Auctioned on Valentine's Day: A Second Chance Stepbrother Romance

by Amy Brent

  “My family’s Hispanic,” I said, matching his smile with the cup at my lips. “You’d be surprised at the things I’ve eaten.”

  “Tell me about your family,” he said, settling back and tilting his face to the morning sun. We were both naked under the thick Club D robes we wore. I could see little beads of sweat across his chest. I had to resist the urge to lick it off with my tongue. If last night was any indication of things to come, there would be plenty of time for that later.

  I set the cup on the table and took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Well, let’s see. I come from a big family. Six brothers, all older. I’m the only daughter and the baby of the family.”

  Denny made a scary face. “Crap. Six brothers? I assume they are all super protective of their little sis?”

  “You have no idea,” I said, wiggling my eyebrows at him. “But not as protective as my dad.”

  He gave a respectful smile. “Are we a daddy’s girl?”

  “We are, big time,” I said with a proud smile, though I knew my Papa would be furious with his little girl if he knew what she had done most of last night and planned to do most of the day today. In his mind, I was still six years old and just the thought of letting a man go near me was enough to send him over the edge. That’s why I never brought a boy home when I was in high school or gave Papa a clue that I dated anyone. He would kill any boy or man who dared touch me, then kidnap me and commit me to a convent if he thought he could get away with it.

  “Tell me about your father,” Denny said, leaning in to rest his muscular forearms on the table. He picked up his coffee cup and held it between his hands and gazed lovingly at me through the steam.

  “Well, let’s see…” I pictured my Papa’s face in my mind’s eye. He was smiling… for now. “He is a second-generation American, came here with his parents when he was just a boy to become a citizen. He’s worked the last forty years in construction, managing to keep a roof over our heads and feed me and six teenage boys.”

  “He sounds like a good man,” Denny said with a smile. “I’d like to meet him someday.”

  “Uh, yeah, sure, maybe…” I said, playfully rolling my eyes so he wouldn’t detect how much the thought of him actually meeting my father scared the shit out of me. I wanted to say, “My dad saw you say the pussy duh on national TV and he thinks you’re a spoiled, rich, asshole’… but I didn’t.

  I knew the real Denny, or was getting to know him better by the hour. He was not that guy. Not down deep. He was a good guy. A loving guy. A guy that I felt myself falling for a little more each time I looked into his eyes.

  “What about your six brothers?” he asked, still smiling, though I thought I caught the corner of his lip twitching at the thought of dating a girl with six very large, very protective, Mexican brothers.

  “What about them?” I asked, one eyebrow cocked. “Are they protective of their little sister? Yes, very. Would they beat you to a pulp and bury you in three feet of concrete if you hurt me? Again, yes.”

  He reached across the table with his hand open. He wiggled his fingers and mocked a serious face. “Then I’d better never hurt you then.”

  I blinked at his hand for a minute, then slowly slid my fingers into his. I looked at him seriously for the first time.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, frowning.

  I blinked at him. “What are we doing here, Denny?”

  His fingers entangled with mine. “What are we doing?”

  “Yes, what are we doing?” I took a deep breath and held his gaze. “I mean, is this just a fun weekend? A one-time thing? Just sex?”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “What do you want it to be?”

  I wasn’t really ready for the question, even though I had just posed it to him. My mind reeled for a minute, searching for a quick answer, but no quick answer came. So, I went with the truth.

  I said, “I like you, Denny. I like you a lot. I have for a long time.”

  He cocked his head at me, still smiling. I felt myself melting under his gaze. “You have?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why haven’t you ever said anything?”

  I snorted. “What was I supposed to say? Gee, Mr. Chambers, would you like to go on a date with me when you take a break from being a billionaire playboy?”

  “That would have been a start,” he said, clutching my hand, rubbing his thumb across my knuckles. “Truth? I’ve also had a bit of a crush on you, too. For a long time.”

  My eyes widened. “You have?”

  “I have.”

  “Are you finished with your breakfast?” I asked.

  His tongue slowly went around his lips.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because…”

  I leaned back and opened my robe to expose my naked body to him. I cupped my breasts and gave my nipples a squeeze, then spread my legs wide enough to give him a good peek at what he’d be having for dessert.

  Chapter 11: Denny

  “What the heck happened to you this weekend?”

  I glanced up from my computer to find Sammy standing in my office doorway with a large iced coffee in one hand and a sub sandwich the size of a football in the other. The sandwich had jagged chunks torn out of one end, as if a rabid dog had attacked it. Sammy was a brilliant CEO who had the eating manners of a hungry Pitbull. He was chewing as he gave me the eye.

  I pushed back from the desk and pointed him at the chair across from my desk. “Serena and I came back early to beat the traffic,” I said, stretching out my arms and groaning like an old man. “I was gonna let you know but you were indisposed with the Bambi Twins.”

