Bidder Rivalry

by E. F. Mulder

  “There’s a lot of that happening.” Gideon rolled his eyes. “Must be a holiday thing—more traffic to the site or whatever. You’re not going to believe this, but I’m going through the same thing over a pair of shoes.”

  Rudy looked up again—without the smile. “Shoes?”

  “A piece of memorabilia from an episode of The Funn Family. That’s a show from back when I was a k—”

  “Yeah. I know it. Seriously?” Rudy took a few steps and then spun back around. “What are the odds?”

  “Of what?”

  “My bid was last, StarryNight…Star…whatever.” The smile returned, but now seemed phony. “And I won. No big deal, right?”

  “You’re 90sFandemonium?”

  “Yup. And,” Rudy put a hand on Gideon’s elbow, “also the rightful owner of those shoes.”

  “Well…sorry, but no.” Gideon turned slightly to remove himself from Rudy’s touch. “I am. Were it not for some computer error, they’d be on their way to me right now.”

  “Computers don’t make errors, Gideon. People do. I don’t know what happened.” Rudy’s voice was even and somewhat condescending. “If you made a bid, and it didn’t go through…you must have done something wrong. Sorry.” His shrug was smug. He was a smug shrugger, and Gideon’s infatuation was fading fast. “That’s business.”

  “So, you plan on fighting for them?” he asked.

  “I do, and I likely won’t have to put up much of one.” The quiet charm was gone.

  “I’ll pay you a hundred and fifty bucks,” Gideon offered as Rudy walked away. “Maybe…$160—” he was pretty sure he could dig up ten bucks “—$161.” He felt four quarters in his pocket. “Please.” He grabbed Rudy’s shirt sleeve. “Ecru, right?”

  “The shoes aren’t for sale. Let me go.” Rudy very easily could have.

  A couple of patrons straggling in stopped to watch the exchange. Presley versus Timberlake in a sleazy bar parking lot, maybe it was something to see.

  “You really don’t look like you need a pair of secondhand shoes,” Gideon said. Then he licked his lips. Shit.

  “It’s not about what I need, and it’s not personal. It’s—”

  “Business. I heard you the first time.”

  “Good. We had a nice night, Gideon.” Rudy broke loose. “Don’t ruin it by being immature about this.” He headed back toward the door, presumably for his jacket.

  “Immature?” Gideon followed. “Immature?” By the time he got inside, Rudy had it in his hand. The label inside said Armani.

  “A reasonable man would just walk away. This isn’t personal.”

  “It’s personal for me, Rudy. You don’t get it.”

  “Gideon, they’re old, smelly shoes, worn one time by some has-been actor on an inane sitcom from thirty years ago. Why are they so important to you?”

  “Why are they important to you?”

  “That’s none of your…” Rudy blinked a couple times. “They’re not. I won the bidding, though so…discussion over. I’m outta here.” He didn’t get far. A wall of Elvis’s Vegas Sing-Along regulars blocked his path.

  “And it shows what you know,” Gideon said, “and what the seller did. Frank Funn wasn’t the only one who wore those shoes. Why doesn’t anyone remember Skippy wore them, too?”

  Rudy didn’t even turn around. “‘Skippy’ or whatever his name is in real life, is probably in prison, or maybe he’s waiting for the right moment to post pictures of his junk in order to make a comeback, because his agent can’t get him on Dancing with the Stars to save his life.”

  “Wow. I thought you were whimsical—”

  “You thought I was whimsical?”

  “Turns out, you’re just cynical. Cynical, patronizing, and smug. Sydney Morrison, aka Skippy Funn, is a doctor, smartass. He just made a rare cameo on his TV sister’s Emmy nominated Netflix dramedy, Over Fifty, Under Appreciated about gay kids being bullied. Brock Adamson was on it, too, FYI. Sydney also works tirelessly for the LGBTQIA community. If you don’t think that’s impressive, you don’t deserve those shoes.”

  “You do know his real family’s not as happy about him banging guys as his fake one is, don’t you? They still don’t speak according to The National Enquirer.”

  “A believable source if ever there was one.”

