ONE
Parker
“Who’s the girl?”I ask Ezra, my business partner and childhood best friend. We are standing inside The Met, drinks in hand, each of us wearing a suit worth too fucking much—thousands scratching five figures—and the kicker is I’m not usually one to put on a Brioni on a Saturday night, for a charity gala no less. I take a sip of the amber liquid in the crystal-cut tumbler, appreciating the burn as the bourbon travels down my throat while my eyes never leave the girl on stage.Girlisn’t the term I’d use to define her. The curves of her body leave little to the imagination in the dress she’s wearing, defining every slope of her body. She’s a woman to the core.
“Nessa Taylor, which is odd because Millie is meant to be up on stage tonight, yet Nessa is in her place,” he responds, a question in his tone. I quirk my eyebrow. My gaze doesn’t meet Ezra’s, though. It’s currently locked on the beauty whose name I was just given.
“And she is?” Forty-one years old, and here I am, asking about a woman whose background I could probably delve so deeply into I’d know the exact date she started her menstrual cycle with one quick phone call. Not that I feel the need to do that deep of a dive into Miss Taylor’s background.
“Only daughter to Ed and Maria Taylor from Taylor and Associates Software.” I don’t respond. The company he speaks of has been around for nearly thirty years, rightful billionaires themselves, making headway when cell phones became smart phones long before their times, and judging by the smirk on Ezra’s face in my peripheral vision, I’d say he can tell I’m more than intrigued.
“And where is Millie?” I soak in the vision on the podium, not moving from my position by the bar, knowing these damn events bore the fuck out of me, the only thing that will keep me occupied besides the beauty before me is the expensive bourbon. Who I now know is Nessa is a sight. Dark chocolate hair swept up in some kind of meticulous style, showing the slope of her neck, which is soft and delicate looking. Eyes that are such a vivid green I can see them from this far back, dark minky eyelashes surrounding them. A plush lower lip my body is begging to see what it’d feel like beneath mine, wanting to see what they’d look like wrapped around my cock. My gaze travels lower. The white fabric of her dress dips low, displaying a tantalizing set of tits that has me licking my lips. Her waist is narrow, hips flaring out, and a long shapely leg is peeking from the slit of her dress with every step she takes.
“No idea. Millie said she’d be here, something about this being the only time you’d ever see her on any type of auction block, not wanting to feel like a cow being sold at a meat market.” His response shines a light on exactly what Millie is to him. Huh, it seems my best friend has a vice after all. There’s definitely more to the story that he’s not willing to talk about right now. That’s okay with me. There will come a time when Ezra lays it all out. Hopefully this time, it won’t be with his fist hitting the next available surface or my face. My friend has a wicked fucking left hook. I drop the subject, not willing to be his next poor and unsuspecting victim.
“You better get your paddle ready. The bid is already at sixty thousand, Parker.”
“I’ve got sixty thousand going once, going twice…” I’m knocked out of my thoughts of Nessa displaying her body on a podium much like she is now, with not a stitch of clothing on her body except for the heels. My imagination has run wild all while I almost missed my opportunity with the beauty in front of my eyes.
“Fuck.” The word tumbles from my lips. My hand reaches inside the breast pocket of my suit jacket, finding the paddle, raising it as a ring man walks in front of me, his face lighting up. He knows we’re about to get into a bidding war, except I’m not going to let it get that far.
“Sixty-one to number seven-five-seven.” He points towards me. The other gentleman bidding on Nessa is clearly older than even me, bald, sagging skin around his jaw, and a paunch stomach.
“Sixty-five thousand,” the man old enough to be her grandfather volleys back.
“One hundred thousand.” Silence seizes around us. Ezra’s face doesn’t give a hint of what he’s thinking, but I know he’s internally salivating for the moment when we’re alone to figure out what the fuck I’m thinking.
“Going once, going twice, any other takers?” No one says a word. Sure, this is for charity, but it seems only the old man was willing to go so far. “Sold to number seven-five-seven for one hundred thousand. If you’ll follow the ring man, we’ll get everything taken care of,” the auctioneer says. I dip my head in acknowledgement, not even looking at him. It seems Vanessa Taylor and I are stuck in a staring contest, one I’m not willing to break, not until I’ve got this lust-induced haze I find myself trapped by under control.
It’s not until she leaves the stage that I look at my friend. “Tell me again why we’re here?” I ask Ezra.
“It’s for a good cause, and clearly a certain brunette has caught your attention. You’re welcome.” He claps me on the shoulder, tosses his drink back, and leaves me where I’m standing.
“Motherfucker,” I say to his retreating back. I walked right into what seems like a trap Ezra created.
TWO
Nessa
“Stop fidgeting.”I roll my eyes at my mother’s command, as if it were her who just stood in front of over a hundred people, watching as two men volleyed back and forth, spending a fortune for one night. Who spends that much money on a date? I mean, it’s for an amazing cause, helping parents while their child who is battling cancer. Plus, I also work there, so a double win. What I wasn’t expecting was the man who won. Tall, dark, and handsome doesn’t begin to describe the unknown man.
