The Bridal Auction (A Wedding Season Series)

by Vivian Ward

  The Bridal Auction

  The June Wedding Series

  Vivian Ward

  Copyright © 2019 by Vivian Ward

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Vivian Ward Newsletter

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Vivian Ward Newsletter

  A Wedding Season Series

  Risky Gamble

  Vivian Ward Newsletter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  About the Author

  Also by Vivian Ward

  Vivian Ward Newsletter

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  http://newsletter.authorvivianward.com

  Preface

  I enjoyed writing the Risky Series and loved the characters so much that I decided to continue writing about, Club Kaswell, Colton’s underground sex club.

  This book is an introduction to my spin-off series, The Bridal Auction series. Women from all walks of life come here to take a ride on the wild side but first, they must seek the approval of Mistress Pandora.

  The men here have more money than they know what to do with and are filthy rich—and yes, they’re filthy. At Club Kaswell, nothing is off limits and everything goes, as long as the participants are willing. There’s just one question that you need to ask yourself: Are you willing to see how hot things are about to get?

  Kendra

  “Kendra!” My friend Amy yells as she drives by me, slowing to a stop.

  “Hey,” I reply as I approach the passenger window of her car. “What have you been up to?”

  She laughs, turning her stereo down. “Not much, just working at the bar. I had to pick up some extra hours this week because we had a girl quit.”

  I’m so jealous of her independence. She doesn’t have anyone telling her what to do or running her life.

  “Oh. Are you on your way to work?” I ask.

  “Nah,” she sips from a straw in her styrofoam cup. “I just came back from tanning. Gotta look good, ya know?”

  “Right,” I laugh. But I don’t know what tanning has to do with anything. She’s already so pretty.

  “What are you up to?”

  “Oh,” I sigh. “Just going for a walk. I had to get out of the house for a bit,” the corners of my mouth turn down. We both know what that look means.

  “Your dad being a dick again?”

  I nod. “Yeah, and I was so tired of listening to him that I snuck out when he wasn’t looking.” I peer up the street at my house. “I’d better get back, though. He’ll be pissed if I’m gone too long.”

  “Hop in, I’ll drop you off,” she pats the passenger seat.

  I know I shouldn’t get in the car with her. My dad hates Amy, but I don’t want to tell my friend no. I am 24-years-old and should be able to make my own decisions or hang out with a friend, after all.

  “Ok,” I finally agree and sit beside her.

  “You know,” she says as we approach my house. “I could get you out of here if you wanted.”

  The thought of leaving my house sounds amazing but the idea so far fetched that I can’t even fathom it.

  “How?” I ask anyway.

  “Well, I’m not supposed to tell anyone. You know how Club Kaswell is with its secrets, but they’re going to host a bridal auction later this week.” I stare at her in shock. “You could enter; there’s still time.” Her eyes burn bright as she tells me more details. “All the rich men will be bidding on pretty girls. It’d be perfect! You’d totally be taken care of!”

  We pull into my driveway and she puts her car in park.

  “I can’t do that!”

  “Why not? How else are you going to get out of your house? It’s not like you can get a job or do anything. I’m surprised you were able to leave for a walk.”

  My cheeks were pink with embarrassment. Here we are, young women in our early 20s and she’s telling me how I can’t do anything without permission. That said thing is, she’s not wrong.

  “I seriously doubt anyone would bid on me. And you said a bridal auction? Like, marriage?”

  She giggles. “Yes, silly! And those men would totally bid on you. You’re young, beautiful, and a virgin. They’d pay top dollar just for your virginity alone!”

  “Shhh, be quiet! The last thing I need is for everyone in the world to know that I’ve never had sex.”

  “Kendra, think about what you could do with that money!” She pauses. “I think I heard Mistress Pandora mention something about the girls getting to keep half of the money.”

  “Mistress Pandora?” I laugh. “Is that a joke? Is that really her name?”

  “Yep, that’s really her name. She’s in charge of running it and she’s nobody to fuck with. I like her; she’s totally bad ass, but she’s also really nice.”

  My dad spots us sitting in the driveway and opens the front door. “Kendra, get your ass in the kitchen to help your mom. Right now!” My dad slurs his words in, yet, another drunken stupor.

  Why does he always have to act this way?

  It’s a rhetorical question. He’s like this almost every night, and has been for the entire twenty-four years I’ve existed. Raising hell, yelling obscenities, and pushing all of our buttons.

  “Sorry, I gotta run,” I say, reaching for the door handle.

  Amy grabs my arm. “Seriously, think about what I said, okay? It’ll get you out of here and help you get some money to help your mom and sister, too.”

  “Kendra!” My dad screams my name. There’s no telling what he’ll do if I don’t get my butt in gear.

  “I’ll think about it. I gotta go,” I say, rushing out of the car.

