Orson laughs, a high-pitched wheeze that ices my blood. “You’re selling your sex. Of course you’re a whore. You just know your worth more than most.”
I don’t have to listen to this. “Fuck you, Bishop,” I snap, tears stinging my eyes.
“Eventually, but for the money I can offer, we’re going to have a very long, very fun night. Think of it as a crash course to catch up on all the time you’ve spent not having sex.”
My lips curl up in a sneer, but I bite my tongue and let Orson continue.
“With me, you’re going to find out if you like being whipped, or being called a slut. You’ll see if you like being tied down and made to beg. We’ll use all your untouched holes, and by the end of the night your virginity will be so far gone, you won’t remember what it was like to have it.”
I wait a moment to make sure he’s done before I reply. “Orson Bishop,” I say, getting out of my seat, “that sounds horrific. I’m going to pass.”
He gets up too, but smiles. “Oh, is that so? Even for five-hundred thousand dollars? That is, half a million. How does that sound?”
Whoa.
I can’t even process the offer. Half a million is more money than I’ve ever thought about in conjunction with myself.
Orson laughs at my stunned silence, then winks. “Think about it, Ms. Hart. I’ll be in touch,” he says, then pivots on one foot and makes for the door.
I can’t say how long I stand there, still shocked, before I leave as well.
I wake up Sunday morning to a text message. It’s only five words and from a number I don’t have in my phone, but it tells me everything I need to know.
They were there. Left separately.
My private snoop did his job: Orson and Wendy went to Sinful, as I expected, and now I know for sure.
My trainer meets me in my private gym; he spots me as I lift weights until my muscle shirt is soaked through. Then I hit the shower and make coffee. The whole time, Wendy is all I can think about. My phone lies in wait on a gray, granite counter top.
She’s not going to be happy to hear from me, not after the night she no doubt had. But hopefully she’ll be willing to listen.
Using The Virgin Exchange app, I send a request for a voice chat, since I never got her actual number. After a moment, I hear a chime signaling she’s accepted the call.
“What is it?” she growls.
“I wanted to tell you I’m sincerely sorry about everything that’s happened this weekend. Me, on Friday; Orson, yesterday. You shouldn’t have to put up with all this.”
“How do you know about yesterday? Are you spying on me?” she asks.
“Not you — him,” I explain. “Just in case he’s trying to pull a trick — make me think he’s going after you while he’s really after another.”
I hear Wendy gasp through the phone. “He would do that?”
“I’d be shocked if the idea hasn’t occurred to him; though I’d also be shocked if he could bring himself to pass up on you.” Before I realize what I’m saying, I add, “I know I couldn’t.” Too much, too soon, Cash.
“I thought your only interest in me was to get at Orson?” she asks icily.
There’s nothing I’d like to do more right now than tell her the truth: that I thought about her all day yesterday, and all morning today. I want her to know how much of an impression she’s made in a very short time, and that, in a way, I really ought to thank Orson for bringing the two of us together.
But I can’t say any of this yet, because why would she believe me?
“Wendy, I had fun with you at dinner on Friday, and I thought you were enjoying yourself, too. I’d like to start over, if that’s all right. Are you free this afternoon?”
The half minute of silence I hear as she makes up her mind feels like an eternity.
“Fine,” she says, her voice neutral.
I hear a barely muffled shriek in the background. “Wendy, are you crazy?”
That must be Radha. Despite the roommate’s clear protest, I grin. It comforts me to know Wendy has such a protective friend.
“Radha’s welcome to join us, if it helps,” I say. “Though I’d prefer if we could be alone to talk.”
“No, it’s fine,” Wendy replies. “She’s just been on the warpath since last night.”
“Understandably. Are you free for brunch in an hour? I can pick you up.”
“No, thanks.” she says. “Just tell me where to meet you.”