“I’m not squirming, more like trying to conceal the fact that I gorged on food before realizing it’d be settling in my stomach like a lead weight.” The Italian grinder I ate before realizing I’d be standing in for Millie is the culprit. My close friend, well, more like a sister, couldn’t make it. There are some major regrets on gorging on the delicious sandwich that consists of the softest bread, a variety of meat—turkey, ham, prosciutto, capicola, salami—plus the provolone cheese, topped with lettuce, tomato, and onion, and the spectacular condiments they toss the vegetables in before putting it on the bread. It’s freaking magnificent, except for right now that is. I was smart. The meal of the night where New York’s wealthiest and finest come to spend fifty thousand dollars on a plate barely contains any food, literally two springs of asparagus, an ounce of mashed potatoes, and maybe a few bites of whatever meat they deem appropriate. It’s why I ate before getting here, also the reason why I’m bloated. I run my hands down my body, trying to move the fabric of my dress to hide my lower abdomen that is currently a food belly.
“Smart girl. I’ll be begging your father to take me for food afterwards. Try as I might, the board refuses to allow us to use a different catering company, or God forbid, a buffet. They act like it’s a horror to do such a thing, yet they’d still spend the same amount for the write-off, let alone the money we fork out for having an open bar. They could save the money on the atrocious caterer and put that money into Cures for Children. Maybe we should fire all these schmucks.” I laugh, finally getting the ruching to lay at the right angle to hide the fact that I overate and refuse to wear shapewear of any kind.
“Mom, a hundred thousand? Who is this man, and damnit, why does Millie have to get sick on this particular night?” I tack on the last sentence, almost feeling bad, except for the fact Millie is groaning in pain, shivering, body aches, fever, the freaking works. We were together only days ago. She wasn’t feeling bad, until the early hours yesterday morning. I received a 9-1-1 text telling me that there was no way she’d be able to make the event if she was too sick. I pivoted, telling her since it was my idea in the first place, I’d be her replacement.
“I don’t know him. We can ask your father if you can get him away from all the people stealing his time tonight. I need a drink, maybe ten,” she replies.
“I’ll be there right along with you, drinking my weight in alcohol but the time tonight is over.” Speaking of, I look around for one of the waiters who usually walk around with a tray of champagne. Now, I’m second-guessing this dumb idea of mine to orchestrate what we’d be auctioning. Instead of it being the boring and usual, like vacations, spa days, jewelry, sports tickets, or some kind of art, oh no, I’d have to go against the grain and do something entirely different. My grand idea to have the wealthy bid for dates to the super elite of the elite is slowly backfiring
“It is a shame that Millie can’t be here. What’s wrong with her anyway?” Mom asks, changing the subject as she waits with me until the mystery man appears to pay for his winnings, the only reason why my nerves aren’t as strung out as they could be.
“Some kind of flu. She has a fever, aches and pains, the works.” I reach for a glass of champagne as a waiter makes his rounds, thankful for the liquid courage I’m about to toss back like I’m shot-gunning a beer at a frat party.
“Poor thing. Maybe next time, she’ll be able to do this.” The auctioneer calls for the next item up for auction. I had a feeling auctioning date nights would be a hit, and that theory was definitely proven right. I had a feeling it would in our circles, one I’m thankful I’m not completely entrenched in, the gold diggers, the women who attempt to trap a man with a pregnancy, and yes, there are some men who will have no problem using their charm, you know, like the movie where the man swindles women out of money, somehow managing to get away with it. I’m talking zero charges and the money is long gone and they aren’t getting it back.
“We’ll see,” I murmur under my breath. It took a lot of convincing as it is; doing it over again will be impossible. I turn around, coming face to face with the man who is a full head and shoulders taller than me, has dark black hair and eyes that are just as dark, if not darker, a clean-shaven face, broad shoulders, tapered waist, and the fit of his suit pants molds to what I’m seeing are thick muscular legs. The suit in question looks like it was made especially for his body, not that I should doubt that it wasn’t or the fact that it likely costs more than my Alexandra Vauthier dress, a dress I would never pay for out of my own pocket. Frugal is my middle name. It was a gift from my parents, my mother especially. She knows I’d attempt to pull out last year’s dress to re-wear it, a major faux pas in these circles. Sadly, in the social circles we run with, not only would our family receive backlash, but social media would kick up a storm. It’s bad enough that a two-page article was written about me going my own way instead of working side by side with my father. I love him, and if it were a do-or-die situation, I probably would. The loving parents I have adore me as I do them, especially my father, who is the techy person of the family. Any kind of computer and their inner workings, along with cell phones and their applications, he’s all over it. As for Mom and myself, we barely use ours to its fullest capabilities, an annoyance in my dad’s eyes. He doesn’t understand that we’d much rather use a paper planner instead of the calendar in our phones. We are who we are. My mother had a job working beside my father through my school years, having the flexibility to raise me instead of someone else, while Dad worked all hours of the day.