Auctioned to Him 6: Damage

by Charlotte Byrd

  “But what’s the big news already? I’m dying to know.”

  “Well, the big news is that…” Liam looks at Kora. Her eyes light up and she sticks out her left hand.

  “We’re engaged!” They say simultaneously.

  “Oh my God! Congratulations!” Stephanie gets so excited that she spills her drink putting it back onto the table, before grabbing Kora’s hand.

  “Oh my, this is beautiful. Two carats?” she asks.

  “Two and a half,” Kora smiles.

  “Holy shit!” Stephanie yells. She isn’t a girl with much of a filter, but the expression on Kora’s face says that she couldn’t be happier with Stephanie’s exuberance.

  “He did really good. You did really good, Liam!” Stephanie says approvingly. “And the diamonds on the sides, nice touch!”

  “Logan?” Liam turns to me. Stephanie has ushered in the kind of level of excitement that I can never match. At least, not about this.

  “Wow, congratulations!” I say as peppy as I can. Apparently, it works because Liam smiles.

  “How long have you two been together?” Stephanie asks.

  “A long time. Seven years,” Kora says. Kora’s been trying to get Liam to marry her since they have graduated from college. Honestly, I’m shocked that it took Liam that long to keep her at bay.

  “Wow, that’s a long time,” Stephanie says. “I say you really deserve something more than two carats for waiting so long. Why did it take you so long to ask this gorgeous girl to marry you?”

  Wow, Stephanie really doesn’t have a filter. I’m actually starting to enjoy this. I turn to Liam and watch him squirm.

  “Yeah, Liam, why did it take you so long?” Kora joins in on the fun.

  “You know why. Because I was in law school. And then I just started working. There were a lot of things to figure out.”

  “Well, I’m glad you finally figured them out,” Stephanie announces as if she has known Kora her whole life.

  “Hey, why is everyone interrogating me? I’m only 27. Logan there is 30 and has never had a relationship that lasted longer than two months.”

  “Ah! Is that true?” Stephanie gasps dramatically.

  “My therapist says I have commitment issues,” I say. I don’t have a therapist, but I’ve noticed that people like the sound of that. Like I’m admitting that I have a problem, and I’m trying to resolve it. It makes me sound like a good guy.

  “Well, at least, you’re working on it,” Stephanie says with a sigh.

  “Man, I can’t win, can I?” Liam jokes and we all chuckle.

  “I think you’ve already won,” I say raising my glass. “I’d like to make a toast to you, Liam and Kora. Despite all the jokes, I know that you two have loved each other for a very long time. You have been through it all together, and now you’re finally coming together and making it official. I couldn’t be prouder of you as my little brother. And I couldn’t be happier to welcome you, Kora, into our family as my future sister. Here’s to you!”

  Liam’s eyes get a little misty and Kora cries outright. Even Stephanie tears up. I don’t really mean a word of what I said, but those were nice words, huh? I like Kora okay, but I think she can do better than my brother. He works too hard and doesn’t do anything for fun. Everything is such serious business with that guy. He’s got way too many hang-ups and anxieties, and now poor Kora will have to put up with them for as long as they live. Or as long as they stay married. But I couldn’t very well say any of that. I’m not that much of an asshole.

  Chapter 8 - Logan

  As I predicted, that speech I made last night at dinner really endeared me to Stephanie. We had a wild night on the boat afterwards, and she said that she was even open to the possibility of inviting a friend or two into our bed. And she knows the perfect girl – her college roommate! That was music to my ears. I’ve been looking for some variety in my threesomes, and I’ve noticed that it’s more effective if the girl finds the other girl to join us. That way I don’t look like a slime ball.

  Stephanie had an appointment with a plastic surgeon about a possible breast augmentation down in Newport Beach the following morning, so she took off at three a.m. to beat the traffic and get an hour or two of sleep. Apparently, canceling it was out of the question – she has been waiting for it for a month. Watching her drive away in her white BMW convertible, I suddenly wondered if I was in love. Everything about that girl is perfect physically. She doesn’t want to stay the night and she’s into threesomes. What more does a man want? What more do I want?