  Sammy poked his tongue into his cheek and arched his eyebrows. “You and Serena, huh. Well, I guess my little chat with her did some good. You’re welcome.”

  I frowned at him. “What little chat?”

  “She didn’t tell you?” His big shoulders went up and down slowly. “Not a big deal. I was outside smoking a joint when she took her break. We were talking about life and love and your name came up.”

  I felt my heart dropping a little in my chest. Damn. I knew it was too good to be true. “What did you do, Sam?”

  “I just told her that you had a little crush on her and she said she’d always had a little crush on you. I told her you were the best guy I knew and if she was as smart as I thought she was, she’d get her ass up to your room and get busy.”

  “Fuck…” I said, rubbing my eyes. “Shit. I knew something was up.”

  He frowned at me with the sandwich between his teeth. Chewing like a cow eating cud, he said, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I knew it was too good to be true!” I clutched my head between my hands and stared at the ceiling. “I should have known when she showed up at my door that something was up. Fuck. She wasn’t there because she wanted to be with me. She was there because you put her up to it. Or at least goaded her into it.”

  Sammy picked up the iced coffee and took a long suck on the straw. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and gave me a hard look. “Don’t make a big deal out of me talking to her, man. And don’t misconstrue what she did. I didn’t say, ‘hey there’s a rich guy up there who’ll pay you to fuck his brains out’ for Christ sake. She’s not one of those girls.”

  “No, she’s worse,” I said, exhaling with my chin on my chest. “At least the Escorts and Specialists are honest about their motives. They’ll fuck you for money. Period. An honest transaction. Serena fucked me to get her hooks into me. And you put her up to it.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Sammy snorted, spraying my desk with bits of bread and meat. “How can you even think that about her?”

  “Because women like her don’t come onto guys like me without dollar signs in their heads.” I shook my head as the reality set it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  “Dude, you are so fucking paranoid,” he said as he cleaned crumbs off the desk with the butt of his hand. “She came up there because she fucking likes you. Serena Diaz is no g
old digger. And don’t flatter yourself, asshole, there are far better-looking billionaires with way more money than you out there she could go after if that was the case.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Maybe he was right. Maybe she did like me for me and not because of my bank balance.

  Sammy shook his head at me. “Den, don’t overthink this. That’s what you do. You overthink shit and fuck it up. That’s why you’re still single.”

  “I don’t see a ring on your finger, asshole,” I said, sounding angrier than I really was. He was right. I was paranoid. I did overthink things. That was why I had screwed up every semi-decent relationship I’d ever had.

  The money made me that way. The money also bought me a ton of cool shit, so it was a small price to pay. Usually. The thought that Serena loved my money more than she did me made my chest hurt.

  “I may not have a ring on my finger, but I know you,” Sammy said, smacking his lips. “And I think I know Serena pretty well. She’s a good girl, Den. And would be a great catch for you. If you don’t grab on to her when you have the chance, you might be missing your best opportunity to finally grow up and be happy.”

  “Maybe,” I said, taking another deep breath and pushing it out slowly. “I just don’t know…”

  “You like her, don’t you?” he asked.

  I blinked at him for a moment, then slowly nodded.

  “I do like her,” I said. “I really do.”

  “Can you think of one thing about her you don’t like?”

  Again, I thought for a moment, then shook my head and smiled.

  “No. At least not yet.”

  Sammy gave me a smile decorated with mayonnaise and lettuce and shook what was left of the decimated sandwich at me. “Then try not to fuck it up, Romeo. For once in your life, think with your brain and not your cock.”

  He finished the sandwich in two large bites, loudly drained the coffee, then left his trash on my desk and sauntered out like a great ape going off to take a nap after feeding time.

  I turned my chair toward the window and stared out at the blue sky for a moment, then shook off doubts about Serena’s intentions and went back to work.

  I liked her and she liked me.

  End of story.

  Chapter 12: Serena

  “Papa? What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I would drop by and bring you some tomatoes from my garden,” he said. He held up a brown paper bag and offered me an innocent smile, though I knew him showing up at the office where I worked was anything but innocent.

  “You didn’t have to bring these by,” I said, coming around the desk. “I could have gotten them when I came for dinner on Friday.”

  “I thought you might want some before then,” he said. “I know how you love tomato sandwiches. Just like your mama.”

  “You’re right about that.” I took the bag and gave him a peck on the cheek, then guided him toward the chair in front of my desk. My desk was in the lobby of Amy Rossetti & Associates. Amy’s office was down a short hallway, but she was at lunch with Isaac, so we had the place to ourselves.

  “Is it okay to visit for a minute?” he asked nervously, looking over his shoulder toward Amy’s office.

  “Yes, Amy is at lunch,” I said, sliding back into my chair. “Can I get you a cup of coffee or a water?”

  “You don’t have to wait on me like a guest,” he said, holding up hands that were rough and scarred from years of hard labor. He patted his knees and worked up a smile that made me hold my breath. “The truth is, I needed to speak with you about something. And it could not wait until you came to dinner on Friday.”

