by Sara Ney
Switch Bidder
Sara Ney
Switch Bidder
Copyright © 2019 by Sara Ney
Cover Design by Okay Creations
Formatting by AB Formatting
All rights reserved.
This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the authors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
License Notes
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
About the Author
Also by Sara Ney
Chapter One
Piper
“I don’t know why you’re making me do this. You know I don’t want to be here.”
“Because, Piper, we have to get you out of your comfort zone.”
“This isn’t what I had in mind.” I cross my arms stubbornly. “What if you just take me to ride a Ferris wheel—I hate those. Or, we could go touch snakes at the pet store. That would get me out of my comfort zone.”
“Listen to me.” My best friend grabs me by the shoulders and gives me a little shake, staring me hard in the eyes. Shit, she means business. “You’ve been crushing on Ryder Williams for years now. This is your chance to win him—literally. If you win him in this charity auction, he could be in our house, cleaning your floors. It doesn’t get any easier than that.”
“He’s not even in the fraternity—I don’t understand what he’s doing in this auction.”
“They’re raising money for that state-funded reading program, you big book nerd. It’s their philanthropy and I heard they called in favors so they could raise more, all hands on deck and all that.”
My heart melts a little; it’s so nice of him to participate when he’s not even part of the organization having the fundraiser.
Still.
“I can’t afford to bid on Ryder anyway. Do you know how many girls are going to be fighting for him? All of them. It’s going to be a catfight and there’s no way I’d be able to pay what someone like Bethany Wilder could pay.”
“Oh puh-lease.” Mal rolls her eyes. “Let’s not overexaggerate. He’s cute, but he’s not that cute. He’s not going for a thousand dollars—maybe a few hundred, tops.”
She says it so casually—like a few hundred dollars is nothing—that my face actually gets hot.
“It would still cost me more money than I have,” I grumble. Not that I’m going to bid on him.
“That’s why you have me—I have plenty of cash.”
“Don’t you dare—I mean it, Mallory. I’ll kill you if you do anything stupid.” Seriously. I will kill her.
She would do it, too. The girl has the biggest heart, and the biggest checking account to go along with it.
She feigns a yawn, tapping on her mouth with the palm of her dainty hand. “Ye of little faith.”
“You’re right, I have no faith in you. Remember how you promised not to sign me up for the dorm’s white water rafting trip? Then you paid for me to go without telling me? Remember that?”
“You had fun!”
“So? I said I didn’t want you to sign me up!”
“Sometimes your friends know what’s best for you.”
“I was terrified, Mallory. I literally thought I was going to drown. Then there was that time you created a dating profile for me and set me up on a date with that guy Kyle.” I shudder at how horrible the description of me was, and at how many guys swiped right because of it.
“Poor Kyle. He really liked you.”
He didn’t even know me, and he was lucky I showed up for coffee that day because Mallory had to drag me kicking and screaming after I’d found out about the online dating profile.
“My point is,” I lecture my friend, “you have to stop making promises you’re not going to keep.”
She pats me on the arm, which does nothing to soothe my nerves. “Oh relax, would you? This is supposed to be fun! F-U-N. Do you even know what that is anymore?”
Not really. I’ve been so stressed out this semester, I haven’t had time to think about having fun. I’ve studied every available second just to keep my grades up and stay eligible for my scholarships. I never claimed to be a brainiac, but I honestly didn’t think senior year would kick my ass so hard.
“I like to know the fun is coming, not get ambushed with it.”
“Well chill out—I’m here to bid on Jackson Powers, not bamboozle you into bidding on Ryder Williams.” She gestures toward the stage. “Look at him up there, that beautiful, cocky bastard.”
I do look at him. I look at them all.
Lined up on the stage are at least thirty guys, and every single one of them is cocky—and beautiful, if I’m being honest. Some of them are so painfully good-looking I have to avert my eyes.
I go down the line, one at a time, searching for Ryder Williams, the guy I’ve had a painful crush on since freshman year.
Four awkward years.
Unrequited.
Obviously, because we have never even spoken. Why would we when we have nothing in common? Plus, we don’t exactly circulate in the same crowds. I mean, we’ve been at the same parties, but it’s not like our eyes have ever met across the room. It’s not like he’d ever take one look at me and be overcome with desire.
Ryder is an athlete, big and powerful and strong. He’s an outfielder on the baseball team, and I’ve seen him smash into the outfield wall more times than I can count. He tends to limp away, almost always with the ball in his glove.
He’s huge—way bigger than I am—dark, and slightly broody.
You wouldn’t pair us together any day of the week, and yet somehow, I can’t quit the enormous crush I have on him.
