Piper's Price Read online

  Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2019 D.A. Maddox

  ISBN: 978-0-3695-0066-3

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Karyn White

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To Christine Klocek-Lim—my confidant, champion, and friend.

  PIPER’S PRICE

  Consequences, Live

  D.A. Maddox

  Copyright © 2019

  Prologue

  The show was new. It was forbidden. And it was running, right where Robbie could see it.

  His parents, Lorena McNeal and Senator Dusty McNeal, watched it on the widescreen in their living room. They sat together on the loveseat, holding hands and laughing occasionally, totally unaware of their young son at the top of the stairwell. They had drinks. They had a big glass bowl filled with popcorn, a guilty pleasure they shared.

  It was late. Robbie was supposed to be asleep. Normally, at this hour, he would be.

  On screen, there was only the front of the local penitentiary to be seen, plain red brick with a pair of glass doors that served as a visitors’ entrance, along with a massive crowd of onlookers behind a chain link fence in the parking lot. But as Robbie watched over the unsuspecting heads of his parents, the front doors of the prison swung outward, and the gathered multitude murmured under a twin voiceover:

  First, a woman with a deep, possibly affected, southern accent: “Oh, my. They’re coming out. I wonder what they’re wearing.”

  And then a man, his delivery that of a sportscaster: “Same as they were wearing when they went in on Sunday, I’d bet. We’ll know in a few seconds.”

  Robbie surmised that they were discussing prisoners about to be released at the end of a short sentence. They’d be in their late teens or early twenties, just a little older than he was. He felt a twang of pity for them, without knowing who they were or what they’d done.

  A point of view change. Police officers with guns and clubs on their belts opening a small gate in the fence, ushering four adults and three small children through the gap. The crowd quieted.

  From the male voiceover: “And … the families.”

  From the female: “Get your hankies ready. This is going to be so touching.”

  Robbie knew all too well that he was not supposed to see this. He was only sixteen—two years from the age of transition, six from the age of full citizenship and access. He was home for the weekend. At school, everything kids watched—whether on television or online—was carefully monitored, meticulously regulated.

  Still, nothing bad had been shown on this program so far. Not that Robbie could tell, anyway.

  But the show, whatever it was called, had been his father’s idea. That much Robbie knew. Over vehement objections from the opposition party, Senator McNeal had gotten his law passed. Robbie understood it was a rehabilitation program for “misbehaving transitionals,” but little else. Why their treatment was being broadcast on television—and why anyone would care—he had no idea. But Father had wrangled a deal with one of the restricted cable TV channels, and that had resulted in an extra payday. The following week, Robbie had gotten a state-of-the-art study computer.

  The prisoners emerged from the shadows of the doors: a boy and a girl of transitional age, just as Robbie had guessed. They wore nice clothes—a collared shirt and slacks for the boy, a crisp white blouse over a blue skirt for the girl. It was if they were coming home from church.

  And, oddly, from the crowd arose the sound of applause, soft and tentative at first but gaining quickly in volume as the two transitionals approached their families with slow steps.

  Closeups on their faces. The boy looked shell-shocked. The girl was crying, one hand over her lips. Their faces were suffused with blood, pink bordering on red. Were they … ashamed of something?

  Well, duh, Robbie thought. They’re just out from jail.

  The girl’s family—two parents and two younger kids—rushed out to her. She, too, broke into a run, separating from her fellow former inmate. She threw herself, arms-out, into their collective embrace. Everywhere, cameras flashed as she sobbed, first into her father’s arms, then her mother’s.

  But when the boy was met by his parents and little brother, seconds later, he jerked away from them as though out of reflex. He flinched at their touch. His eyes never changed expression.

  My gosh, Dad, Robbie thought. What did you do to them?

  He wouldn’t learn the answer to that question for two more years. In the meantime, as if in reply to his unspoken thought, his father spoke. He sounded lighthearted, triumphant. “There,” he said. “That’s justice. That’s contrition. And they were in and out in less than a week, honey. Mission accomplished.”

  Robbie’s mother leaned over for a kiss, and Robbie shrank back, deeper into the shadows of the upstairs landing. He waited there until he heard them munching popcorn and sipping drinks again. Then he poked his head out one more time, and now he could see the owners of the voices on TV. They were like television anchors.

  Only—not. For one thing, neither one of them could have been a day older than thirty. The man wore a suit jacket and a bowtie but no shirt. The “lady” had on a sleeveless black leather vest and did her hair up in spikes, like something out of the dark, wayward days of Old America. They wore party masks that concealed the upper halves of their faces: a plain black bandanna with eyeholes for the man, a glittering pair of stars at the end of a stick for the woman. She held it primly, and spoke as though coming off a hearty laugh.

  “That’s it for now. Until next time, I’m Gloria—”

  From the man: “And I’m Buck. And we are—”

  Together now, with bright smiles:

  “Consequences, Live!”

