Auctioned to Him 3: Back to the Yacht

by Charlotte Byrd

  Tall, handsome, tan. Blue eyes and dark sandy hair that made him look like a brooding dark stranger and a surfer boy depending on the light.

  He strolled into my café with a confident and laid back swagger that would make male models jealous. There’s a carefree nature to his demeanor and yet, at the same time, there’s something very intense about him.

  I like the way that he says my name. I like the way that he’s impressed with my ability to deal with annoying pestering old men. What he doesn’t know is that, unfortunately, I’m used to unwanted sexual advances from gross strangers. What that trucker did was one of the least offensive things, frankly. The men who come in the middle of the night try worse things.

  Wyatt wants to take me out for a drink. Yes, yes, yes, I say to myself. Say yes. You deserve this. But I reject him. I want to say yes, more than anything, but I can’t. I’m too fragile to have my heart broken by the likes of him. Of course, it would happen. He’s cocky and rich and arrogant, and guys like that only want one thing. The thing that I certainly want to have with him, but not now. Not considering everything else I have that’s going on.

  The following day, just as the sun throws its harshest rays on our dusty part of the world, my mind drifts back to Wyatt. If only he would walk back into this place. If only he would ask me again. Then maybe I would say yes. But it’s all a daydream.

  My mind drifts from one part of his body to another. He’s got the kind of veins lining his forearms that make me wet in my panties. I want to pull off that $200 t-shirt and run my fingers over his chiseled abs. I want to grab both of his butt cheeks at the same time and get down on my knees before him.

  “Brielle?”

  A familiar voice startles me and brings me back down to earth. It’s Wyatt. He’s casually leaning on the countertop and tapping his fingers.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey.”

  I’m at a loss for words. My mouth gets parched.

  “So I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d stop by.”

  “Oh, okay,” I smile. “Can I get you a menu?”

  “You can, but I’ll just get whatever you recommend anyway.”

  His cockiness is oozing out of him. I look around. His friends are nowhere to be found, but the Bentley is parked in the first available non-handicapped parking spot.

  “Where are your friends?” I ask.

  “Not here,” he smiles.

  “Why are you?”

  He takes a breath. “Like I said, I was passing through the neighborhood.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “No,” I shake my head. This guy is dangerous. In a good way. No, in a bad way.

  “Well, take a seat. Anywhere you want,” I say.

  He looks around the café. There are three other people here. The lunch ‘rush’ just left, meaning the four other people who typically pop in for lunch. Wyatt chooses the seat at the counter. Right in front of me.

  I grab a rag to pick up the few crumbs left over by the last customer and notice that my book is still in my hand.

  “Jane Eyre,” he nods. I hide the book behind the counter and wipe the counter around him. He doesn’t move his arms and I stop to see if he will. He takes a moment before lifting his arms.

  “You were reading that yesterday,” he says. I nod and get my pad out. I can’t find my pen and frantically look for it at the cash register. I can feel his gaze burning a hole in the back of my jeans. He’s checking out my ass. I don’t want to admit it, but I like it. A lot.

  “Yes, I’m not done yet. Have you read it?”

  “Yes, in school. It’s got a good story. Love and tension. Lots of awkward situations.

  It just needs something.”

  “You think a classic of English literature needs something? Seriously?” My tongue often gets away from me, but this is one of those situations where I don’t really care. I love talking about literature, and he was the one who brought it up.

  “Yes, so what?” he shrugs.

  I shake my head at his arrogance. He’s an asshole, and he knows it. He also knows that in some situations, like this one, it’s ridiculously hot.

  “So what does Jane Eyre need? How would you improve on Emily Brontë’s masterpiece?”

  “Hey, I’m not saying it’s bad. I’m just saying that it’s missing something that would really make it complete.”

  I cross my arms over my chest and wait for him to answer my question. This should be good!

  “It needs sex. Lots of sex.”

  I stare at him.

  “They have so much sexual tension. They are cooped up in this house together. They have all of these feelings developing for one another. We, as the audience, need a release. We need them to have sex. And lots of it.”

  I can hardly believe what I’m hearing.

  “That’s crazy,” I shake my head. “Jane Eyre doesn’t need sex.”

  “Oh yes, she does. C’mon, aren’t you just aching to read about them doing it?”

  “Doing it? In Jane Eyre? Tempting, but no,” I say definitively. How crude and vulgar and insulting can he be?

  “Okay, it doesn’t have to actually use those words. It can be much more poetic than that. But still as graphic.”

  “Like what, for example?”

  He takes a moment to think about it. I wonder if he’s going to choose a metaphor or go straight for a direct and honest description.

  “How about this?” Wyatt leans back from the counter tilting his head back. He lifts up his hand in the pose I’ve only seen professors do in movies.

  “He slid his big cock into that heavenly place between her legs.”

  The words dangle in the air between us as if they are suspended by a string. I don’t say anything for a moment. I’m speechless. I want to be embarrassed, but I’m more turned on than anything.

  “So both graphic and romantic is your suggestion?” I finally say.

  He nods. “I thought that struck an interesting tension between the two, depicting both his masculinity and her femininity in just the right way.”