  I laced my fingers together on the desk and gave him my best “daddy’s little girl” smile. My father had showed up at my office only once before to tell me that my brother Roberto’s appendix had burst. He didn’t bring tomatoes to disguise the intention of his visit then, so I could only assume he was not bearing bad news now.

  I took a deep breath and arched my eyebrows. Something was up. I could tell by the way he was fidgeting in the chair like a little kid that had to pee and his eyes were darting around the wall behind me.

  “What is it, Papa?”

  His fingers flexed on his knees. He looked down for a moment, a deep frown on his face. When he looked up, I couldn’t tell if it was anger or shame burning in his eyes.

  He slid two fingers into his t-shirt pocket and withdrew a business card and gently set it on the desk between us. He slid the card toward me like a poker player sliding in his exchange of losing cards. I glanced down at the card for just a second. That was all it took. I recognized the card immediately because it was given to me by Mr. Lemon two years ago when he recruited me to work at Club D.

  The card had the words Club Votre Désire embossed in gold on the front, nothing else, no address, phone number, or logo. Mr. Lemon had scribbled his direct cell number on the back.

  “Tell me about this place,” Papa said quietly, his eyes burning into min. “Then tell me why you were there.”

  When it came to Papa, I was a lousy liar. His eyes had a built-in lie detector, and lying was the one thing he could not stand. He’d rather hear a horrible truth than be lied to. I blinked like a broken slot machine and licked my lips while my brain tried to come up with an answer that would satisfy him. Then a thought occurred to me: where the hell did he find that card and why did he think I knew anything about the place?

  “I don’t know anything about it, Papa,” I said, leaning back and crossing my arms over my chest defensively. A blind man could have read my body language. I dropped my hands to my lap and held them there. “Why do you think I would know anything?”

  Papa sighed because he knew I was lying, his heavy shoulders hunching into his neck as he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He nodded at the card.

  “Maria found that card in an old purse you donated for the church yard sale last week,” he said, referring to my brother Carlito’s wife. “She was going through the things you donated and found that card. And these.”

  He reached in his pocket again and brought out a book of matches that had the Club D logo embossed in gold on the black cover. He opened the book of matches and turned them so I could see the inside cover.

  Fuck.

  Busted.

  My habit of making notes to myself, something I had done since I was a little girl, had caught up with me.

  In my distinctively-neat printing, in tiny capital letters, was a note I had written to myself.

  Dinner with Papa Friday @ 4.

  “You wrote that,” Papa said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “Um, well…”

  “Please don’t disrespect me by lying, baby girl,” he said quietly. He leaned back and narrowed his eyes at me, like a judge ready to pronounce sentence even before the trial. “Maria did the Google for me to learn about this place. This club voter desire or whatever. It is a whorehouse, Serena. You have been there. No more lies. Tell me the truth.”

  I took a deep breath and did as he asked. I could only pray that he would still consider me his baby girl after he heard what I had done.

  “It’s not a whorehouse, Papa,” I said, my voice as weak as my argument. “It’s a private club.”

  “A private club where women sell their bodies to rich men,” he said. “A whorehouse.” The words hissed through his gritted teeth. “The Google doesn’t lie. Maria told me everything she found out about this place. Rich men go there to have sex with women.” He took a deep breath, swelling his thick chest to the point of bursting. “Are you one of those women, Serena?”

  I took a deep breath of my own and blew it out slowly, hoping it would calm my nerves. It didn’t. I had trouble taking another breath because I thought I was going to burst out crying. My hands were trembling. I laced my fingers together in my lap so he wouldn’t see them shake. I swallowed the lump that had lodged in the back of my throat and licked my lips, which had grown as dry as the deser
t. I stared at the card and wondered if Maria had found Denny’s name associated with Club D. If she had… shit.

  “Well?” Papa clamped his mouth shut and waited for me to answer. His eyes told me that he would know if a lie passed over my lips.

  “I work there as a waitress on weekends,” I said quietly, my eyes down to avoid his stare. “To pay for my school. I make very good money there, Papa. It’s no different than waiting tables at the Casa Blanca like I did in high school, except that I make thousands of dollars a month as opposed to pennies.”

  He glared at me. “You make thousands of dollars a month serving drinks at a whorehouse?” He shook his head and scoffed. “I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s true,” I said, my voice cracking as the tears welled in my eyes. “You’re right. It is a whorehouse where very rich men have sex with beautiful women. I serve those rich men drinks and they tip me very well. I swear to you, I have never had sex for money at Club D. Never. I would never do that. You have to believe me.”

  He stared at me for a moment, unblinking, then shook his head and looked away. “Thank God, your mama is not here to see this. Her daughter working at a whorehouse. She would die all over again.”

  I can’t tell you what happened inside my head at that moment, other than to say that his comment lit a very short fuse that burned quickly and ignited mental dynamite that I could not contain.