Auctioned to Him 9_Wait

by Charlotte Byrd

  “You bitch!” Cal yells out and grabs at the pen. When he pulls it out, I get covered in a waterfall of blood. I close my eyes. When I open them again, Cal is off me. I pull myself up to my feet and rub my eyes. Someone is punching him in the stomach and the face. The man, whose shadow looks familiar, gets behind Cal and puts his head in a headlock. He twists it and Cal falls to the floor.

  Somewhere in the distance, I hear sirens. The cops are finally here. When the man turns around, I take one look at his face and my legs refuse to hold me up anymore. I slide back down to the ground.

  When I open my eyes again, paramedics are crowding around me.

  “She’s conscious!” one of them yells out. Suddenly, Logan appears above me.

  “What are you…?” I try to ask. My voice is raspy. I cough and sit up.

  “Careful,” one of the paramedics advises me.

  “I’m okay,” I say to them. “Really.”

  “Where is the bleeding coming from?” Someone asks, checking me for holes.

  “This isn’t my blood,” I say. “It’s Cal’s.”

  They don’t believe me. They feel me up and down before they are satisfied.

  One of the police officers pulls Logan away from me to ask him some questions. Another one talks to me. After the paramedics wrap me in a warm, grey blanket and give me a bottle of water to drink, I tell them what happened. Every single detail of what had happened this afternoon is burned into my mind. I’m pretty certain that it’s going to stay there forever.

  An hour later, one of the detectives brings me a cup of tea and I drink it, sitting on the stoop outside the shop. Since I refused to go to the hospital, the second ambulance leaves empty. The first one left almost immediately with Cal, who is apparently not dead but in critical condition. When he left, he was losing a lot of blood (thanks to me), and his neck was probably broken (thanks to Logan).

  “Thank you very much for all of your help, Officer,” Logan says walking outside with one of the detectives. This is the first time I get a very good look at him. I still can’t believe that he’s alive and actually standing here in front of me.

  “Let me know if any of us can do anything else,” Logan adds.

  “We’ll be in touch.” The detectives give us their cards, and all four police cars leave the parking lot.

  Logan and I watch them drive away.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask as soon as they disappear out of sight. “How are you still alive?”

  “Avery, I need to tell you something. What you saw on the beach that night—“

  “Truman was here,” I interrupt him. “He told me that you worked for him. He told me that you are an agent.”

  Logan takes a step back. It’s almost as if he can’t believe his ears.

  “Truman told you that?”

  “He was here. He was really worried about you. I’m so, so sorry that I screamed like that. I just saw what you were doing and I thought you were…” I can’t bear to finish the sentence.

  “A murderer?”

  I nod.

  “And I freaked out. I was so scared. And then when Truman came here and told me what you actually do…and that you were missing. He said that you were dead, Logan.”

  “I was, pretty much. They thought that I was when they dropped my body off in the jungle. But then these two kids found me, and their mom cared for my wounds, and brought me back to life. I would’ve died for sure if it weren’t for her and those kids.”

  I nod, trying to process what he’s saying, but it’s all a bit too much.

  “Would you mind doing me a favor?” Logan asks. I nod. “Would you mind driving me back to my house? My wounds aren’t all entirely healed, and that was a little too much activity for me.”

  He lifts up his shirt a little and I see the stitches on his stomach.

  “Oh my God,” I gasp.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be okay,” he says, taking me into his arms. “As long as I can kiss you again.”

  I nod and smile. He presses his lips against mine and the world fades away.

  Chapter 30 - Logan

  One Year Later.

  Dressed in a little yellow polka dot bikini, Avery walks a little bit ahead of me, carrying her surfboard. This has become something of a tradition of ours ever since she moved in. Even though I’ve seen her dressed like this almost every single day, it takes all of my strength not to pull on those little strings holding up her top and wait for her to yelp and run into my arms. Though going surfing every morning has become something of a tradition, today is different. I have a surprise waiting for her at breakfast, and I’m a nervous wreck. My palms are sweaty. My breathing is sped up. As I make my way into the cold waves, I take a moment to reflect on everything that has happened since that fateful day.

