V-Card For Sale – A Billionaire/Virgin Second Chance Auction Romance Read online

  I pushed the map away and turned around his ring on my fourth finger, the one I’d inherited after he’d died. The one I’d twirled once, just like now, before I’d gone and changed everything.

  A glance at the clock revealed it was 6:05. I should’ve left five minutes ago; I had better go now. That was how bad habits started: one little time-wasting thought here, one little afternoon gone to waste there, and before you knew it, you were watching your empire fall and your competitors pick over your slothful carcass. No, I would not get lazy and let inertia sink in. The grind was what I lived for; it was what made me who I was, and it was what would make me who I wanted to be.

  I strode past Cynthia without a word; maybe she would be useful tomorrow. By then, perhaps she would have found out something about that girl. No matter. It was time to go home and eat.

  The elevator came, picked me up, and deposited me in the now nearly empty lobby. Few other than Cynthia stayed as late as I did. In at seven, out at six—just how Father used to do it. And those were on his easy days, too.

  “Work until the work is done, and then some.” That had been his motto, and it had extended into every part of his life. With his late nights and early mornings, Mom, Peter, and I had hardly seen him for weeks at a time. But that was for the best; they’d never understood that.

  As I made my way through our tomb of a building, I knew that the others would never see that. No, not the lazy ones who lived for lunchtime and break time and weekends and time off and sick days, who put the bare minimum into the shitty work they did and moaned the loudest when their shitty work didn’t pay off.

  I stopped at my gleaming black sports car to smile at my reflection in the window. The best thing about work was the work itself, losing yourself in something greater than yourself. But the next best thing was this—fast, luxurious cars, girls, trips. Buying something, looking at it, smiling, and just knowing, with every part of you, I earned that.

  As my coupe sped along the road back home, work didn’t follow me, but she did.

  Her hair was the same mahogany brown as my desk; funny I was only realizing it now. And that sprinkle of freckles on her nose… Was her name really Donna? She had seemed more like an Alice or an Abigail. Would I ever see her again?

  I pressed a button on the stereo, and a light jazz song floated around me, sliding my thoughts into a pleasant nothingness, moving them along to the beat. No point in worrying about it. It was not on the schedule, and, truth be told, it was extraneous.

  At a red light, I took out my phone and checked it. Tomorrow night was Selma, the next, Jane. Thursday I had off, and then Friday was Tammie, then Carly. No, my schedule was full. I was a lucky, busy man. There was no need to make myself any busier.

  “If you have to skimp, skimp on the pleasure; you only get it because of the work, anyway,” as Father used to say.

  I set a memo for myself: “Tell Cynthia to forget about Donna.” There.

  Now, I was home anyway, putting my hand on the front door’s security tablet. The broad, dark slab of wood opened and I walked in, the lights flicking on automatically as I made my way to the kitchen. My dinner was there and ready—hot, as if she’d known I’d be five minutes late.

  As I enjoyed the broiled basil chicken breast and the garlic roasted asparagus and potatoes Karen had prepared, I made a mental note to give her a raise. Only a few months in, and the woman had perfected what I called “invisible excellence,” meaning she put everything where it belonged, cleaned everything according to schedule, and also avoided being seen. We did have our monthly meetings where I outlined what she had to work on, but other than that, it was as if my house itself was providing me with just what I needed.

  Once the meal was finished, it was time for the gym. Only a five-minute drive from my house, I arrived at the glass-walled, machine-clanging box to find a pleasant surprise. Crouched in the weights section, as if he’d known today was my arm day, was none other than Skylar.

  “You still come here, big man?”

  I grabbed the weight he was struggling with, lifted it with one hand, and then grabbed another.

  “You betcha, little guy.”

  We grinned at each other. It was the little joke we had going. I was 6’1” and Skylar was 6’2”.

  Soon, we were deep into pumping iron and chatting about our days. I didn’t mention Donna. I didn’t know why.