  Instead of sleeping on the boat, I decide to take the opportunity and drive back to my place in Malibu, also to beat all the traffic. I cruise down Pacific Coast Highway at 80 miles an hour and arrive at my house in record time. After stripping off all my clothes, I fall into a dead sleep.

  “Well, well, well,” I hear a woman’s voice somewhere in the distance. “It’s almost eleven and Mr. Logan Davenport, an unemployed billionaire, is still asleep.”

  The woman speaks in a thick West Texas accent while tapping her heel on my marble floor.

  “I had a late night,” I mumble into my pillow.

  Click. Click. Click. She walks across the floor, grabs the remote to the blinds and pulls them up. The sun hits me like a brick. I grab another pillow and cover my face with it.

  “I had a late night, Aunt Dolly,” I moan.

  “Yes, I can see that. But half the day is nearly gone already.”

  “I can because I’m retired,” I say, rubbing my eyes and finally sitting up. “I can do anything I want to do.”

  Aunt Dolly smiles a wide toothy smile. Her veneers are bright white and her matte red lipstick is perfectly applied. There isn’t one line on her face, and her hair is as big and platinum as ever. “The bigger the hair, the closer to God,” is a popular saying in Texas, but Aunt Dolly takes it to a whole new level.

  “You may be retired, but you are also only 30 years old. You can’t just do nothing all day.”

  “I don’t do nothing. I surf. I go out to lunch. I go on dates.”

  I do plenty of other things too, which I can’t really mention to her. Or anyone else for that matter.

  “Oh I know all about your dates,” she waves her hand dismissively. I chuckle and sit up in my bed. I can’t really get out from under the sheet, because I’m completely nude. Noticing my conundrum, she walks out of my room.

  “I’ll wait for you in the kitchen,” she says. “I have to talk to you about something important.”

  I pull on a t-shirt and shorts and follow her out. Marilyn is in the kitchen cooking something delicious on the stove.

  “Why did you let her in?” I ask jokingly.

  Marilyn turns around.

  “Because it’s Dolly,” she says with a smirk. “I always let in Dolly.”

  Aunt Dolly smiles and tosses her hair with attitude.

  “But I’m the one who pays you.”

  “Not enough to not let in Dolly!” Marilyn announces.

  I roll my eyes. Marilyn adores Dolly. They’ve been friends ever since she came to work for me. If she wasn’t so happily married, Dolly would undoubtedly set her up with one of her millionaire clients, and I’d be out of a great housekeeper.

  I follow Aunt Dolly out to the porch. Marilyn brings us a tray of fruit, juice and coffee. The Pacific Ocean is unusually calm today. The sun is blistering hot and there are three pretty girls frolicking in the waves. I yearn to grab my board and join them.

  “I found the perfect date for you,” Aunt Dolly announces. I shake my head. Not again. Aunt Dolly has been trying to set me up with someone for years. And for years, I’ve politely declined her offer.

  “I’m not really interested in meeting one of your gold diggers. I can find plenty of them myself.”

  “I do not deal with gold diggers, you know that,” she says sternly. This is a sore subject for her. I know I’m being unfair. She is careful to weed those girls out. She refuses to meet my gaze. I know that I’ve of
fended her. This conversation won’t go any further until I apologize.

  “Okay, I’m sorry. But I can find my own dates,” I say.

  “She’s completely different from anyone else I’ve ever met. And definitely not like all those stupid, hot girls who are just after your money, who you find so charming.”

  “So she’s not hot?” I ask. “Thanks.”

  “She’s not a model, no. But she’s plenty gorgeous.”

  “She sounds boring.”

  “Oh trust me, she’s anything but boring.”

  I want to ask her more about what she looks like, but I know that will make me seem shallow.

  “So what’s so special about her?”

  “It’s hard to explain. She’s got this zest for life. This attitude.”

  “So she’s a bitch?”

  “No.”