  When Avery drove me home that evening, she never really left. I asked her to stay the night and then another night and another. After hiring a staff of cleaning people to put her floral shop back in place, so that there was no sign of what had happened there, her friend Cynthia stepped up and ran the place until Avery was ready to go back. Within a week of her staying with me, I knew that I wanted her to stay with me forever. So I asked her to move in. She was shocked, of course, crinkling her nose in that cute way she does when she looks at me like I’m crazy.

  “This won’t be good for our relationship,” she said. “We’re moving too fast.”

  “There are no rules for our kind of relationship. I don’t think we’re moving too fast, but if you do, then we can stop.”

  “No, I don’t want to,” she said and kissed me. It didn’t take much more coaxing after that before she brought all of her clothes over and took up one small dresser in my walk-in closet. That’s when I knew that she’ll definitely need more clothes.

  Much to my dismay, Cal ended up living. He was in a coma for a few months as a result of Avery and her ingenious pen trick. Unfortunately, I was the one who had fucked up. I didn’t have enough strength to actually break his neck, so I only managed to paralyze him. He’ll be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, and from what I’ve heard, he also has severe memory loss. My hope is that he has completely forgotten about Avery. Regardless, Avery has filed charges, and he’ll stand trial as soon as he’s a little better.

  My own recovery is going pretty well. My leg has healed completely. The scar on my stomach is almost entirely gone. I only occasionally feel some pain around my stomach if I move too fast on my surfboard. I’m not sure that my injuries would’ve been enough to get me out of work for more than a month or two, but thanks to Avery and her big mouth, I’m out of the CIA. (She told Dolly that I was an agent and that I was dead and Dolly in turn told practically everyone else in my family). So, I’m finally a free man.

  We surf most of the morning and then head back exhausted, but rejuvenated. Avery jumps into the shower while I chitchat with Marilyn in the kitchen. Sanchez is dead, and the elected president has returned from exile and is running the country again. After Sanchez’s death, after the prisoners from all those illegal prison camps were released, the world learned about all the atrocities that he committed against his people. We didn’t even know half of them. Marilyn couldn’t be happier – she’s practically skipping. She’s no longer worried night and day about her family members, and it makes me feel good that I’ve done something to put that smile on her face again.

  “So, are you ready?” Marilyn asks. She knows what I’m up to.

  “Nervous,” I say.

  “Oh don’t be. That girl loves you!” she waves her hand dismissively.

  I go into the bedroom and change into a pair of linen pants. I dig through the top drawer for the box that I’ve hidden there and put it in my front pocket.

  “Hey,” Avery says coming out of the bathroom. She’s dressed in a light summer dress. Her hair is dripping onto the floor and she looks radiant.

  “Ready for breakfast?” I ask as casually as possible. She nods and follows me out onto the patio. As we walk,
I finger the delicate clasp of the leather of the box in my pocket.

  On the patio, we are greeted by a beautiful set table with a white tablecloth and a platter of cut up fruit. Another platter has toasted bagels, pastries and danishes.

  “Wow, this looks amazing, Marilyn!” Avery yells back to the kitchen.

  “I know,” I mumble.

  “What’s the special occasion?” she asks rhetorically, sitting down. “A white table cloth even. Marilyn’s definitely in a mood, isn’t she?”

  Avery flashes a smile and reaches for the cut up watermelon. I place my hand on her hand and stop her.

  “Before we start, I want to say something to you.”

  “Okay,” she says carefully.

  “I was just reflecting the other day on how wonderful this year has been for us. I never thought that I would ever want to have anyone sleep in my bedroom night after night, let alone move in with me. Until I met you.”

  Avery’s eyes twinkle in the sunlight.