  “Either way, I got the shoes, so why don’t you go bid on…one of Mr. Ed’s, maybe? He wore four at a time. Or…I know…try for the Kleenex from Blair Warner’s bra. That way you’ll have something to cry into when BuyBay tells you too bad, so sad.”

  Gideon gasped. That was the final straw. “You’re mean!” In an instant, he’d grabbed for the ménage a trois handcuffs on the bar railing. Before he’d even made a conscious decision to do so, he’d closed and clicked one cuff around Rudy’s wrist and then locked the other around his own.

  “What the fuck?”

  “Discussion’s not over,” Gideon said. “I want those shoes.”

  Chapter 4

  Gideon paced—one and a half steps forward, one and a half steps back. What had he done?

  After several seconds of nothing but heavy breathing and grunting, Rudy spoke. “I hope you have the keys to these things,” he said to Brett, giving the long, silvery chain another good yank.

  “I don’t even know if there are keys.” Brett pointed the remote at the CD player—more Christmas tunes. “Feliz Navidad” by Jose Feliciano came on. “The cuffs were here when I came onboard, dude.”

  “This is nuts.” Rudy tugged some more, his pec muscles bulging, his angry nipples almost stiff enough to cut through ecru fabric.

  “You’re gonna break the bar, bro.” Brett gripped his shoulder.

  “Good.”

  “Not good.”

  “I’m calling the cops.” When Rudy went for his phone with his free hand, he fumbled. It fell to the floor. “Son of a bitch! Someone want to grab that for me?”

  Not a single person budged.

  “Please.”

  The Elvis’s Vegas Sing-Along crowd could have been an oil painting. A loyal bunch, every one of them was devoted to the establishment and to Gideon.

  “Are you fucking serious? I’ll sue.”

  Brett handed Rudy another beer. “On the house. Hope you can hoist it lefty. Maybe I can dig up a pair of bolt cutters—if you give Gideon the shoes.”

  “Wow. I’m not giving into blackmail. Forget it.”

  “Hmm. Maybe I loaned my bolt cutters out.”

  “Whatever.”

  When Rudy reached for his phone with his foot, Gideon watched intently. Their eyes met when they both looked up. Gideon smiled.

  “What the heck is wrong with you?” Rudy asked.

  “Well, the items on and the length of that list would depend greatly on who you ask. We’ll start with…too impulsive, maybe?”

  Brett chuckled. Rudy was not amused.

  “Look…it’s the holidays,” Gideon said. “Family and all…The shoes…they have something to do with that. This probably wasn’t the best way to go about pleading my case.” When he rattled the chain, it jingled against the brass railing, causing Jacob to break out in song.

  “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the…What? Just me?”

  “You’ll be pleading to a judge,” Rudy said. “I’m pressing charges. God, Gideon! Don’t you know how crazy the world is? If I was carrying a weapon, you could have been hurt.” Rudy huffed like a bull, breathing way too hard for the limited amount of exertion he’d been putting forth. “Think about that next time.”

  “This isn’t something I do regularly.”

  “Good to know.” Rudy rolled his eyes and softened his tone. “And I wouldn’t shoot you.” He sat on the nearest barstool.

  “Thanks for that.”

  “But somebody else might.”

  “The world’s not that crazy,” Gideon said—Gideon, the man who talked to his goldfish, had a wall of shoes—some stolen—and just handcuffed some hot guy to a bar railing. “I just…I just w
ant those shoes.”

  “Dude…this isn’t even about shoes anymore.” Every now and then Rudy’s shackled hand would touch Gideon’s free one. It made Gideon shiver, and not just because Rudy’s was cold.

  “It is for me.” Gideon shifted uncomfortably.

  “Problem?”

  “If I had this to do over, I might have chosen a more comfortable ensemble. Sequins are heavy.”

  “How long are you planning on this lasting?” Rudy asked.

  Gideon whipped off his wig and tried to smooth out his real, sweaty hair one-handed. “I told you…until you agree to sell me the shoes.” He hoped his downcast eyes were winning him some sympathy, or maybe sparkling with charm. Once upon a time, he’d been told they could do that.

  “Help!” Rudy yelled. “I’m being held prisoner!”

  So much for the eyes.

  “Nobody’s coming,” Brett said. “Well, anyone who does isn’t going to be on your side, let’s put it that way.”