  “Zest for life? What’s that a euphemism for? Opinionated? Overbearing?”

  “Exciting.”

  I shake my head. I’m not convinced.

  “How old is she?”

  “25.”

  “What does she do?”

  “What do you care? None of the girls you date have jobs.”

  “Good point,” I laugh.

  “It just so happens that she runs her own business. She has a floral shop in Topanga Canyon.”

  Hmm, that’s interesting. I’ve never been with anyone from Topanga Canyon before, but I’ve heard the rumors about the hippie girls who live there. They are very open-minded, sexually adventurous. I want to ask Aunt Dolly about it, but I don’t know how to phrase the question delicately, so I don’t look so much like an asshole.

  “Is she one of those love the earth, flowers in her hair girls?”

  “Are you asking if she’s a hippie?”

  “I guess.”

  “I don’t know. She definitely bathes and shaves if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’s not exactly what I was getting at,” I mumble.

  “I don’t really know anything about her politics,” Aunt Dolly says, trying another angle. Now we’re way off course. I don’t care about politics. I mean, I have my own opinions, but I’ve noticed that there are open minded and sexually adventurous girls on both sides of the political spectrum, so I don’t discriminate.

  “What makes you think that we’re going to be a good match?”

  “Because she’ll keep you on your toes.”

  I’m intrigued. Not so much by the fact that Aunt Dolly thinks that this girl will keep me on my toes, but by the fact that she lives in Topanga Canyon. Plus, she runs an actual business. That will be quite a change – to go out with someone with a job!

  I take another sip of my orange juice and look over at Dolly. She stands out like a sore thumb, but it’s not just in Malibu. With that hair and jewelry and boobs, she would stand out anywhere. Aunt Dolly is my mom’s half-sister. My grandfather left my mom’s mom and moved to seek his fortune in West Texas and married Dolly’s mom. I met Aunt Dolly for the first time when I was 14 when she just showed up at our door in Chatsworth, California. My mom, who likes to wear sweats around the house, was horrified because Aunt Dolly was dressed in Chanel from head to toe. We have been close ever since. She’s outgoing, exuberant and knows how to have a good time. She loves to spend money, but she also loves to give it away. Despite the clothes, the jewelry and the shoes, she has absolutely no attitude. She doesn’t act like she’s better than anyone else and has a heart of gold.

  When she arrived in Los Angeles, Aunt Dolly’s matchmaking business was already making close to half a million dollars – and that was in the late 90’s –but it really took off once she got established here. That’s when the millionaire and billionaire clients started to come around.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve always found what you do a bit odd,” I say chucking a grape into my mouth.

  “I know.”

  “I just don’t really get why people would pay you so much money to find them a date. Can’t they do it on their own?”

  “What I do is not find people dates. It’s so much more than that. I set them up with people who are their best fit.”

  “And they don’t find these people themselves?” I ask. “Don’t people know what they like?”

  “Okay, how about this for an analogy,” she says tapping her long nails on the table. “People can pick out their own clothes, right? They know what they like.”

  “Yes.”

  “But there are people out there who are professional stylists. That way when you go out to a premier or some fancy party, you can look your best. You may know what you like, but you’re not someone who deals with clothes exclusively. You don’t know all the latest styles and fashions. So you hire this stylist to curate a collection of options for you so you’re not overwhelmed by all the choices. You’re paying the stylist for their opinion.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” I concede. “But what about all those online dating sites? Aren’t you afraid that you will be replaced by a computer? An algorithm?”

  “No,” she shakes her head confidently. “I can’t be replaced by technology, because computers aren’t sentient beings. Yet. When that happens, we’ll talk.”

  Chapter 9 - Avery

  Two weeks later, I receive a call from Dolly Monroe. She calls me directly and says that she has a date for me. She doesn’t tell me much about him except that we’re going to his brother’s engagement party and that I should wear heels.

  “Of course, I’ll wear heels,” I say. “It’s an engagement party.”

  “Okay, then. I just wanted to remind you, because you wore flats to our meeting and I wasn’t sure if you make that a habit or not.”

