting up potential donors. He dragged me from group to group, making me stand adoringly at his side. At one point, I tried asking if I could sit down. "My ankle's killing me in these heels."

"You sit when I sit," he said. "This is work."

The men were all ages, wearing anything from leather jackets over their hoodies to designer tuxes. Tech t.i.tans, media moguls, real estate developers, high-profile lawyers, they all had one thing in common: they'd put a multimillion-dollar deposit down just to be here.

I was the only girl in the room, so a hundred eyes were on me. I breathed into my body shield, telling myself to ignore the stares.

Hawkins seemed to be testing ideas for changing the party. "It's time to reimagine California's Paternalist Party, don't you agree?" he'd ask. He'd listen and then ask more questions like he actually cared about the answers.

If you really wanted to change the Paternalists, I thought, you wouldn't be here. You'd be out front with the protesters.

A few minutes later, the director of Christie's tapped Hawkins on the shoulder. "We're ready for you to take the stage, Mr. Hawkins. With your permission, we'd like to invite your fiancee to join you and announce the name of each girl as she steps on the catwalk."

I shook my head no, but Hawkins ignored me. "Avie would be delighted."

I teetered up the steps, painfully conscious as I took my place beside Hawkins at the podium that I was doing exactly what Yates had said I'd do.

"It's simple," Hawkins told me. "I'll tell you when to read from the teleprompter." An a.s.sistant filled my arms with tiger lilies. "Give one to each girl as she enters."

The spotlight pinned Hawkins and me as the director announced, "Tonight's MC and the next governor and First Lady of California, Jessop Hawkins and Aveline Reveare." Hawkins waved as clapping and whistling filled the air, and I shifted the flowers in my arms, trying to duck behind them from the cameras.

I promised Hawkins I'd campaign for him, but this? If I'd known- "Good evening, gentlemen. Tonight, I have the special pleasure of introducing the fifteen beauties handpicked by Christie's debutante curator for this fall's exclusive Exotic Collection. The Exotic Collection celebrates ethnic beauty and pedigree, combined with doc.u.mented American citizenship.

"As each girl takes the runway, the number to text in your bids will appear on the wall to my left."

The DJ pumped up the beat, the overhead lights dimmed, and spinning patterns of leopard and cheetah spots appeared on the walls.

Spots lit the catwalk, and Hawkins leaned in to me. "Read the first line on the teleprompter and don't be shy."

I saw the name come up on the screen. Chantal Gupta. How can I do this? "Chantal Gupta."

Hawkins nudged me. "A little louder, Aveline."

"Chantal Gupta."

Chantal emerged and smiled at me as I handed her a tiger lily. She looked familiar, with her olive skin and dark eyes. She strode down the runway in her long, chiffon leopard-print dress, slit high up the front. The fabric floated away as she moved, revealing her toned arms and legs and perfect figure.

Hawkins read her bio. Chantal was my age, a junior at Harvard-Westlake Girls. She was halfway down the catwalk when I realized she'd beaten me at a track meet in May, breezing past me like she had turbo power.

Now, she worked the runway, dipping her head and catching the eyes of men on both sides as she pa.s.sed. They texted away, and a number appeared on the wall. In one minute, Chantal hit 7 mil, then jumped to 10 as she pivoted, growing to 14.325 by the time she disappeared back behind the curtain. Fourteen million, three hundred, and twenty-five thousand.

I managed to read off the next two names, and the girls each stepped out like pros who'd practiced their runway skills. They sashayed, hips swinging, and used the lilies almost like wands, tipping them toward men whose attention they wanted to catch.

Hawkins announced the girls' vital statistics: their academic, athletic, and genetic scores, their fathers' net worth and his political and commercial connection values.

The girls were reduced to this: scores.

The lilies' perfume was turning my stomach. I swore I could hear the protesters chanting outside.

I'm a traitor for being here, supporting this.

The next name came up on the teleprompter: Zara Akimoto, my friend from school. My chest seized. This couldn't be right. "I can't read it," I told Hawkins.

"Sure you can," he said. "It's easy. Sound it out."

"No, you read it."

I shifted the awkward bundle of flowers, wishing I could dive off the stage. How could her father do this to her? He had to know she was gay.

Zara emerged. Her dress was in shreds as if she'd taken a pair of scissors to it backstage. She reached out for a lily, and our eyes connected. I saw the shock register in hers, and she ripped the flower from my hand.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Zara threw the flower aside, then walked the runway like she was attacking it, flaunting her ragged tiger stripes and glaring at the men. She was unexpectedly beautiful, her features a blend of j.a.panese and African-American, and her face radiant with fierce, outraged energy.

Her heart was tied to Portia's, and her being here was completely and totally wrong.

The number on the wall held steady at zero, and I prayed that it would stay that way. If the bids didn't hit the minimum her father set, Zara wouldn't sell.

But then I saw a man at a nearby table fix on her like a hunter on his prey. Zara pivoted, and a three appeared on the wall, then five, then seven, and I saw two men eye each other across the catwalk like this was a duel. No, no! I thought as the number on the wall hit eleven, then thirteen, and finally nineteen before one man saluted the other with his winegla.s.s.