  I smile and blush. I think so, too.

  “You know you can’t really talk like this in a public place,” I say.

  “Well, I’d love to go somewhere private,” he leans closer to me.

  His confidence is exuberant. I want to say yes. More than anything I want to say, yes. I want him to take me somewhere private and have his way with me.

  “I’m sorry,” I start.

  “Aw, why?” he leans even closer and runs his fingers over my hand. I want to grab it and pull him close to me. I want to kiss his luscious lips and suck his tongue into my mouth.

  But I pull my hand away.

  “I just can’t, not now.”

  “When? Why?” At that moment, Wyatt’s deep set eyes resemble those I’ve seen in photographs of the Great Depression. Lost. Forgotten. Broken.

  I can’t explain. He’s a stranger, and I feel like if I say it out loud to someone, I will burst out crying and never stop.

  Chapter 3 - Wyatt

  Her words pierce through my heart. Now, I want her even more. I thought that things would be different, since I came alone. I left my friends back home and drove two hours back to this godforsaken town to see her again. She doesn’t know this, of course. I hate the feelings of helplessness that she evokes in me. Why? Why didn’t she say yes this time?

  I have to have her. Not against her will. I have to make her beg for me.

  I look at Brielle. She stares at me with a blank stare that’s impossible to read. She brings me my food and disappears back into the kitchen. She’s not staying around to talk. I have no reason to eat at this shitty place without her presence.

  “Don’t take it personally,” an older woman with a lifelong smoker’s voice says.

  She has been sitting at the far end of the counter all this time, but I didn’t notice her until now. The woman comes closer. She smells of cigarettes and wears a
small white apron with pockets, just like Brielle. There’s no dress code here, but I know she’s a waitress. Her name tag is old and worn, and I can’t read her name.

  “Brielle’s going through a lot right now.”

  I nod as if I understand. The old woman is thin but looks as strong as an ox. She leans over the counter.

  “Brielle just doesn’t want more complications in her life right now,” she whispers.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know about her mom, right?”

  “Yes,” I lie.

  “Well, she’s getting worse. Neither of them can afford the chemo treatments anymore, and the insurance ran out a few months ago. It’s looking really grim.”

  I nod. Her mom’s dying of cancer.

  “There’s some experimental procedure that’s available and looks like it could be an excellent option for her.”

  “That’s good,” I say.

  “Yeah, except that Brielle can’t afford it. She can’t even come close.”

  “How much does it cost?”

  “Not sure. Thousands. A couple hundred or so, I heard. And who’s got that kind of money?”

  I look away. My gaze drifts outside to my Bentley. That car costs as much as a cancer treatment to save someone’s life. I’ve never put it in that perspective before.

  The old woman startles me when she puts her long shriveled up fingers on my face and turns it toward her.

  “So don’t take it personally, kid. She’s got a lot on her mind. But I know she likes you. I saw the way she was looking at you. In the seven years that I’ve known her, I’ve never seen her look like that at a guy before.”

  Chapter 4 - Brielle

  I’ve entered the double-wide trailer, which has been my home since I was six, with a sense of dread. My Momma’s hospital bed barely fits into the back room, and ever since we had that installed everything else had to be moved around and put into every crevice throughout the house it would fit in. Clothes and boxes and shoes and magazines are everywhere. Now that Momma’s not working at the bar, I have to work twice as many hours just to make the same amount of money. And it’s never enough.

  She has to take more and more pills, and the prices are constantly changing. Last month, one of her pills costs $40 for a week supply, and now it’s $325 for the same amount, without much of explanation as to why. I empty my pockets. The tips from the regulars after an 8-hour shift are a little over $12. I don’t blame them. They don’t have much to spare themselves. But it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

  I reach into my other pocket and pull out a crisp $100 bill. Wyatt left it before I could come back and stop him. He left me a $100 tip yesterday, too. I’m eternally grateful. These $200 will go a long way in paying this month’s rent and the rest of the bills. Might even let me get some of my mom’s jewelry from that pawn shop. No, I can’t think like that. Medication is more important than heirlooms.

  “Is that you, Brielle?” I hate how faint my Momma’s voice is. She used to be such a tough and strong woman. She never took shit from anyone, especially not the men. I’m much shyer and unsure of myself than she is. Not as confident. Not as strong. But now, my Momma is weak and tired.

  “Don’t come in yet,” she says when I approach the door.

  “Momma, it’s okay,” I say through the door. I hear her moving around in the bed and making a ruckus. Things are falling over and a glass shatters.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” she says. I’m about to open the door.

  “Don’t you dare open that door, Brielle Elizabeth Cole.”

  When Momma uses my full name, I know she really means it.

  After a couple more minutes, she shouts,“Okay, I’m ready.”

  I walk in. She’s looking into her compact and adjusting her wig. Her face is made up to the ten. Her eyebrows are penciled in, and she’s even wearing fake eyelashes. She finishes off the look with a generous slather of lipstick and smiles at me.

  “You look beautiful,” I say trying to hold back tears.

  “Oh, C’mon, don’t start now. If you cry, you’ll make me cry, and then all this work will go to hell.”