  “But listen, Car, I’m serious,” Skylar was saying. “You have to check out this café, Blue’s. It’s really something. This nice little arty, overpriced place—perfect for those business lunches you write off, anyway.”

  Amid my 50-pound lift, I managed a sort of grimace-smile. Skylar was a sleazy fucker—but at least he was honest about it. You could never trust the kind, good ones, the ones who hid what they were really like.

  Flexing at himself in the mirror, Skylar continued. “I mean it. I’m taking you out there next week. They’ve got this little dessert of a girl who’s the waitress. Brown hair, blue eyes. Haven’t added her to the rotation yet, and she’s a tough cookie, but I’ll have her in a month, tops.”

  Exhaling and releasing the weight on the ground, I shot him a grin.

  “Oh yeah?”

  He nodded.

  “I love me a good hard-to-get bitch. Makes things more fun.”

  Turning to face him, even though he was still admiring his reflection in the mirror, I put on my faux-worried voice. “I don’t know, man. How many are you on now? Fifteen at once? Are you sure this is healthy? Don’t you want to—I don’t know—really connect with someone?”

  At our running joke, we both laughed.

  “Yeah, screwing fifteen hot girls at once, and I’m gonna settle with one. Fat chance,” Skylar scoffed, and we grabbed the weights once more.

  Really, it was my own brother’s words I’d used; Paul was a bleeding heart if there ever was one.

  Though, seeing some of those couples on the streets with their stupid smiles made me wonder sometimes…

  Skylar finished his workout before me. He had started “like two hours before,” he claimed, though it was probably more like five minutes. For my final half hour, I was left with the rhythmic clank of exercise machines, an arsenal of weights, and my own reflection. Carter Ray. He looked tired, though I couldn’t for the life of me say why. He got six hours every night, seven on the weekend. Eight on vacations. At any rate, there were only ten minutes left, so I had better make the most of it.

  By the time I got home, I was wrecked. I had gone all-out for the final five minutes and was so tired that when I found a slice of protein-fortified chocolate cake on the kitchen table (as specified) I was too tired to even eat a bite of it.

  No, it was just a shuffle to the bathroom, the two-minute brushing of teeth, staggering out of clothes, and a slump into bed. Then, my eyes closed and my dreams swirled in.

  I dreamed of paint. A black, shaking puddle of paint, trembling, bubbling, fizzing out. It was a canvas the size of a wall, with this bubbling center of black, this foaming, forming creature that became a head, that wiped paint out of its eyes, that stared at me with baby blue eyes. Only when I opened my eyes did I realize that it had been her. Donna.

  Chapter Six

  Donna

  I fell asleep smiling and woke up in tears. There was no escaping him. Even as I fell asleep once more, Carter Ray was there, in the bed beside me. He stroked me until I trembled, smiling at my helplessness, at my traitorous body that wouldn’t match my thoughts, that wouldn’t voice the “no” I knew I needed to say.

  No, his touch was driving me deeper into the black pleasure I could only give into. His lithe hands explored every inch of me, removing clothes such that I didn’t even notice. Moans bubbled out of me and disappeared into the blackness.

  “Won’t you leave me be?” I finally whispered amid it all.

  And then, as I trembled with the joy of it, with the pussy-pulsing need that could be satiated only one way, he said, “I will when you want me to.” That
was when I knew there was no use.

  That day at work, I was at best unhelpful, at worst a nuisance. After Carter-filled dreams had consumed the first half of the night, I’d spent the second stoically refusing to fall asleep and thereby avoiding more unsettling dreams.

  After I emptied some tea onto a plateful of cookies instead of into a teacup, Kyle shot me a wink.

  “Boy, are you lucky I’m your boss.”

  Angling my body away from his oncoming pat, I gave him a tight-lipped smile.

  Because no; truth be told, having a boss who constantly hit on me wasn’t what I’d call “lucky,” even it did mean he wouldn’t fire me for how useless I was being today. Already I’d broken one glass, given one customer’s order to another, and somehow gotten my fingers lodged deep inside a freshly-baked muffin (which Kyle had declared an “employee snack,” eating half himself before slipping the other half between my lips).