  “And then, after you moved in, I kept waiting for this bliss to wear off. It couldn’t last, I said to myself. People can’t actually be this happy all the time.”

  She smiles with her whole face. The sun wraps her in a warm glow, placing a halo around her head.

  “I know, I’m pretty happy too,” she says.

  “But time passed. I kept waiting for things to get worse – for you to tire of me, for me to get bored with you – but it never happened. I love you, Avery. And now I know that I always will love you.”

  “I love you, too, Logan.”

  I get the box out of my pocket and get down on one knee in front of her. Her eyes get round and she gasps.

  “Will you marry me?” I ask, opening the ring box before her.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” she screams out. I barely get the ring on her ring finger before she wraps her arms around me.

  When she pulls away, I see that she’s crying. Happy tears.

  “Well?” Marilyn asks, peaking around from the corner. “I can’t wait any longer. Oh my God, Avery! Why are you crying, honey?”

  “I’m not crying,” she says through the tears. “I said yes!”

  Marilyn pulls her into her bosom and when they pull away, I see that now they’re both crying.

  “For crying out loud,” I joke. “This is supposed to be a happy time.”

  “Oh, men!” Marilyn shakes her hand at me, dismissively.

  When the tears finally dry, Marilyn asks to see the ring. Avery extends her hand proudly like a proper bride-to-be.

  “Oh wow,” Marilyn gawks at the ring. It has a halo three-carat diamond with a diamond band.

  “This ring is beautiful. But it’s too big,” Avery says shyly.

  I shrug.

  “That is what happens when you take Dolly to pick jewelry with you,” I add.

  “Oh nonsense! This ring is perfect! He did good. Real good!” Marilyn pipes in.

  Avery and I both laugh.

  When Marilyn disappears back inside, I look into Avery’s eyes. She has never been so beautiful or happy as she is at this very moment. I pull her close to me and close my eyes. Pressing my lips onto hers, I know that my life will never be the same again. And that is exactly how I want it.

  The End

  Hollywood Anaconda (Bill. Matchmaker 2)

  When Chloe get her first wardrobe stylist job, she meets an arrogant and self-absorbed movie star, Finn Dalton. Finn is People’s Sexiest Man Alive and everyone thinks he’s a God, but Chloe doesn’t get it. He’s hot. His body looks like it had been chiseled from stone. But his attitude definitely needs an adjustment.

  Finn is a famous and gorgeous playboy. He’s surrounded by women, but not the kind you can bring as a date to the Governor’s Ball. When he reaches out to Dolly Monroe, a billionaire matchmaker, she sets him up with the one girl who seems to be impervious to his charms.

  Quickly, Chloe and Finn get locked in a game of seduction. But games of love are dangerous games to play…

  **WARNING: Steamy scenes, NO Cheating, HEA!

  Prologue

  My name is Dolly Monroe and I’m a billionaire matchmaker.

  I am 5’10’’ when I’m awake and 5’5’’ when I’m asleep. I’m suspicious of women who don’t wear heels, just as I’m suspicious of people who call me out of the blue asking for favors.

  I have a strict policy when it comes to my hair, one which I’ve abided by since I was a little girl in West Texas – the bigger the hair, the closer to God. My hair is as platinum as some of my client’s records, and it perfectly offsets the 10-carat diamond ring on my left hand.

  I never let my waist get bigger than 22 inches, and I do not have the same restrictions on my breast size. The girls were 36 DD three years ago, and now they’re 36 EE. Who the hell knows how big they’re going to get in another decade?

  I like my men the way I like my purses: in a variety of colors and styles and with a high price tag. My husband, who’s also my high school sweetheart, doesn’t mind, of course. Because my little business makes more than a hefty penny and keeps him in a 20,000 square foot Malibu beachfront house and allows him to spend his days surfing and golfing.

