The Bidding War (69th St. Bad Boys Book 2)

by Chance Carter

  “You’ve got soccer after school today, right?”

  “Yeah. Billy’s mom’s taking us.”

  “And I’ll pick you both up. Maybe we can go out for some ice cream afterwards. Check with Billy’s mom to see if that’s okay.”

  “Yes!” Brady says, punching the air in triumph.

  “Now, let’s get a move on, kid.”

  We both hurry down the hall and throw on our shoes and jackets. Brady grabs his backpack and I grab my briefcase. He runs ahead of me to push the button for the elevator. A few minutes later and we’re pulling up to the drop off point outside his school. We’re three minutes late, which is an improvement but still not good enough.

  “You hurry inside, okay,” I say, giving him a kiss and straightening out his collar.

  “I will, dad.”

  “And tell your teacher I’m sorry you’re late.”

  He hops out of the car and already I see Mrs. Mayfair coming down the steps of the school toward me.

  “Have a good day,” I say to Brady and start pulling out of my parking spot, but right as I’m about to leave, a Fedex truck parks in front of me, blocking me in.

  “Mr. Eastwood,” I hear Mrs. Mayfair’s voice calling.

  I let out a sigh and put the car back into park.

  “Oh, Mrs. Mayfair, I didn’t see you there.”

  “You saw me,” she says, unperturbed. “Now, this really will not do, Mr. Eastwood. You’re late again.”

  “We’re trying really hard, Mrs. Mayfair. And we’re getting better.”

  “You’ll need to do as well as the other mothers and get here on time.”

  “Other mothers?” I say.

  “You know what I mean, Mr. Eastwood. I’m all for modern family arrangements but if you’re going to take on the role traditionally reserved for mothers, you can at least try to do a good job of it.”

  I think of all the things I can say to fight back but I know it’s no good. She’s right. If I insist I can raise Brady alone, then I better nail it.

  “You’re right, Mrs. Mayfair.”

  “Either get Brady to school on time, or get a woman in your life who will.”

  “Maybe I do need a wife,” I say, giving Mrs. Mayfair a sly wink.

  She’s old enough to be my mother but she’s by no means unattractive. Not that I’d ever consider fooling around with her, I couldn’t put Brady in that position.

  Mrs. Mayfair looks at me then looks away, blushing.

  “Oh, stop, Mr. Eastwood.”

  “Please, call me Wes.”

  “I’ll do no such thing, Mr. Eastwood.”

  “What do you think? Do I need a wife to help me get Brady to school on time?”

  “What you need, apart from some manners, is a nanny, Mr. Eastwood.”

  I’m looking at her as she says that and all of a sudden it’s like a lightbulb goes on in my head. Why have I been resisting this so hard? I was always so adamant that Brady and I could get by alone, without the help of a woman, but why was I being so stubborn? Getting a nanny was so obvious! So easy!

  “A nanny?”

  “Why not? Even the families with two parents are hiring nannies these days.”

  “And they don’t have any trouble getting their kids to school on time?”

  “Of course they don’t. It’s hardly rocket science, Mr. Eastwood.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” I say to her. “Any idea where I’d go about finding one?”

  “There are services. Just look them up and they’ll get you a nanny in no time.”

  I thank her and for the millionth time, promise Brady won’t ever be late for school again, and drive off.

  My phone rings as I make my way through the Park Avenue traffic. It’s Lucy.

  “Wes?”

  “Yes, I’m almost at the office. What is it?”

  “Two things, sir.”

  “Well let me have them, Lucy.”

  “First thing is we’ve been outbid again on Dairy Technics.”

  “By Clint?”

  “Who else?”

  “Looks like we’re getting a real bidding war on our hands. But that’s nothing to get worried over, we’ll just up our bid again right before the auction closes later today. When’s it closing?”

  “Three PM, sir.”

  “Fine. Notify me ten minutes before and I’ll put in a bid no one can beat.”

  “Yes, sir, but that’s not the only thing.”

  There’s an apprehension in her voice that gives me pause. It’s really not like her to lose her cool.

  “What else?” I say, pulling up outside my building.

  “The other thing is a legal matter.”

  “Well pass it over to the lawyers. I don’t have time for that stuff.”

  “It’s not business legal, Wes. It’s personal.”

  “Personal?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What is it. Don’t tell me it’s all those parking tickets. I was going to take care of those next week.”

  “It’s not your parking tickets, sir.”

  “Is it a woman?” I say, racking my head to think of any woman I might have pissed off lately.

  I really couldn’t think of any, but when you’re a billionaire, every date is a potential law suit.

  “It’s Child Protective Services, Wes.”

  I jam on the brakes.

  “What?”

  “Child Protective Services.”

  My heart is pounding in my chest. Speaking as a single father, Child Protective Services is pretty much my worst nightmare. I’d give my life for my kid, and I look after him better than anyone else could ever look after him, but even with all my wealth, I’ve always felt vulnerable to criticism when it came to raising my son. Not having a woman in the house always made me worry about his wellbeing.

  “What are they doing here?” I say, getting out of my car and throwing the keys to the valet.

  “They want to speak to you, Wes.”