  Part One:

  The Last Days of Innocence

  Chapter One

  Dare

  She poked her head around the corner of the partition, making double-sure there weren’t any boys present. A quick peek confirmed all girls in there—women, she reminded herself—yet she couldn’t suppress the nervous giggle, nor the blush that rose in her cheeks. She dithered, idly wondering if it was too late to change her mind. She supposed it was.

  “Come on out, Maddy,” the professor said. “It’s all right. Deep breath.”

  Tentatively, shyly, Madison Piper emerged from the back of the studio, the red fleece robe catching at her toes once or twice as she approached the wooden dais. It felt funny, wearing a robe and nothing else. She held it closed in a tight fist over her chest.

  Twenty-four pairs of eyes followed her progress. One of the students adjusted her sketchpad. Another was putting in her contact lenses. Others sharpened pencils. But they were all looking, already studying her as she ascended the three small steps and turned back to face them. They were the same age as she was, freshman at Eastern Covenant University, new to the freedoms that came with reaching the age of transition.

  Except for the professor, of course. The art teacher at ECU was in her mid to late forties. Her work attire consisted of a light blue blouse and long denim skirt. Sneakers. Casual, but modest. Her soft features radiated encouragement, bestowing a small measure of courage.

  “Okay,” she said, “whenever you’re ready, take the robe off.”
r />   I can’t believe I’m doing this, she thought, letting go up top, inadvertently exposing her left breast as her fingers trembled over the loosely knotted sash at her waist. Mom would kill me if she knew.

  Her friends back home would be scandalized as well. As for her friends here at college, maybe not so much.

  She put on her brave face. The knot uncoiled in her hands.

  Two months ago, she’d never have dreamed it. She would have assumed it was illegal. But the ad had been clear: Student applicants preferred. Money was tight. She hadn’t been able to secure an on-campus job yet. And Mom wasn’t here to stop her.

  The sash came free in her hands. The robe parted down the middle. She did as she was told, took a deep breath. And let the robe fall.

  ****

  The ad had been placed by one Professor Veda Mack. Maddy had come across it yesterday morning on the bulletin board of her dorm building. She’d been getting ready for her morning run with Jasmine and Heather, just checking the announcements before heading outside.

  Trouble making ends meet? Cost of books getting you down? Art class models needed: three sessions over one week, one hundred dollars per hour, two hours per session. Several of the little strips of paper with the contact email had already been peeled from the bottom. Professor Mack had been looking for one male student and one female. Freshman Art 106: The Human Form.

  She’d stared at it in quiet astonishment until Jasmine and Heather came in to get her.

  “This has to be a joke,” she’d said to them, disbelieving.

  “Wouldn’t we need, like, a parental consent form, or something?” Heather had wondered.

  But Jasmine had cackled, her eyes alight with glee. She tore off one of the contact strips and put it in Heather’s hand. “Dare you!” she’d said.

  And Heather had dropped it, as though the little paper had been on fire.

  Later, after their run, Maddy had returned to the board, only to find the remaining contact strips gone. She’d sighed, head down, finding herself relieved that God or fate or random circumstance had intervened, rescuing her from the perils of her own questionable decision-making skills. Relieved—and a touch disappointed. But…

  The strip Jasmine had torn was still on the floor. Right between her feet. She knelt. Picked it up. Told herself she’d probably toss it in the trash when she got back to the dorm to study her Theology notes with Barb.

  Instead, she’d answered the email, sent in a headshot. And waited.

  And given up.

  This morning, just after three, she had padded into the bathroom, slipped out of her nightgown, and looked herself over.

  There’s not an ounce of fat on me, she had thought, gazing at herself, trying to be critical. But her dark hair shone, even just out of bed. Her face was pretty without makeup. She was toned. Her skin had a healthy color. She groomed herself well, even down there.

  Boobs are a little small.

  But so what? Those hadn’t been in the headshot.

  She turned around, looked at herself in the mirror over her shoulder. Nope—no sag in that ass.

  Who are you kidding? You’re just a girl. There are real women all over the place here.

  A noise, from back in her room—from where her roommate, Barb, was trying to sleep.

  Her phone. Like an idiot, she’d left the ringer on.

  “Sorry!” she’d called through the door, throwing her things back on and going to her bed stand. She had the ringer off before she checked the incoming call number, then flopped on the bed with the phone in her hand. Who’d be calling at this hour? Surely not—

  But it was. And rather than leaving a voice message, Professor Mack had sent a follow-up text:

  Madison, sorry I only just got the email. I know this is short notice, and the hour’s REALLY bad—but can you send me an image with all of you in frame? I’ve got my list down to you and two others.

  Quickly, Maddy had run her thumb over the sea of selfies stored in her phone pics until she found one that might be suitable: lifeguard duty, wearing a one-piece. It at least showed her arms and legs—well, from the elbows and knees down. And even though the modern swimsuit didn’t allow much in the way of actual cleavage, this particular picture hinted nicely at her curves…

  Such as they are.