We had one class together as freshmen; it was economics, and he always sat in the front row. I always thought it was because he was so interested in the subject, but one day halfway through the semester, he showed up with glasses and moved to the back.
I couldn’t stare at the back of his head after that.
Once econ ended, we never shared the same breathing space again, unless you count the few times we were at the same off-campus house party.
I don’t hate parties. I’m not antisocial.
I’m just…not really the kind of girl guys fall for. I’m too shy, and too quiet, and I blush too much at the dumbest crap—something Mallory is always trying to change, God bless her. She’s always trying to get me out of my comfort zone.
The thing is, I don’t think a person can wake up one morning and suddenly be outgoing—not like her. She’s balls to the wall with everything she does, going hard at school, sports (she plays volleyball), and her social life. Mallory isn’t shy about anything, not her body, not her opinion, and not the fact that she mother-hens me every chance she gets.
All my friends do.
I
don’t need to be handled with kid gloves; I’m just not like them.
“Stop trying to hide behind me. He’s not going to bite you.”
Right. Because he’s not even looking at me.
None of the guys are, though most of them are eyeing girls in the audience, no doubt making their picks for who they hope bids on and wins them.
The place is packed. The fraternity rented an alumni room on campus to give more students the chance to attend, and no driving off-site means more participation, just a longer walk if you don’t live in the dorms.
Which I don’t.
Mallory and I walked over together, along with our friends Deonna and Ava, who also live in our apartment complex. Both of them are only here to spectate; they have already boyfriends.
Really, I suspect most of the people crammed into the room aren’t here to actually bid on these guys. They just want to witness the spectacle it’s sure to become. Fraternities on our campus aren’t known for their subtlety; they’re known for drunken beer bashes, and yes, their philanthropies, too—but some of these fundraisers they throw to raise money have been known to raise a few eyebrows.
Mine go up when the master of ceremonies—a total douchebag named Chet Donovan (gag)—takes his place at the podium, clears his throat, and gestures for the guys to clear the stage.
One by one they file off, disappearing behind a makeshift curtain.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today…” He does his best to sound like a preacher, failing miserably when he breaks into a laugh instead. “I kid, I kid—we’re not here for a wedding, although wouldn’t we all love that?!”
The crowd cheers, and one guy in back shouts, “I want a virgin bride!”
Oh my god.
“Let’s get serious for a second here, people.” Chet grips the podium for support, leaning forward. “We’re here for a good cause. We, the brothers of Lambda Tau Gamma, hope you brought all the cash in your piggy banks.” He scans the crowd, his expression somber. “LTG has been raising money for literacy for over thirty years, giving more than seven million dollars among our eight hundred and ninety collegiate chapters. Think about all the books that buys, guys—thousands upon thousands.”
I mentally sigh as he drones on.
“Once you’ve won, you’re going to pay that big moron in the back with the card reader—Derek, hold up your hand and wave it around.” Everyone cranes their neck to see the guy in the back of the room. “He’ll give you the contact information of your LTG member or athlete so you can put him to work. LTG is not responsible for any idiotic behavior, nor does it condone…” He continues reading a legal disclaimer, which was most likely prepared by an actual attorney. “By bidding, you agree to these terms. The money we raise today will go toward literacy programs, books, and scholarships to children across ’Merica, so bid, and bid high!”
“You’re high!” someone yells, and the crowd laughs.
“Without further ado, allow me to introduce the first fine stud, all the way from the Beta house—which, by the way, was a terrible choice.” The Greeks all laugh. “Brian Beloit’s major is chemistry, and not the kind with test strips and beakers, if you ladies catch my drift.”
The crowd groans, and the bidding begins. Not long after that, I need a break.
“You can’t go to the bathroom now! That Kappa bitch Cameron is going to steal Ryder right out from under you.”
“First of all, she can’t steal him away because I’m not bidding on him. She is welcome to him.”
“And second of all?”
“Secondly, I can’t bear to watch,” I blurt out. “I wish I had your lady balls, Mal, but I don’t. I just don’t. I’m sorry, but I have to pee.”
“You do not!” she hisses. “You stay right where you are, you chickenshit.” My friend grabs me by the upper arm, yanking me toward her. She snatches my auction paddle out of my hands and tugs me again. “I know what’s best for you. Stand here and watch what you’re missing out on.”
Standing here to watch Ryder Williams parade around a stage for a room full of hyped-up coeds is not what’s best for me. He’s too gorgeous. Well…maybe not gorgeous as in hot, but there’s something about him that makes my insides do somersaults and backflips. I want to vomit thinking about Cameron the Kappa—or anyone else—bidding and winning, because I don’t have the courage to do it myself.
And that thought makes me sick, too.
Dramatic, much?