  “I’m in the building. I’ll be right there.”

  I hang up and practically run to the elevator. It feels like an eternity for it to arrive, and when I’m inside it, it’s like every second that passes has slowed down. Come on, come on, I think to myself as it rises.

  When it finally arrives I’m practically hyperventilating.

  “What’s going on?” I say to the receptionist as I hurry past.

  She just shakes her head and nods to my office.

  I step in and am greeted by Lucy and three uniformed city workers. One’s a cop and the other two have patches on their chest that say Child Protective Services in bright yellow print.

  I stare at the four of them, dumbstruck.

  “Wes Eastwood?” the police officer says.

  “Yes.”

  He hands me a legal document. “You’ve been served.”

  I look at him and then at the Child Protective Services officers. “What’s the meaning of all this?”

  “Mr. Eastwood,” one of the CPS officers says, “the city has concerns about the wellbeing of your son, Brady Eastwood, and he’s being removed from your custody for emergency intervention.”

  “Emergency intervention?”

  “To protect him.”

  “Protect him? From who?” I stammer.

  I feel as if the ceiling of the room is pushing down on me. I can’t breathe. I can hardly keep my balance.

  “Wes,” Lucy says, shaking her head, trying to get me to calm down.

  I can feel my temper rising and even though I know it’s a bad idea, I let my voice grow louder as I speak.

  “Protection from who?” I demand.

  “From you, Mr. Eastwood,” the CPS officer says.

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I feel as if I’m falling through the window, down past the hundred stories, toward the concrete street beneath.

  Chapter 9

  Clint

  “Jeb,” I call from my desk, “how are we fixed for the auction?”

  “
It’s closing at three, sir.”

  “And we’re the highest bidder?”

  “Currently, yes.”

  “And what time is Wes’s Child Protection hearing?”

  “It’s at two, sir.”

  I nod in approval.

  “Any news from the CPS woman?”

  “Everything went off without a hitch, sir. Brady’s at school and the hearing’s this afternoon. Wes will be attend the hearing and have custody back before the kid even knows anything happened. We made sure to get him an immediate hearing.”

  “Good. I don’t want them to actually take the kid away from him. I just want him out of action while I win this auction.”

  “Yes, sir. They say the CPS hearing will take over an hour. The judge shouldn’t give him too hard of a time. I mean, assuming he really is as good a father as everyone says he is.”

  “He is,” I say firmly.

  Despite myself, I feel my heart pounding in my chest. This is by far the worst thing I’ve ever done to a rival to win a bidding war. I’ve made my share of ruthless business moves, but attacking a man’s family, attacking his kid, it’s unprecedented.

  But I can’t help myself. I want to win. I want to win so bad it hurts. Winning is a disease for me. I’ve never been able to take second place, and I’ve never been able to share. Not since I was a little kid. Wes becoming a billionaire first permanently scarred me.

  I lean back in my seat and look at my watch. There’s still a few hours before the bidding deadline.

  I look at my computer and open the web browser.

  What to search?

  I’ve been horny ever since that encounter at the bar last night, but I haven’t had time to take care of myself. I’ve barely had a free moment all day. I feel my cock stiffen in my pants uncomfortably and consider taking a shower. I have a shower room off my office and there’s nothing like stepping inside and giving myself a good jerk.

  If I didn’t have the Dairy Technics deal to consider, I’d clock off early and go back to the bar. There’s always some jaded hooker hanging around down there who’d gladly suck me off for a few hundred bucks.

  But honestly, I’m so sick of those women. They treat sex like a business and take all the fun out of it.

  I want a girl who’s actually excited to be with me. I mean, I’m a hot guy. I’m impressive. I should be able to make a girl’s head spin from time to time.

  What did that girl say last night?

  That her friend wasn’t losing it to a player like me?

  Could she really have been a virgin? Fuck me but that thought is hot.

  And what the hell was a virgin doing in a place like that?

  What would that be like? In all my years, all the women I’ve fucked, I’ve never actually fucked a virgin.

  I was an early starter but the girl’s I grew up around weren’t exactly innocent. They’d all been with a lot of guys and I just got used to sleeping with women like that. I’ve never even considered the possibility of sleeping with a virgin.

  Not until last night when I saw that girl.

  You’re not losing it to this player.

  That’s what her friend said. My cock gets hard just thinking about it.

  After all the jaded, promiscuous, over-experienced professionals I’ve slept with, fucking a genuine virgin would be life changing. Imagine her reaction when she sees my cock for the first time. Imagine the sound she’d make when I slide inside her. Imagine what she’d do when I take her over the edge, and while all that pleasure is driving her insane, she feels my cock exploding it’s cum deep inside her.

  Fuck. I want it. I want a virgin.

  I type “Where to meet virgins,” into google and glance over the results.

  There’s the usual list of dating sites that show up but there’s no way you’d be able to ask girls on a dating site if they were virgins. There’s no way I’d ever know what I was getting until it was too late. And besides, I run a huge corporation, I don’t have time for dating.