  You see, I’ve been at this for a very long time. I was 13 the first time I did my first set up: my second cousin with my best friend from middle school. They dated through 10th grade, married in 11th, and celebrated their 40-year wedding anniversary last year.

  I started my matchmaking business when I was 20 and, at first, I set up average folk like my cousins, then wealthy folk, then millionaires and now billionaires. This is the only thing I’ve ever done, and I’m pretty damn good at it. People aren’t that different, you know. Of course, billionaires come with their attitudes and highfalutin opinions of their own importance, but at their core, they want the same thing everyone else wants: for someone to give a damn about them, not just their money or power. What typically ends up being the problem, however, is that the billionaire (both men and women) think they’re going to get this thing from some 20-year-old, 5’11” bimbo, but that’s rarely the case. And that’s where I come in.

  Why do I do this?

  I’m a sucker for a happily ever after. I believe everyone deserves one, and I can get it for them, if they just get out of their own way and let me.

  How can I be so sure?

  I have a great track record. I have successfully set up 3,988 couples. That’s more than 130 couples per year over 30 years of matchmaking. Not all of them were billionaires, but over the last five years a huge portion of them were. Close to four thousand couples now are living their happy ending because of me. It feels damn good to say that.

  Then I made a mistake. I told my publisher friend about this, and she went wild.

  “You have to write down some of your favorite stories, you absolutely must. People will go crazy over it!” she said.

  So, that’s how we got here. This series depicts some of my favorite couples from the last few years. Their names have been changed to protect their privacy, but everything else is as true as it happened from my clients’ perspectives. Though each couple eventually found their happily ever after, the road to get there was often difficult and treacherous. But what would life be without a little intrigue and turmoil, right?

  Chapter 1 - Chloe

  It’s the first of the month and the rent is due. I walk into my sister’s bedroom and push her awake. Lila is a sound sleeper and not someone who is easy to wake up. She’s a waitress who works at a popular bar/restaurant on Melrose, and she almost always works the closing shift. It’s not uncommon for her to get home at 4 am, which means that she sleeps until at least noon. It’s only ten a.m. right now. I know that she’s going to be moody, to say the least.

  “Lila. Lila!” I shake her.

  “What?” she mumbles, burying her hear deeper into the pillow.

  “Where are your tips?”

  “Go away.”

  “The rent’s due. I have to take all your cash to the bank so I can writ
e a check and it doesn’t bounce.”

  I’m sure that the details of the whole situation are lost on her. Honestly, I don’t know how she ever lived on her own and didn’t get evicted. I’m the one who takes care of all the bills – actually, pays them. She works and brings in good money, more than I do most months, but she never bothers to deposit any of her cash on time and constantly forgets to pay her credit card bills.

  “Lila,” I say again. I can see that she’s not sleeping anymore, just refusing to engage me.

  “Lila. I’m going to stop bothering you if you just tell me where you put your tips from last night. They’re not in your purse.”

  “Check my coat,” she says after a beat. “Inside pocket.”

  I look around for her coat on the coat rack, but it’s filled with four jackets that she rarely wears. The one she was wearing last night is on the floor at the bottom of her closet. I search the pockets and finally find a wad of cash. I count the money.

  “You made over three hundred dollars last night?” I ask, astonished.

  “There was this old guy who really had the hots for me,” she says, finally flipping around to face me.

  Her makeup is all smeared, with half of it rubbed into her pillow. I know that all the dirt on her pillow is new because I just did the laundry yesterday afternoon.

  “Still, $300 is really good.”

  “Well, I told you that you need to find yourself a job at some place that stays open past eleven. Nothing good happens between 11 and 2, except the tips. People drink a lot and they tend to tip a lot too.”

  I roll my eyes. I’ve heard this spiel a number of times before, and frankly, I’m pretty sick of it. I like my job at Fat Dog, just fine. I like the fact that they close at 11 so that I can actually get a full night’s rest. Though the tips do leave a lot to be desired for.