Chapter 7

- Renee

The Uber reeked of cheap air freshener trying to mask the ghosts of a thousand previous passengers. I slumped against the door, my head pounding like I'd been caught in a mosh pit at a metal concert. The hangover wasn't terrible, but it was just enough to make the world feel slightly off-kilter, like walking through a badly-coded video game level.

The driver, a burly guy in his fifties with arms covered in faded tattoos and a salt-and-pepper beard, hadn't said a word since confirming my destination. Just as well. I wasn't in the mood for small talk after last night's shenanigans. He kept his eyes on the road, thick fingers drumming against the steering wheel in time with whatever mental soundtrack was playing in his head.

I stared out the window as we merged onto the highway. The weather was finally pleasant after days of blast furnace heat and yesterday's biblical downpours.

The radio hummed softly in the background, barely audible until the driver reached forward and turned up the volume.

"…continuing our top story today: President Thomas continues to lead peace talks in Geneva as the Ukraine conflict enters its second year of relative stalemate. The Frozen War' has **** both Russian and Ukrainian to significantly alter their tactical approaches. With women now comprising nearly forty percent of strategic positions on both sides, traditional warfare has become virtually impossible."

The host's voice was that particular brand of serious that news people put on, like they're constipated but trying to sound important about it.

"In similar news, the Israel-Hamas conflict has remained at a standstill for the ninth consecutive month. UN observers report that attacks on civilian areas have dropped to near zero, the risk of harming women deemed unacceptable by both sides. Critics continue to debate whether this represents genuine progress or merely a new kind of cold war. More on these developments after these messages…"

The radio switched to some annoying jingle about car insurance. I closed my eyes, letting the drone of tires on pavement lull me into a half-sleep.

"Crazy world we live in now, huh?"

The driver's voice snapped me back to consciousness. I caught his eyes in the rearview mirror, studying me with mild curiosity.

"What a fucking mess that guy left us with," he continued, shaking his head.

"What guy?" I asked groggily, trying to shake off the fog of sleep.

"The guy. The owner," he clarified. "Oliver. Don't remember his last name."

I stifled a laugh. If only he knew he was currently driving one of Oliver's fuck buddy to the airport after a night of identity-bending sexual hijinks.

"What about him?" I asked, keeping my face carefully neutral despite my amusement.

The driver shrugged his massive shoulders. "I'm just saying, if I'd been the one with that power, owning all women and shit, I would've done something useful with it. Could've stopped all these wars in the blink of an eye, for starters."

I frowned, confused. "Sounds to me like wars are stopping on their own."

"Nah!" The driver waved a hand dismissively. "Just changing. A different kind of mess."

"And how would you have done things?" I asked, genuinely curious about this random dude's grand plans for world peace. People always think they'd do better with power. Spoiler alert: they usually wouldn't.

He waved one hand dismissively. "I dunno. Take humanity by the balls, you know? Command all women to stop having sex with anyone until world peace was achieved or some shit like that. Bet that would've sorted things out quick."

I nodded, my lips twitching. "Yeah, I bet it would have."

The driver seemed satisfied that I'd acknowledged his brilliant strategy and fell silent again, focusing on the road. Though, to his credit, the idea wasn't that bad. No doubt the threat of withholding sex could certainly be an effective bargaining chip, especially when it came to men.

I dug through my bag for my pocket mirror, flipping it open to survey the damage. Christ, I looked like I'd been dragged through a hedge backwards. My burgundy hair was sticking up at weird angles, and the makeup I'd half-heartedly applied this morning was already fading, revealing the shadows under my eyes.

I started dabbing at my face, trying to make myself somewhat presentable before boarding. Something felt… off, though. I squinted at my reflection, trying to pinpoint what was bothering me. Was it my hair? My eyes? I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but something about me felt different today.

"You need to get your shit together, Renee," I muttered to myself. My body felt soft in all the wrong places: too many late nights binge-watching random crap, too many takeout dinners, not enough workouts. When was the last time I'd even been to the gym? Three weeks ago? Four?

I poked at the slight softness under my chin. Maybe I should do one of those juice cleanses my friends were always raving about. Or actually use that meditation app I'd downloaded six months ago and opened exactly once. Or finally organize my fucking portfolio like I'd been promising myself I would for the past year. The woman staring back at me from the mirror was a bad toy. Yeah, the word "toy" felt right, obviously. A bad toy that needed some maintenance.

I snapped the mirror shut and shoved it back in my bag, frustrated with myself for letting things slide. It was time to get back on track.

The car pulled up to the airport departures drop-off. The driver got out and retrieved my suitcase from the trunk while I climbed out of the back seat, stretching my legs.

He handed me my bag with a grunt, his eyes lingering on me for a moment longer than necessary. "You have a good flight, Miss."

I nodded, offering a polite smile in return. "Thanks."

The airport was a concrete and glass monstrosity that looked like every other fucking airport I'd ever been to. Generic art on the walls, overpriced coffee shops every fifty feet, and that particular smell of recycled air mixed with cleaning products and human anxiety.