  I chuckle to myself a little. With comments like that, she reminds me of my mother. She was also suspicious of women who didn’t wear heels. She never understood my desire to be comfortable, especially when it came to going out.

  “A woman should look like a woman, right?” I say into the phone.

  “What?” Dolly asks. “Well, yes, of course.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  “From a wise woman, I’m sure,” she says and hangs up.

  Two days later, I’m in a total panic. My date with Logan is tonight, and I have absolutely nothing to wear. Why did I put this off to the very last minute? Why did I think that my closet would magically manufacture the perfect outfit for a stranger’s engagement party at the precise moment when I need it? I leave work really early – at 4 pm – and leave Cynthia in charge of the place. She wants to come upstairs and help me dress up, but I tell her that I need some time to shower and think first. I have exactly two hours until he arrives. If I’m lucky, he’ll be late.

  I jump into the shower and wash my hair. Ever since those dry shampoos came out, I’ve become somewhat of an addict. In high school and college, I used to wake up early, take a shower and do my hair and makeup. I actually used to devote at least an hour and a half to this regimen every day! But now that I have my business, I don’t really have time for any of that anymore. No, that’s not true. I still have time. I just don’t have the patience.

  Massaging conditioner into my scalp, I take a deep breath. I really should do this more often. I try to remember the last time I washed my hair. It must’ve been at least 3 days ago. Oh my God! Has it been that long? It’s not really as disgusting as it sounds. Even though my hair gets pretty greasy the day after I wash it, dry shampoo takes care of all that grease. I hate to admit it, but this isn’t even the longest I’ve ever gone without a wash. The record was last month during a particularly stressful wedding when I went for seven days without a wash.

  After getting out of the shower, I tie my hair up in a towel and sit down to apply my makeup. I give myself some time to do this, because I actually find the experience quite soothing and relaxing. It’s as if I’m meditating. When my face is all done, with fake lashes and contouring, I dry my hair and then curl it to give it some more body. I seal it with some hair spra
y and look at myself in the mirror. Not bad, actually, except now is the difficult part. Figuring out what to wear.

  I briefly consider the possibility of pants. I can almost hear my mom turning in her grave and Dolly gasping in shock. But no, I’m not thinking about slacks or something like that. Skinny jeans or leggings. Something to show off my butt in, but still be comfortable. But I have no idea how dressy this engagement party will be, so I need to play it safe. Skinny jeans might not be appropriate, no matter how cute the pumps.

  I move on to dresses. I have three to choose from. One red, one black, one blue. All above the knee and tailored around the waist. The red one is strapless, the blue one has spaghetti straps and the black one has thicker, more traditional straps. I try them all. I only have one decent pair of black heels to wear, but luckily they will go with any of the dresses. The black one makes me feel like I’m either too formal or going to a funeral, and the blue one is a little tight around the bust, so I go with the red one. It has built in cups, which frame my breasts quite nicely, and I’ve heard somewhere – probably Dr. Oz – that both men and women respond well to red worn on dates. Okay, fine by me. I put in a pair of matte, silver hoops and a large cocktail ring on my right hand. It’s from H & M, and Cynthia says that it makes me look flirty. That works for me.

  After I’m pretty much ready, I take a selfie in front of the full-length mirror and send it to Cynthia.

  She sends back a plethora of smiley faces, champagne drinks and firework emojis. I know that the outfit is a hit.

  At 6 o’clock on the dot, there’s a knock on my door. Right on time. It’s an unusual thing for an LA guy to show up on time, there are just way too many excuses about traffic to take advantage of. I’m impressed.

  When I open the door, I see a gorgeous, tall man before me. He’s dressed in an expensive suit, but he doesn’t look a bit uncomfortable in it. The charcoal-gray pants bring out his sparkling green eyes and compliment his dark thick hair. He has a tan of a surfer and brilliant white teeth, which decorate his luscious kissable lips. When he gives me a hug, I feel the hardness of his body, his chiseled abs and pecks.