  Hurrying inside, my dad slams the front door behind me. “You talking to that slut again?” He says.

  “Dad, Amy’s really nice. If you’d give her a chance—,” he cuts me off.

  Standing toe-to-toe, he gets in my face and puts his finger in the center of my chest. “Give her a chance?” He tries to stifle a laugh. “The whole town’s had a chance with that little slut. Walking around in those trashy clothes that show off her tits and ass. Pfft!” His spit lands in my eye. “I told you, ain’t none of my daughters hanging around with a girl like that. I’d better not catch her in the driveway EVER again!”

  “Yes, sir,” I whisper, wiping the spit away.

  “Now get your ass out in the kitchen and help your mom! You didn’t have permission to leave in the first place anyway.”

  “It’s okay, baby,” my mom says, wiping her hands on her apron as I enter the kitchen. “Go back to your room,” she whispers. “Try to stay out of his sight and let me handle him.”

  “No, mom. We all know how that’ll play out. He’ll catch me in my room, call me a lazy fuck, and then he’ll start in on both of us,” I whisper back. “Let me help you so he can eat and then, hopefully,
pass out.”

  Grabbing a bowl from the cabinet, I begin peeling potatoes while my mom mixes the meatloaf. We quietly work together, hoping that if we seem non-existent, dad will forget that we’re here until it’s time to eat. It’s a tactic that we try almost every night. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

  Dad pops into the kitchen, swaying as he staggers to the fridge for another can of beer. His yellow eyes are bloodshot and angry, giving both of us a death stare as he walks past us. Sometimes I wonder if he’d prefer that we didn’t exist.

  “What the fuck are you looking at?” His lips curl around his stained teeth.

  “Nothing, dad. I was just going to ask if you needed anything. Can I get you something?”

  “No!” He shouts, slamming the refrigerator door. “I’m already up. You just stay here and help your mom make dinner. Maybe if the two of you put your brains together, I can eat a decent meal tonight. What are you making?”

  Mom intervenes. “Meatloaf with mashed potatoes and gravy,” she smiles, hoping to get on dad’s good side.

  I don’t think he has a good side. Only bad.

  “Was I fucking talking to you?” He stumbles, spitting in her face as he talks. When he does this, he usually hits her. “I was asking my daughter a question.”

  I hate the nights when he’s violent. There’s usually a 50/50 chance, and tonight seems like one of those nights. I’ve asked myself a million times why she stays with him. My little sister and I deserve better, and so does she. Growing up, I always begged mom to leave, to take us to a shelter and never look back.

  She could never do it.

  Hell, I question why I’ve stayed this long. I could’ve left when I turned 18, but I didn’t. I stayed because of my mom and sister. Rachel, my sister, needed my protection. She’s six years younger than me and has witnessed some awful things under our roof.

  I guess I’ve also stayed because I’ve let him get into my head. He’s always told us that we could never live without him, that we couldn’t survive on our own because we’d never be able to support ourselves. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but he could be right.

  Growing up with a raging alcoholic, I’ve never had many friends. It was hard telling other girls that they couldn’t come over because you never knew what kind of mood he’d be in, or that you couldn’t spend the night because your dad swore that you were out fucking every boy under the sun. Yep, he’s accused me of that.

  He’s wrong.

  And during my senior year of high school when I started looking at colleges, dad threw away every college packet that was ever mailed to our house. He said that college is for rich kids and, I quote, “I ain’t paying for that shit!” I offered to pay for my own college education by applying for grants and scholarships, and getting a job, but he wouldn’t let me.

  I even came up with a creative plan to go to college without him knowing. I was going to go under the guise of working a full-time job. In reality, I was only going to work part-time and go to college the rest of the time that I was away from home.

  I’d thought of everything. I was going to open a post office box to have all my school papers sent to and ‘work’ full-time to give me an excuse to get out of the house. All of those plans were ruined when dad said he refused to let me work. He said a woman’s place is at home, not in the work field, and that he would’t let me use mom’s car for such stupid reasons. He even threatened to pop all the tires so that none of us could go anywhere, not even to the grocery store.

  “Yeah, mom and I are making meatloaf with mashed potatoes and gravy, dad. Would you like anything else to go with it?” I ask, hoping to get into his good graces.

  He turns to face me, swaying a bit as his beer sloshes in the can. “How about some corn on the cob? Do you think you’re capable of boiling water? Or are you too stupid like your mom?” He laughs.

  My stomach rolls with nausea. I hate when he calls any of us stupid, but especially my mom. She’s done her best to protect us our whole lives and works hard to make dad happy. I swear, when it’s her time to go, she’ll have a one-way ticket to heaven. She’s such a freaking saint.

  Without another word, he turns on his heels and casually strolls out of the kitchen like he didn’t just offend each of us. I hate him. Giving mom a sympathetic look, I reach for a metal pot and fill it with water before placing it on the stove, turning the heat up high.