—
I surprise her, picking out a diner two blocks from her apartment. Maybe she knows it, maybe not. Either way, I’m not there to flaunt my wealth; I can tell that’s not going to get me very far with a woman like Wendy.
Showing up in just a white button-down shirt and khakis, I feel shockingly out of place. I can’t remember the last time I went to a restaurant without a reservation, or where there was no host to greet me, just a waitress to say, “Sit down wherever you like, honey.”
Wendy arrives only a minute later and spots me at a table near the window. She looks like she came ready for a true first date: hair done nicely, flowing perfectly around her shoulders; a tight, white top with navy blue horizontal lines; and a matching white pencil skirt that shapes her figure alluringly.
“Hi, Wendy. You look lovely,” I say, getting up.
“Thanks,” she says, taking a seat. “You look nice, too.”
The waitress comes by and takes our drink orders, leaving us then in an awkward silence. I don’t experience many of those in my life, and I don’t care for it. “So, it’s nice to meet you finally,” I say, trying not to come off too coy. “This whole online dating thing…”
Her passive expression breaks and she laughs. “It’s weird, right? I mean, one minute you’re just photos on a screen and then…”
“Then it’s all very real,” I finish. “Maybe a bit too quickly sometimes.”
We chat for an hour over brunch. She digs into her scrambled eggs, toast, and hash browns while I poke at a vegetable omelet. There’s nothing wrong with it, but I’m far more interested in listening to Wendy than eating.
In a short time, she tells me about her love for dogs, though right now she can’t afford one; then the summer internships she’s had; and finally how she met Radha when they were freshmen. I tell her about growing up in a middle class home, the son of a factory worker and schoolteacher; of building my business from a surprising success to a billion-dollar empire; and of my unusual aversion to gangster films.
“Not even ‘The Godfather?’” she asks, incredulous. “‘Goodfellas?’ ‘Scarface?’”
“They’re good movies,” I admit, “but when I watch them, it makes me so mad! Okay, you know how if you’re really good at something, and you’re watching a beginner struggle, it’s hard to watch without getting impatient? Or you don’t want to see them make mistakes?”
“Kind of?” she says.
“Okay, well, the gangsters always like to think of themselves as businessmen. But they always wind up dead or in jail, and if they sold electronics and machinery instead of drugs and weapons, they could make a lot more money.”
“Selling electronics doesn’t make for a very good movie,” she argues.
Laughing, I admit, “That’s true.”
She smiles as she sips her soda, and I get a flash in my mind of those cute lips wrapped around something else. She’s so sexy, and she has no idea.
“So, does this mean you don’t lead a life of danger and intrigue?” she asks.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” I reply, winking. “I’ve got around-the-clock security and cars with bulletproof glass. I’ve learned Aikido and Krav Maga…”
She takes a deep breath, blushing red as a cherry. It’s so adorable, I’ve got half a mind to drag her out of this diner and rip off some clothing in the back of my limo. I can’t, of course — she deserves to have a fair shot at the auction, and claiming her will be far more satisfying if it comes after beating Orson. And that’s what I intend to do.
Seeing that we’ve finished our brunch, the waitress drops our check off at the table. I reach for it, but Wendy smacks back my hand. “You paid for dinner on Friday,” she says.
I start to protest but stop myself, putting my hands up like a cat burglar who’s been caught. I can’t remember the last time someone else picked up the tab in my presence. Ms. Hart’s just full of surprises.
“Look,” she says after pulling a few bills from her wallet. “I get why you came after me the way you did. Orson Bishop is… repugnant.”
Here we go. I knew at some point we were going to have to get down to business, but I wish we didn’t. We were having such a nice time.
“That’s charitable,” I reply. “I could think of much worse ways to describe him.”
“Yeah, probably.”
I hold out my hand on the table, and after a minute, she reaches out and takes it. “I hate to ask, but did he tell you what he wants? The things you’ll have to do to get paid?”
Blood drains from her face, and her smile fades. “Yes.”