  I smile. I love my Momma’s soft Southern accent. She was born in Kentucky and moved to California when she was sixteen with her first husband, but her accent never went away.

  “What would you like for dinner?” I ask, trying to change the subject. Momma looks like she’s ready to go to a ball, but all we will be doing is sitting around the television with tray tables and eating whatever concoction I dream up.

  “Macaroni and cheese?” she asks.

  “Again?” We’ve had it for a week straight.

  “I’m afraid it’s the only thing I can keep down nowadays.”

  I nod and head to the kitchen. When I get the butter out, tears are flowing out of my eyes uncontrollably, and I can’t stop them.

  Momma worked hard all of her life. She’s worked since the age of fourteen, and she deserves better than this. She’s only 44 years old, for goodness sake! And now she’s dying a slow and horrible death. She can’t eat anything without throwing it up again. The chemo is poisoning her, and we can’t even afford the poison anymore. And there’s nothing I can do to stop any of this.

  A week later

  * * *

  I am driving home from work on a beautiful, sunny day, thinking that the sky is so blue and there’s not a single cloud as far as the eye can see. My legs are cramping up, and I can’t wait to get home to climb into bed. I’m not much of a morning person, and these morning shifts are killing me.

  I worked from 4 a.m. until noon, and this eight-hour shift was harder than the busy evenings shifts any day. Barely anyone comes in after ten, and breakfast customers don’t like to tip as much as dinner customers.

  I finally pull onto our street and see the house in the distance. The paint is peeling on the side, and the porch is cluttered with junk, which we no longer have room for inside the house. I need to take care of that one of these days. Just don’t know how or when. Paint costs money. Putting junk away doesn’t, but I don’t know where to put it. A shed is close to $1000, and I’m not going to have that kind of money anytime soon. Cardboard boxes? Perhaps. But boxes full of junk are easier to steal than loose junk.

  The street leading up to the house isn’t really a street, but a dirt road. When we first moved here and Momma’s second husband, my father, was still around, we would wash the car every week. Within a day, the desert’s dry climate and our dirt road would deposit a thin layer of dust on the car, making the exercise fruitless. My father insisted that we had to do it because of pride, but he left by the time I turned eight and took the car. I guess his pride extended only to the car, not to his family. We didn’t have another car for more than a year after that.

  I pull up to the chain link gate and get out. The neighbor’s pit bull and Rottweiler are already going nuts. They welcome me home from work multiple times a day with the excitement of a full marching band and always put a smile on my face.

  “Hey, Bella. Boomer,” I wave to them. “I’ll be right over.”

  I put the car in park, get out and pull the gate open. I get back in the car, park and head over to the dogs. The other neighbors are afraid of them, but they are the sweetest dogs I’ve ever met. I stick my hands through the chain link fence and pet them each on their heads.

  After the brief hello, which is honestly the highlight of my day, I try to pull the gate closed before heading in. Usually, this is barely a process at all. But today, the wheels on the bottom, which squeak so loudly they send shivers up my spine, get stuck. When I pull them harder, they take off and run over my foot.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I curse hopping on one foot. “Dammit.”

  The gate needs to be oiled, but I don’t really have any extra money to spend on WD-40 or the time to drive out to Home Depot to get it.

  “Stupid gate!” I kick it, instead. Not a great solution.

  I’m about to head inside when, out of the corner
of my eye, I see the mail truck. I am about to turn back, but something keeps me there. Getting the mail is not as exciting of an event as it once was. A long time ago, I remembered looking forward to getting cards in the mail from my grandparents and tearing through envelopes with the words “Sweepstakes” and “Winner” on the cover. Nowadays, the only thing that comes in the mail is medical bills.

  Despite that, something is holding me back. I wait for the mail truck to pull next to the house. The mailman is a sweet old man who has been delivering mail for close to thirty years or so. Whenever we are short on money, and I have to say that the check is in the mail, even though it isn’t, I’ve always felt bad about it, because I know that I’m blaming it on him.

  “How’s your mom?” he asks. There’s no way to really answer that question. Throwing up every morning, afternoon, and night. Staying in bed all day long. People don’t want to hear these things.

  “Hanging in there,” I say. It’s the best way to describe the teetering that she’s doing between this world and the next.

  The mailman hands me a thick stack of envelopes. All are approximately the same size, and I know they’re all bills. I sigh and head to the house.

  I don’t have any money to pay any of the bills. I will have to spend days in the coming week on the phone talking with various administrators at the hospital and Momma’s different doctors’ offices, all with the hopes of getting some of the bills reduced.

  * * *

  I toss the pile of bills on the kitchen table and open the refrigerator door looking for something to eat. I’ve been up since 3:30 a.m, so a simple grilled cheese sandwich is a no-brainer. While the skillet is heating up, I check on Momma, who’s fast asleep with the blinds still down.

  When I sit down at the kitchen table, I reach for the remote to flip on the TV and accidentally knock the stack of bills onto the floor.

  “Dammit,” I say. I gather all the envelopes, but one stands out. It’s different than the rest, and my name is written on it in a beautiful cursive script.