  By the time it was 2:15 p.m., my break time, I could only collapse into a chair in the corner of the now-empty café, too tired to even venture to the staff room downstairs.

  Flopping into the chair across from me, Kyle moved his bushy, bearded face toward my averted one.

  “You good?”

  I shrugged noncommittally, and he continued. “Good seeing you at the protest the other day, even if we did get the boot pretty quickly.”

  I stared at the clock—only 2:18 by some horrible trick of fate—and muttered, “It’s wrong what they’re doing, destroying ecosystems for these pipelines.”

  “Yeah. I heard the CEO—Carter Ray—is basically a monster. No feelings, no concern for anybody or anything but his business.”

  I shot Kyle a suspicious look out of the corner of my eye, but his close-set hazel eyes looked as oblivious as ever.

  “So, what about that drink?” he said.

  With a sigh, I began my “I don’t know, Kyle; I’m really busy” speech, only to finish with, “What about next week?”

  Kyle’s gaze met mine, me just as shocked by my response as he was.

  “Really?” he asked, beaming.

  “Maybe,” I squeaked before taking off for the bathroom in the back.

  Double-locked inside the soap-smelling box, I glared at a flower sticker on the opposite wall. What was going on with me? Missing Carter Ray of all people, agreeing to go out with Kyle, when that just about the last thing I wanted to do.

  No, what you really want is to see Carter again, see if what you saw in his eyes—that split-second of kindness—was at all real, a voice in my head said.

  I strode over to the bathroom wall, ripped off the yellow-faced flower sticker, and shoved it into the sink before turning on the water. Watching it go down the drain gave me a strange sort of satisfaction.

  No, it didn’t matter what I wanted. I was never going to see Carter Ray ever again. And I was never going to date Kyle, with his creepy prolonged staring and complete disinterest in basically anything other than protesting, as if that one hobby could make up for his lack of all others.

  Once I emerged from the bathroom, a scowling-faced teenage girl was waiting at the counter.

  Thankfully, my break was up. The rest of my shift was spent imagining what kind of new house my parents would get (maybe another ranch, even!) and messing up more orders. This included that of a vaguely familiar-looking jerk who insinuated that there was a way I could make it up to him which involved me giving him my number. My glared “here’s your mocha frappé” was response enough.

  The coffee rush lasted for the next 45 minutes, and by the time I got out of the café and breathed in the fresh air outside, I had made a decision. I was going to see Carter Ray again, and I was going to see him tomorrow.

  Chapter Seven

  Carter

  What did you do when your past showed up at your doorstep wearing a too-tight purple windbreaker and a buck-toothed smile? You shut the door; that’s what you did.

  The only problem was that it was Karen who opened my door and, as I was walking down the stairs, let in my dearly inconvenient brother, Paul. Clearly, the topic of our next monthly meeting would be not letting in anyone without my explicit permission.

  But it was too late, now. Paul was swiveling his head around my house, as if searching for something, his gaze finally returning to me, where I was frozen on the steps.

  “You off to work?”

  Jogging down the rest of the steps, I tossed a “yes” over my shoulder as I made my way to my car. Once there, I stopped.

  “What are you doing here?”

  His attempt at a smile fell flat.

  “Don’t you remember?”

  I shook my head. “Paul, I have to go to work. What are you doing here?”

  “It’s…” His watery brown eyes blinked furiously. “It’s ten years since Mom…you know.”

  “Ah, that.”

  With a nod, I got in the car and closed the door. Paul trailed behind me.

  I rolled down the window.

  “That’s it?” he said.

  Turning on the engine, I called, “You can stay here, but not long. I have to go to work.”

  Then, I was pulling out of my driveway, driving away. But even as I sped down one road and onto another, Paul and all his unpleasant associations followed me. Trust my hapless brother to show up just as the final plans for the empire were getting underway, and for the most useless reason of all, at that.