Ryder appears on stage, humbly waving at the crowd, shoulders slightly bent, head bowed almost bashfully. His white teeth flash, cheeks flush.
He’s wearing an Iowa baseball tee with his number on the back, jeans, and a baseball cap. His fingers grip the bill and he squeezes it then tips it toward the crowd with a smile.
The girls…go…wild.
I slip away when my friend’s grip on my arm loosens—she’s too riveted to the sight of the ballplayer on stage—working my way through the tightly packed crowd as if working my way through a maze.
I get jostled. Bumped. Shoved once or twice—that’s how many people are here, male and female. It’s worse than a club downtown, packed to capacity.
This event always draws a large crowd, always makes the fraternity a shit ton of money.
Once I make it to the bathroom, I shove through a stall, press my back against the door, and breathe, heart racing.
Why am I such a wuss? Why can’t I be like my friends and just…go for it? Ryder is just a boy. He’s just another guy.
And I’m not shy—not really, just reserved.
I’m the one member of our friend group who is always content to sit back and watch the action, to watch everyone else make asses of themselves.
I still have fun, don’t get me wrong, just not the way they do.
Through the rusty, steel bathroom door, I can hear the crowd chanting Ryder’s name. Wolf whistles and catcalls abound, and as I wash my hands under a stream of cold water, I imagine he’s strutting around the stage like a peacock while auction paddles fly up left and right, girls bidding wildly and carelessly.
I look up, into the mirror at my reflection.
Stare hard at the freckles scattered across my pert nose, lending what I’ve always thought was a sweet flare to my face. Bend my mouth into a sardonic line, wishing I was sexier. Or sultry. Or exotic. Instead, I look like one of those nice, innocent girls who are fun to talk to but not the ones you ask on a date.
In the four years I’ve been in college, no guy has ever asked me on a date.
Not one.
And no, I don’t include the drunks at the bar, or the frat boys who hit on anything with a pulse—or without one, because once, at a party, I saw a guy so drunk he hit on the support beam coming down from the ceiling.
That’s the level of quality I’m dealing with.
While I ponder how messed up it is that in four years, I haven’t been on a single date, I swipe some gloss across my lips and pucker. Shove it back in my purse, noise from the auction echoing off the bathroom tiles. The crowd is fired up, chanting while Chet loudly shouts out numbers.
I can hear the total climbing.
One hundred dollars.
One twenty. Thirty.
I can’t hear everything he’s saying, but someone must be shouting out random numbers because the bidding goes from a hundred and thirty dollars to two hundred.
My head gives a shake, shiny lips quirking into a wry smile. Some student is out there blowing their hard-earned cash on some guy they only get to spend a few hours with.
When I know it’s safe to come out, confident Ryder is no longer parading around on stage, I pull open the bathroom door.
It’s not easy to find my friends now that the crowd is good and worked up, but our friend Celeste is tall and blonde, so it only takes a few moments of scanning over everyone’s heads to find her. A few more to push back through.
“Merry Christmas! I bought you a gift.” Mallory is grinning from ear to ear as she hands me t
he auction paddle, slapping it in my palm.
I roll my eyes. “It’s March.”
“Whatever, don’t be so literal.”
I back the conversation up. “What gift?”
She’s always doing this—buying me things. The last present she bought me is clasped around my neck, a gold necklace that says Bless Your Heart. It does the talking for me when I have nothing to say.
She’s had flowers delivered to me on Valentine’s Day, and she got us matching pajamas last Christmas.
Mallory is both the biggest brat I’ve ever met and the sweetest. Sometimes both at the same time.
“The gift of love.”
“Awww.”
“No, seriously, I’m giving you the gift of love—don’t piss it away.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” And who can hear her over all this noise? This room is so ridiculously loud; the acoustics are terrible.
Mallory’s lips are moving, but I can’t tell if any sound is coming out.
“Talk louder! I can barely hear you!”
She gets closer, bumping me with her boobs, her mouth so close to my ear I can feel her lips. “I said, I bought you Ryder Williams.”
Say what now?
“No you didn’t.” There is no way. She couldn’t have.
Wouldn’t have.
“I did, and you’re welcome.” Mal smirks.
“I didn’t say thank you!”
“Well then thank me so we can move on and have fun. My boy is on the block soon and I want to be focused.”
“Why? It seems like you’re warmed up already.” Wait… “How much did you pay for Ryder?”
My best friend shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Mallory! How much?”
“It’s not a big deal, Pipe. It was under two hundred.” She pauses. “Okay, it was under two fifty.”
Jesus!
“Mallory! Why would you do that!” Is she insane? That’s a stupid amount of money to spend on a guy I have absolutely no intention of inviting into my house for the day.