“Can you see yourself doing those things?”
She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so…”
“Good.”
“…But I also never thought I could get paid half a million dollars. For that kind of money…”
Orson, you bastard.
“I mean, how can I turn down that much? Forget the trip to Europe — I’ll be set for years! Medical school, living expenses — a house! I wouldn’t have to work while going to school, I would have some savings-”
“He’s still ripping you off,” I say, interrupting. “He would pay ten times that much, easily.”
She keeps on speaking before processing what I said. When she does, she stops mid-sentence, as though her brain has just crashed and is still rebooting.
“Five… million?” she says at last, slumping back against her seat.
“Are you okay?” I ask, worried she might faint.
“Yeah. I think so. You’re serious, though, aren’t you?”
I nod. “I am. He’d pay five million at least. He’s a billionaire, Wendy! A few million is nothing to him.”
She lets go of my hand and folds her arms across her chest. She sneers a little, though I don’t think it’s directed at me. “Then why’d he offer me so little before?”
Good question. “Because he’d enjoy your humiliation even more knowing he paid a fraction of what he’s willing to spend. Wendy, if you’re still thinking of going through with this auction, you’ve got to think bigger. You have a chance to make Orson Bishop really bleed, and why not? That’s what he’ll do to you.”
She cringes and looks away. Maybe that was over-the-top, but it’s true.
“What about you?” she asks. “Would you bid that much?”
“Absolutely.”
“Because you want to beat Orson?”
I get up out of my seat and wave for her to follow. “I do want to beat him, yes — I won’t lie about that. But also, I like you, Wendy Hart. So now this is about more than my rivalry.”
She follows me out of the diner in a trance. I meant every word. Five million would be a steal for someone like Wendy. I expect, before this is over, to bid much more — but that’s a fact I have to keep to myself, for now.
“This is unbelievable,” she says at last. “You really like me?”
I thought she was going to say, I’m going to be a millionaire? A surge of relief hits me, and I want to wrap my arms around her and not let go.
“You’re an amazing person,” I say instead, taking her hand again. “Forget the auction — I want to get to know you.”
She stops, forcing me to as well. “What about Orson? Won’t he try to outbid you?”
“Yeah, absolutely. He wants to claim you, and he’ll enjoy taking me down a peg at the same time.”
Translation: If you go through with this, in less than two weeks you’ll be a millionaire.
She nods slowly, getting it. “Won’t he probably pay a lot more than you, if he gets a chance?”
“It’s possible. He’s going to take a guess at how much I’ll bid, and if he really wants to win, he’ll double or triple my bid.”
Calculating in her head, she steps out of the way of passersby and puts everything together. “So, if I told him you were going to bid ten million…”
“You could get thirty,” I admit, though it kills me.
“He’ll believe that you’re willing to spend that much?”
“It’s more than I’ve ever bid in the past, but I think so. More likely, he won’t want to risk losing.”
“Holy shit,” she mumbles.
I set my hands on her shoulders and look into her eyes. “Wendy, if you want to make a fortune, you have two real options: first, at The Gala, you tell them you want me and Orson allowed to bid, pitting us against each other. Second, you can pick me and some other random guy, and I will promise right now to bid five million.”
She nods. “And I’d have to trust you on that?”
“Yes.”
“And if I choose both you and Orson?”
I sigh. “Then there’s a risk that I’ll lose, and to get paid, you’ll have to give him what he wants.”
Feeling the chill that runs through her, I add, “I want you to be able to trust me, Wendy. We should talk more before The Gala. You don’t have to decide anything until then.”
“Okay,” she whispers, and I let go gently. “I need to think this over.”
“Definitely. And I’d like for us to keep talking, okay?”
“Yeah.”
I pull her close and kiss her forehead, then brush her hair back. “We’ll figure this out, alright?”
She nods and then buries her head against my chest. I don’t care if she can feel that my heart is racing.