  So, Rudy and Gideon settled in. The holiday tunes playing through the sound system were nowhere near as warm and comforting, as happy and cozy, as singing live had felt. Maybe music had nothing to do with it. Perhaps the hostage situation had dampened the lusty Christmas spirit. Still, Gideon tried to make small talk.

  “Do you, um, have a favorite Christmas cookie? Dot brought in snickerdoodles the other night. She’s the one who looks like a hippie,” he whispered. “You know, a young version, like back when everyone was one. She makes pottery, mostly…not cookies…but they were okay.”

  The patrons had all gone back to their drinks and separate conversations, while Rudy refused to partake in one.

  “I bake. My grandmother taught me. I make a great cranberry pie…if that’s not bragging.”

  Not even a grunt.

  “I like those pinwheel cookies with the jelly in the middle. Oh, and oatmeal chocolate chip with…with raisins and coconut. My grandmother made those every year. She…she passed away not too long ago. Yeah…”

  Rudy was stubborn. He couldn’t help but tap his foot, though. “Sleigh Ride” was on. He had the music in him.

  “I never minded underwear under the tree,” Gideon said, going in another direction, “or socks. I like socks…But wrapping a notebook and pencils for school in Santa Claus paper doesn’t make it a gift. Am I right?” He might have gotten further with Priscilla. “My mom always said Santa wanted me to go back from Christmas vacation with new supplies. I wouldn’t complain about them now, though. The things you learn to appreciate when you’re an adult…”

  Rudy’s look challenged that assertion, the one where Gideon could call himself an adult. He still didn’t speak. In fact, another forty-five minutes and nine songs went by before any more words were spoken by either of them. One of the tunes was “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” which went on forever. Two versions of “Jingle Bell Rock” were in the mix. When the third adaptation of that song started, Rudy broke the silence. “You want the damned shoes, you can have them. I’m still pressing charges.”

  “No, you’re not,” Brett said.

  “Fine. I’m never coming in here again, either.”

  Elvis’s clientele, in unison, offered up a cheer. They’d been listening after all. “So sad,” Brigitte said. She was a lawyer, and looked the part. Maybe she would have helped Gideon with BuyBay. He wished he’d thought of that earlier. Maybe she’d help if Rudy had him locked up.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Gideon said.

  “Yeah. Whatever.”

  Suddenly, the key appeared. Apparently, Tina, who despite her quietness, had a walk that could capture any man’s attention, had known where it was all along. “Here’s how this is going to work.” She was a wisp, but suddenly carried a lot of authority. Rudy, as a newbie, had no clue how introverted she usually was. He actually backed away. “I’m going to hold your phone up to you, so you can go to your BuyBay account and retract your bid. Then, and only then, will I undo the cuffs. Got it?”

  “This whole place is—”

  “Got it?” The death glare from Tina was intimidating.

  Rudy swallowed hard. “Got it.”

  Tina handed him the phone. After Rudy tapped his screen a couple times, “All done?” she asked.

  Rudy grunted.

  Tina checked. “Good boy.”

  He was catching on fast.

  “You want me to let him go, Gideon, or would you like to take him home? He’s kind of cute…in a 21st Century Mad Men sort of way.”

  He was that.

  “You could undo the one on the rail and leave the two attached,” Rex suggested.

  “Thanks, guys, but…” Gideon took a pass. That would constitute an abduction, as opposed to just a hostage situation. He really didn’t want to go back to jail. “I’m truly sorry,” he said to Rudy, as Tina set them loose.

  “No harm done.” Brett held up the free beer Rudy had never drunk. “Right?”

  Rudy was rubbing his wrist. He didn’t answer, but rather headed for the door.

  “You did some singing, made a new friend…” Brett came from behind the bar and swiftly walked to the door, as well, getting in front of Rudy before he could exit. “I said right?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Right. It was the best night of my life.”

  “I’m willing to share. If you want to…visit the shoes.” Gideon kept his distance. “Do you live around here or are you…just passing through?”

  Rudy stood frozen, even though Brett had stepped aside. He was listening, at least, to what Gideon was trying to pass off as reason.