I dragged my carry-on behind me, the wheels making that annoying clicking sound on the tile floor as I navigated through the sea of travelers. The check-in area was packed, naturally. A long line of irritated people snaking back and forth between those rope barriers like cattle being herded to slaughter.

As I joined the queue, I noticed a couple of women giving me odd looks. Not the usual "nice hair" or "what a freak" stares I sometimes got with my burgundy asymmetric cut. This was different. Like they recognized me but couldn't quite place from where. I discreetly checked my reflection in my phone screen. Nope, no food on my face, no wardrobe malfunction. Weird.

At the counter, a woman in her thirties was dealing with some jackass who'd apparently shown up three hours late for his original flight and was now demanding to be put on mine.

"Sir, as I've explained," she said in a tone that could freeze hell over, "this flight is fully booked. The next available seat is on the 11:15 PM flight."

The woman was stunning in that intimidating way that made you simultaneously want to fuck her and apologize for existing. Sharp cheekbones, dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, and eyes that suggested she'd seen every flavor of human bullshit and was thoroughly over it. Her airline uniform was crisp and perfect, not a wrinkle in sight despite probably being six hours into her shift.

After another five minutes of the guy's whining, security finally escorted him away, still protesting about his "rights as a customer" or whatever. The woman's expression didn't change, but I swear I saw her eye twitch.

"Next," she called out, and I stepped forward. I felt a pang of anxiety as she glanced up from her computer screen, not wanting to be the new target of her frustration.

The moment she saw me, something shifted in her expression. Just a flicker, but it was there. Recognition? I certainly knew I had never seen her before.

"Boarding pass and ID, please," she said in the same professional tone she'd used with Captain Entitlement.

I handed them over, watching as she went through the routine. Typing, scanning, checking the screen, attaching tags to my luggage. All perfectly normal, perfectly professional.

"Window or aisle?" she asked.

"Window."

More typing. The printer spit out my boarding pass, and she handed it over along with my ID.

"Gate B27, boarding begins at 6:45 PM. Have a good flight, and…" she paused for just a fraction of a second, her tone not changing at all from its professional cadence, "if there's anything else I can do for you before then, I'm obviously available."

I blinked. Was that… flirting? The delivery was so matter-of-fact it was hard to tell. Like she was offering to validate my parking or some shit.

"Uh, thanks. I'm good," I replied, grabbing my stuff and heading toward security before things got weirder.

TSA was its usual clusterfuck. Shoes off, laptops out, dignity abandoned. The line moved at the speed of continental drift, inching forward one grumpy traveler at a time. When I finally reached the metal detector, a burly dude with a mustache that belonged in a 70s porno waved me through.

Of course, the machine beeped.

"Random screening," another guy announced, looking at me with suspicious eyes like I was smuggling cocaine in my bra or something.

"Random, right..." I muttered under my breath. I had one of those faces. The kind that screamed "definitely hiding something" to every security guard in existence. Last year alone, I'd been "randomly" selected six times.

A female TSA agent approached to handle the pat-down. She was built like she could bench press me without breaking a sweat, broad shoulders and thick arms, but her face was softer than you'd expect. Kind of pretty, actually, in that stern gym teacher way.

She looked at me and that same flicker of recognition crossed her face. What the fuck was going on today?

"Please step over here and spread your arms," she instructed.

I sighed dramatically, moving to the designated area. "Oh, come on… Just let me through… Please…"

To my complete shock, she stopped mid-reach for her gloves. "Huh... Alright. You're good to go."

I stood there, arms still half-raised like an idiot. "Wait, what?"

"You can go through," she repeated, then added in the same casual tone, "Also... if you want to have sex before your flight, I'm on break in twenty minutes."

My brain short-circuited. "I… what? No, I'm good. Thanks?"

She shrugged like she'd just offered me a piece of gum and waved me through.

As I collected my belongings and entered the departure area, more women kept giving me those weird looks. A flight attendant walking past actually did a double-take. An old lady smiled at me like I was a B-list celebrity she vaguely recalled from some commercial.

Then it hit me like a fucking freight train.

Oliver had given me "temporary ownership" last night. He'd rescinded it, but… Had it stuck somehow?

I still had it. The ownership. These women were looking at me the way they usually looked at him. They were offering themselves to me the way they had to Oliver before he issued his command that they should stop doing it.

"Holy shit," I whispered, a grin spreading across my face.

Part of me knew I should text Oliver immediately. Let him know about this little oversight. The responsible thing to do. Messing with his ownership felt wrong.

I pulled out my phone, started typing a message to him, then deleted it. No hurry, right? It wasn't like he'd mind if I indulged a little in this accidental gift for a few days. Then I'd hand it back, no problem.

A cute employee in a bookstore caught my eye, her blonde curls peeking out from behind a shelf of self-help books. I stepped closer, smirking, heart racing. So many shiny toys to play with!

Hey there! This was chapter 7 of 4 Billion Toys 2. I'll be posting chapters here regularly, but if you want early access to the next chapters, feel free to support me on Patreon!

In the meantime, I'd be happy to hear your feedback and ideas for where to push the story. I've got the main storylines established already, but I've got more than enough room for suggestions ;)

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