Radha doesn’t believe a thing I tell her that night. Not about the money, or Cash. It’s not until I start chatting with him online and show her the logs that she buys the possibility that soon I might really be a millionaire.
“I still don’t know,” she says. “This is still too weird, Wendy. You’re forever going to know that you sold yourself. This is a big deal.”
“Does it have to be, though?” I argue. “Would it be better if I’d lost my virginity to Chuck Parker, half drunk after prom, in the back seat of his Camry?”
She rolls her eyes and stands up on our couch. “At least that would have been because you wanted to do it with Chuck. And maybe it would have been fun.”
“Maybe this will be fun,” I counter. I don’t have to add, If Cash wins. The thought of having to submit to Orson still nauseates me. I should just refuse to let him bid on me, but I can’t dismiss the idea yet. Not if it could mean tens of millions of dollars, a fortune that would set me and my future children up for life.
“You’re going to drive us both crazy,” Radha mumbles, sitting back down. She flips on the TV and finds an episode of “Parks & Recreation.”
She’s right. There’s not much else to think about now, so I turn off my phone and join her in front of the television.
—
I get directions to The Gala on the morning of — it’s being held exactly a week after The Meet at the same venue. This time there is an instruction to dress formally, as if for a wedding. I pick out a silver sequined, taffeta floor-length gown with a scoop neck. It’s the nicest thing I own, and I’ve only worn it a few times.
Additionally, there’s one other notification: Prior to the main event, all applicants will be given a short medical examination. This is mandatory, unless one wishes to opt out of the auction.
A medical examination doesn’t sound so bad. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a doctor for a routine physical — so at the very least, I’ll get something out of the night.
Radha entreats me to reconsider one last time before I leave. “Please,” she says. “I know Cash seems nice, but don’t forget: he’s still the kind of prick who goes to auctions to buy sex with virg
ins!”
“To stop Orson Bishop!” I really believe Radha’s misjudged Cash. “He’s not a bad guy.”
“That remains to be seen, Wendy. He could be playing you to get what he wants.”
She’s wrong — I know she is, but there’s no convincing her. “I promise I’ll be careful,” I say again, though it feels like it’s for the one-hundredth time.
“What about Bishop? Are you going to let him bid on you?”
I want to lie to her, but I can’t do it. “Maybe,” I say. “I have to think of my future, Radha. I mean, thirty million? I have to keep that as a possibility.”
“No, you don’t! No amount of money is worth putting yourself in that creep’s hands for a night.”
We could go around in circles for hours, so I nod and grab my purse. “We’ll talk about it later,” I say. “Have a good night.”
“Yeah, you too,” she mumbles.
—
When I arrive, a bouncer directs me to a hallway where a dozen women are waiting in line. They busy themselves with their phones, texting and browsing. I’m surprised that none are chatting, as if there was some rule forbidding it. A few of them give me the stink eye as I take my place in line, and as much as I’d like to ask what I did to offend them, nothing about their demeanor makes me think this is a good idea.
One by one, the other women head inside a room nearby. When they come out, only a couple minutes later, they all somehow seem a little flustered. I suppose it is a bit odd to have an examination before a party, and while wearing formal evening-wear, but is it that unpleasant?
Finally it’s my turn; a couple other women have arrived and taken a place in line behind me, but only a couple. When I turn the corner, I nearly gasp at the sight: it’s not the bright, well-lit doctor’s exam room I expected — it’s a hotel room. The king-size bed looks incredibly comfortable, and the furnishings are stylishly modern, but something about this feels wrong.
A middle-aged, sandy-haired woman in a black gown is waiting by the bed. “Hello, I’m Dr. Nora. Please, lie down and pull up your dress,” she says.
“What’s going on? I thought this was a medical exam.”
“It’ll be very brief,” she says. “We just have to confirm your eligibility.”
Winning Bid: A Virgin Auction Romance Page 5