  There’s also a huge list of porn sites with links to videos purporting to be of virgins but I’m pretty fucking skeptical of any porno that claims the girl is a virgin. I mean, come on. Plus, I don’t want to watch a virgin have sex, I want to fuck her myself.

  I scroll through the porn and the dating sites and one listing jumps out at me.

  “Prestige Virginity Auctions.”

  What’s this?

  I click on the link and the site asks me to enter my credit card details just so they can verify my identity. Do I want them to verify my identity? There’s also a $1,000 vetting fee. Just so I can view their site?

  Who are these guys? Are they for real?

  Is there really such a thing as a Virginity Auction?

  I mean, I’ve heard about things like that before on TV shows and in movies, but are they actually real? Do real virgins, like the one I met last night, actually go online and let guys bid on their virginity?

  I copy the link and paste it into an email. In the subject line I write, “Highly Confidential.”

  In the body I write, “Check this out for me. Is it for real?”

  I enter my lawyers address into the recipient box and click send.

  Fuck! What have I just done? What’s my lawyer going to think of this. I mean, he and I have been to strip clubs together a million times, he’s under no pretense that I’m a gentleman, but this is different.

  I get up and go into my shower room and lock the door. I open the buttons on my shirt and pull it off, along with my tie. I open my belt and let my pants fall to the ground. My underwear, socks, and shoes follow.

  I look at my naked body in the mirror.

  I’m in perfect physical condition. Workouts with a personal trainer seven days a week guarantee that. I could make a living as an underwear model if the stock market ever takes an irrecoverable dive.

  What would a young girl think when she saw me naked though? What would that girl from last night think?

  I’m thirty-nine. She couldn’t have been much past twenty.

  Would she actually want to fuck a guy like me? Because there’s only one thing I can imagine that’s worse than fucking the same jaded call girls night after night, and that’s paying for sex with a girl who doesn’t want to lose her virginity to you but has to.

  Chapter 10

  Wes

  I can’t believe this is happening. This is my absolute worst nightmare.

  Unfit to be a father?

  Where did they get that idea? Who reported me? Were they really that concerned for Brady’s wellbeing?

  Am I failing him that badly?

  I mean, I know I’m not the world’s best parent, I sure know I’m a long way from perfect, but I love my son. I’d take a bullet for him. I’d die for him. What more can I do? What can I say? How can I prove to a judge that I’m good at being Brady’s dad? It’s an impossible situation.

  I’m sitting outside the court, waiting for my hearing, looking at my lap. My leg is trembling. It won’t stop shaking.

  I feel like running outside into the street and screaming at the top of my lungs.

  My phone rings and I try to ignore it. It’s Lucy. I couldn’t care less about work right now, but then I wonder if it’s got something to do with Brady. He’s still at school but if this hearing doesn’t go well, CPS will be picking him up and taking him to a children’s home.

  How can this be happening?

  He’s my son. My Brady. How on earth could some public welfare agency be a better place for him than with me?

  Oh God. Maybe I have been a terrible parent. Maybe I’ve been too concentrated on work. I mean, Brady seems all right. He always seems happy when we’re together. I religiously take off my weekends so that I can spend time with him. We hang out in the loft, watch movies, go to sports games, go out to events around the city that would be interesting to him. He’s eight so he loves fast cars. We go to the track all the time and watch them testing the cars. Afterwards we go out for pizza, or ice
cream, and we have dinner together every single night. I’m not one of those guys who goes to the office and never comes home. I’m the one who takes him to school in the morning. Sure we get there late sometimes but that’s not a crime, is it? I’m the one who picks him up from after school activities. We eat together. Our bedrooms are right next to each other.

  I’m a good father.

  I know I’m a good father.

  “What is it?” I say into the phone, sounding less patient than I’d intended.

  “Sorry, sir, I know this isn’t a good time.”

  “What is it, Lucy?”

  “It’s Dairy Technics. Clint Anderson has outbid us again.”

  “Oh, god, Lucy, I really can’t focus on that right now. You heard them this morning. They’re trying to take Brady away from me!”

  “Want us to just let Dairy Technics go, then?”

  I sigh and look at my watch. It’s five minutes before two.

  “What time does the auction end?”

  “At three, sir.”

  “If we bid now, Anderson still has time to get in behind us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fuck,” I say, then immediately, “sorry, Lucy. I know none of this is your fault.”

  “Want me to just get the bidding team to take over?”

  “Fine. Tell them to go up to three dollars a share and not to start bidding until sixty seconds prior to auction close. I don’t want to tip our hat while Anderson still has time to react.”

  I hang up the phone just in time for the court usher to come out for me.

  “Mr. Eastwood. You’re up.”

  I let out a long sigh and stand up.

  I follow the usher into the courtroom and take my position in front of the judge. He’s a kindly looking man about my father’s age, if my father was still alive. His voice is deep and wise sounding.

  “In the matter of the State versus Mr. Wes Eastwood. This is a child custody hearing on the grounds of child welfare. Mr. Eastwood, can you please confirm to the court your correct name and address?”

  I look up at him and then at the court reporter and say my full name and address.

  “I’m looking through the paperwork here Mr. Eastwood, and it seems your son, Brady Eastwood, is eight years old.”