  Before she could think herself out of it, she selected the picture and sent it. And again, she waited. But not for long.

  Madison, you look great. I want to say yes, but…

  Maddy texted back: But?

  You do realize this is a nude modeling job?

  She did. Or, at least, she had assumed it was. But it hadn’t been real to her until Professor Mack had stated it so openly in the text.

  Just Maddy, she answered. Yes, I understand.

  Still haven’t committed, she told herself. But Professor Mack wasn’t wasting any time.

  I see on your student profile page you’re on academic scholarship and looking for part time work on campus. I always try to give these jobs to the young men and women who really could use the stipend. Job’s yours if you want it, Maddy, but you have to say so right now.

  She hesitated.

  From Professor Mack: Yes or no, Maddy?

  Still, she stared at her phone a full five minutes before answering back.

  ****

  “Have a seat,” Professor Mack said, returning her to the present. “Please.”

  Maddy placed herself on the stool, hands in her lap. She forced a smile, taking in her audience. Some of them were whispering to each other, chatting pleasantly as they readied their supplies. None of them were drawing yet.

  Well, she thought. Here I am, buck naked in a room full of strangers. Good thing Jasmine and Heather don’t take art class.

  Professor Mack came to her. “I’m just going to guide you into today’s pose, all right? Easier to show than tell.”

  Maddy steadied her breathing as the teacher took her hands from her lap.

  “Think we’ll just have you like this, holding your hair up like so.”

  She eased Maddy’s arms into place, guiding her hands until they were at the back of her head. Maddy felt a little ridiculous, with her boobs jutting out like that, nipples at full attention. But she allowed herself to be led, to be positioned, even when the older woman eased her right leg up by the knee until her foot rested just in front of her buttocks on the edge of the seat. When she placed Maddy’s other foot on the lower rung, she couldn’t help but look down on herself.

  She had trimmed her pubic hair to what she hoped was a cute little V-shaped thatch, fully expecting that much to be on display. She hadn’t counted on having to show off like this, though.

  Vagina, this is the world, she thought. World, meet my vagina.

  And, Oh, God, that woman over there. She’s totally staring.

  The student in question, currently nibbling the back end of her pencil, wasn’t even coy about it. “Money shot,” she whispered to the student at her left, who tittered with her hand over her mouth.

  “Are you comfortable?” Professor Mack asked, seeming not to have heard.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m fine.”

  “Good. Hold that—just like that. Fifteen minutes, then a five-minute break. Breathe normally, Maddy, okay?”

  She reminded herself to breathe.

  What on Earth was a “money shot”?

  Finally, the professor turned her attention from Maddy and addressed her class. “All right, everyone, clock’s ticking. Get started.”

  Chapter Two

  Crush

  The studio emptied, and there they went—the freshman art students of Eastern Covenant, first section. In clusters and packs they emerged, a bustle of exuberant young women, all new to university life and getting their first taste of life away from home. They chatted happily, talking over matters great and small: their course loads, the big game next week, student loans, first impressions of their teachers—as if they had not spent the last two hours staring at one of their own i
n the nude. As if some poor soul had not stood on display in front of all of them to quietly bear their scrutiny as their eyes flitted over sketchpads or canvas, gawking at her.

  Robbie McNeal, and a couple dozen others who made up the second section, men’s group, awaited their departure before going inside. He and his new friend, Michael, watched them go. He sought one face in particular. She’d been in his morning government class yesterday, and he was already smitten with her. Madison Piper was a classic beauty, her long black hair straight and luxurious, her form lithe and athletic. The green of her eyes was so bright Robbie might have suspected colored contacts, if only she hadn’t been wearing a set of very fashionable wire-rim glasses. They gave her an erudite air, those glasses, an appearance of subtle wit. Her clothes had been modest but tasteful, a simple white blouse, pressed jeans, and red leather boots. She didn’t come from money, but she wore middle class very well.

  The chances of her taking two of the exact same classes as he was were miniscule, Robbie knew. And the studio was now almost empty. It wasn’t good for him to get his hopes up like this, but…

  But he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  She had an infectious laugh, a helplessly cute smile. And, just as he had with Michael, Maddy had fallen in with a couple of new girlfriends. He’d seen her with them on the quad, surreptitiously caught their names in passing. And they were quite pretty as well—spritely blonde Heather and her quirky-cute redheaded companion, Jasmine—just not beautiful in the way Maddy was.

  And, unbelievably, there she was, bringing up the rear with a cluster of girls Robbie didn’t know from Adam. Maddy was giggling, a little flushed in the face. Over the crook of her right arm she carried a red fleece robe, or dressing gown. Unlike the others, she didn’t have any art supplies that Robbie could see.