  “Thank you, baby,” mom whispers, kissing the top of my head as I go back to peeling potatoes. “You’re such a good girl. Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s just had a few too many.”

  I hate that she makes excuses for him. I’ve lived through 24 years of excuses and wonder how many more years she’ll continue to excuse his behavior.

  But I think she’s warming up to the idea of leaving now that Rachel is finally in her last year of high school. For the past couple of weeks, she’s came to my room a few times and we’ve talked about what it’d be like to start fresh—if we can get out of here. The biggest obstacle is money. With dad never allowing any of us to work, the only income coming into the house is his and he keeps tabs on every dime and dollar that’s spent. Some of it’s disability but most of it comes from him selling drugs. I can always tell whether or not we’re going to eat based on how many people randomly knock on the door.

  I can’t wait to get out of here.

  For the longest time, I’ve said, “Just one more thing. One more time,” but I always chicken out. Where would I go? What would he do? How would mom and Rachel feel? Who would protect them from him?

  With dinner almost ready, mom tells me to watch the stove because she needs to use the bathroom. She has chronic diarrhea because her nerves are shot and with him on a rampage, it must’ve upset her stomach again. “Go ahead mom, I’ve got this,” I say, checking on the potatoes.

  “Hey sis, could you help me with this paper?” Rachel asks.

  “Sure. What are you working on?”

  “In English, we’re supposed to write a paper about Shakespeare and how we believe he inspired others. The thing is, I don’t know what to write.”

  “Which teacher is it?”

  “Campbell.”

  “Oh, god. You’d better write something amazing to please him. So, what exactly do you need help with?”

  “I guess just outlining it, choosing some of Shakespeare’s highlights, and maybe coming up with a few people who became famous from his inspiration?”

  I nod, “Sounds like a solid plan but Campbell is tough.”

  “I’ve got some things written down that I was just looking at on the computer. Could you take a look real quick?”

  “Umm,” I say, looking at the stove. “Sure, but it has to be quick because this is almost ready.”

  “Thanks, sis! My paper is due tomorrow so I have to get this done TONIGHT!”

  Following her to her room, I ask her why in the hell she’d wait so long to start such a paper. Shrugging her shoulders, she says, “Because it’s Campbell and I know I’m going to hate writing it.”

  The two of us are reading through a Wiki page, capturing some highlights that she could write about in her paper when we hear screaming coming from the kitchen, and both of us rush in there.

  “Are you fucking stupid?” My dad’s shouting at mom. “How could you burn dinner?!”

  Rachel and I stand near the entrance of the kitchen, watching dad scold mom. I feel so bad. This is all my fault. I should’ve been watching the food instead of helping Rachel with her paper, and now mom’s taking the brunt of everything.

  “I’m so sorry, Bill,” she says, scraping the burnt meatloaf into the trash. “I can whip something else up,” she offers.

  “Whip something else up? Who are you? Betty fucking Crocker? Do you know how much meat costs?!?! And you’re just throwing shit in the trash! You’re such a stupid bitch,” he snaps at mom.

  “Dad,” I say, my voice barely audible. I want to tell him it was me. I was the one who let dinner burn, but
I’m too scared of what he’ll do to me.

  He doesn’t hear me, though, because he’s too focused on berating our mother.

  Tears streaking down mom’s face, she begins to remove a package of hamburger from the freezer but dad’s not done yet. He’s still ranting and raving.

  “Here!” He grabs the boiling pot of corn from the stovetop. “Why don’t you throw this out, too?!?!!”

  My sister and I watch in horror as he hurls the boiling water at mom, corn flying through the air before it thuds to the ground. Steam follows the whooshing water that’s headed straight for mom, but it somehow misses her and a bit of it lands on Rachel, burning her forearm.

  She cries out in pain as she uses her other hand to cover her arm. Mom’s wide, terrified eyes cut up to mine, pleading for help.

  “Dad! That’s enough!” I shout. “You burned Rachel!”

  Glaring at me with pure hatred, he says, “Put some fucking cream on it! Go on, Debbie, tend to your fucking brats.”

  My mom scrambles over the slippery floor to get to my sister, whisking her away to the bathroom so she can treat her burn. I’ve never hated my dad as much as I do right now. He’s abused us for long enough—mentally, physically, and verbally.

  And I’m done with his bullshit. I have to take action to get us out of here or one of these days, he might just kill one of us. Amy told me that if I wanted to participate in the auction that this week was the cut-off to apply, and applying is exactly what I’m going to do.

  Making up my mind, I decide that I’ll stay with Amy—in her apartment—and apply for the auction. Of course, it would break my mom’s heart if I told her the truth. My mom and I have never kept secrets from one another but, in this case, I think it’s necessary. She’d never agree to letting me sell myself to provide for her or take care of her.