  As if my periodic payments to his shiftless self weren’t enough, now I would be expected to put him up for who knew how long, all in the name of “brotherly love.” “Family is family, for worse or for worse,” as Father used to say.

  On my phone was the memo from yesterday: “Tell Cynthia to forget about Donna.” And yet, when I got into my busy-as-ever building and made my way up to my empty-as-usual penthouse floor (since my office was the only one on it), I didn’t tell Cynthia. No, I didn’t even give her my usual curt nod. I was five minutes late, after all.

  As I sat at my desk, I opened my laptop and went through the day’s schedule. Yes, it was looking like another packed day: calls and meetings and more meetings all day, some dinner, and then Selma all night. Sadly, there was no time for a sappy, useless brother. I texted Selma.

  Your place tonight. Wear the red dress.

  Selma was my Arabian princess. With black silky hair down to her ass and big doe eyes that half closed as I stroked her, she looked great in red. I couldn’t exactly remember which red dress was my favorite—I hadn’t seen her for a two weeks after all, with a handful of women in between—but I was sure whatever she chose would be good.

  A buzz. I picked up the phone.

  “Mr. Ray?”

  It was Cynthia.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a Mr.—, well, he says he’s your brother.”

  She said it with all the dubious shock that indicated that yes, it could be no one else but my brother, who had somehow managed to get here shortly after me.

  “Do you want me to—”

  “Show him in.”

  I hung up. Might as well get this over with.

  The door creaked open and Paul poked his head in.

  “Close the door behind you,” I said, and he did.

  “What do you want Paul?” I asked his pathetic-looking puppy eyes.

  “I…uh…well, are you going to come?”

  Glaring at Paul’s obliviousness, I resisted the urge to chuck my gold pyramid paperweight at his head.

  “Come to what, Paul?”

  “Mom’s grave next week. It’ll be the ten-year anniversary on Tuesday.”

  I slid the paperweight to the other side of my desk.

  “I know.”

  A long silence, then, “It’s been a while.”

  “I know.”

  When I glanced up, he was peering at me incredulously, as if I really had chucked the paperweight at his head.

  “What’s wrong with you? Aren’t you sad? I mean, I’m your brother, and Mom…”

  “
I know, Paul. I found her, remember? And yes, forgive me that I’m not overjoyed to see you since it will invariably end up with a sort of teary payout to go away for a few more months.”

  Now the teary brown eyes were actually swimming with tears.

  “You… Hell, Carter, there’s something really wrong with you. With these pipelines that are all over the news, threatening biodiverse habitats, dividing the community…”

  I shrugged.

  “Business is business.”

  He walked up so he was right in front of my desk, the most incongruous guest my office had ever received.

  “You really don’t care, do you?”

  I smiled.

  “You’re starting to get it.”

  Wiping his eyes, words sputtered out.

  “Jeez, I always thought, whatever I heard, that you were my brother, that they were exaggerating, misunderstanding you. I always thought you weren’t like that.”

  I tilted the pyramid paperweight on its side. This was getting boring.

  “Be careful what you hear, Paul. Sometimes it just might be right.”

  Seizing the paperweight, Paul squeezed it, his eyes wild, like he might do something rash. Although, we both knew he wouldn’t.

  “You know, you’re really like Dad, you know that? Never thought I’d say this, but you’re just like that bitter old workaholic.”

  As Paul marched to the door, I called a “thank you” after him.

  The next time my phone buzzed a few minutes later, I answered it and immediately said, “Tell my brother to call. I’m unfortunately indisposed at the moment.”

  But Cynthia said, “It’s not Paul. It’s a Miss Ashley Turndale—of the Turndale family with extensive property in rural Colorado.”

  “Ah.”

  “She would like to meet with you—immediately, if possible.”

  I opened my laptop and glanced at my schedule once more. It was packed; no doubt about it. But this was important. It could have been the last part of property needed to complete the pipelines. This could solve everything.