  “I mean, I’d like to explain to you why the shoes mean so much to me, and then you can tell me why you—”

  “Just forget it.” And with that rather curt reply, Rudy was gone.

  * * * *

  A few hours later, the sequined jumpsuit was on a hanger out on the fire escape. Gideon aired it out every day and had it dry cleaned once a week. The wig was on its Styrofoam head, where it always looked better, he thought. Pacing around in what little space he had, Gideon had slipped on a pair of sweatpants and nothing else after his shower.

  “My actions were a bit out of character, I suppose.” He was still wired as the sun began to rise on a new day. “I just reached my boiling point,” he said to Priscilla, “and then I boiled over.”

  Morning was night and night was morning to Gideon now, since his shift at the bar was 8:30 P.M. until three in the morning. He was usually in bed by five, but not that day.

  “But I got the shoes,” he said proudly. “Well, I will get them. Because of the grievance, they have to go back up for auction in two days. Rules and all that…Since it came down to only Rudy and I last time…Should that be Rudy and me…?” Gideon sighed. “I’m asking a fish.”

  He went to the freezer for a pint of candy cane ice cream and took it and Priscilla over to the small tan leather couch.

  “Who says we can’t have ice cream for dinner…or breakfast?” The big spoonful gave Gideon two seconds of brain freeze. “Ow.” He rubbed his forehead, his mouth packed full of a second big bite of frosty peppermint. “We had such a great start, Priscilla,” he said after swallowing. “Rudy’s voice felt me up all night. I know…TMI. I’m a sucker for a velvety tone and the lick of a crisp enunciation, though. I would have kissed him.” Gideon licked his lips, almost feeling Rudy’s on them, lips that made such perfect Os during “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” and “Oh, Christmas Tree.” Then he sighed again. “I don’t know. Maybe I wouldn’t have kissed him. I’d have suc—never mind.”

  Gideon grabbed his laptop.

  “Let me see if I can find you a picture.”

  It didn’t take long. From BuyBay to Facebook, using only “Rudolph” and “90sFandemonium,” Rudy’s online persona was easily traced in about four steps.

  “Rudy Winner,” Gideon said. “Cool name.”

  Rudy wasn’t terribly active on Facebook. He wasn’t very careful when it came to his privacy settings either. His page was right th
ere for the viewing.

  “Says he lives in Arizona. Went to college there. Originally from Utah. U-tah.” Gideon liked the way the word felt in his mouth. “Someone should write a good song about—Wow!”

  Gideon had access to every post, every comment, every picture of Rudy’s bare feet.

  “Wow! Wow! Wow!”

  He enlarged Rudy’s naked tootsies burrowing into Caribbean sand, his naked tootsies strolling along it, and his naked tootsies at rest adjacent to the bluest water ever. Rudy’s second toe was the same length as his big one. That was hot.

  “Don’t look, Priscilla.” Gideon’s hand was down his sweatpants in a matter of seconds. He took his laptop and settled down against the other arm, away from the one Priscilla’s bowl sat on. “Mmm.” Rudy Winner had a beautiful body, tan and lean, with flaxen hair that caught the sunlight and shimmered like those silver icicle strands Gideon painstakingly hung on every Christmas tree during his youth.

  Thinking back to childhood dampened the lust. Those icicles were also reminiscent of glistening tears.

  “Distraction, distraction, distraction.” It was a mantra of sorts, an effective one. Arousal soon came knocking again at Gideon’s door—front and back—reawakened by a beach snap of Rudy lying on his stomach. His shorts were slightly displaced. The paleness of part of his ass was clearly visible, the start of the split and a little more hair. Lower down, the bottom of his feet were angled right at the camera. Gideon came quickly, wishing he could coat Rudy’s soles with cum that would ooze between every toe. When he finished, he’d lick it off, and then offer Rudy a hot, cummy kiss.

  “I could have hit that,” he said to Priscilla. “But now Rudy’s gone.”

  Why did it hurt so much? He was a hot, grumpy stranger. Gideon ran into those every day.

  “Shit! Feelings! I hate feelings!” He groaned quite loudly. Even if there was some sort of spark, I fucked it all up by acting like a psycho and a criminal. Unless he likes to be handcuffed. Ooh la la.”

  Even humor didn’t help—if that’s what that was.