Auctioned to Him 2: His for a Week

by Charlotte Byrd

  It’s all in good fun, but right now I hate their teasing. They’re right of course, and still I want her.

  “Nothing’s happening. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say as assertively as possible.

  “We see the way you’re looking at her,” Ryan says. “We’re not blind.”

  “I was just impressed with what she did. Brielle’s got spunk.”

  “Oh, Brielle, is it? You two are on a first name basis already?” Tyler chuckles. Dammit. I shouldn’t have let that slip.

  “It’s on her fuckin’ name tag, idiot,” I try to save myself. But they’re not buying it.

  Brielle comes back to our table to take our order. After writing down everyone else’s orders, she looks up at me from her notepad. My cock gets hard again, and I push it back down, under the table.

  “You know, you made quite an impression on our friend, Wyatt, here,” Logan suddenly says.

  “Is that so?”

  “I really liked how you handled that trucker,” I say. I feel like I’m on my back foot. I don’t like coming on to girls in this manner. I glare at Logan, but he doesn’t stop.

  “Wyatt was just telling us that you’re not at all like the girls we’re used to,” Logan continues.

  “Well, working for a living would do that to you,” she says with a smile. I hate how she mocks me for having money. I want her even more now. I want to push her down on the bed, and I want her to let me tie her hands to the bedpost. I want to tease her until she screams my name.

  “So what would you like? Wyatt, is it?” she turns to me.

  I had picked out something on the menu, but now I couldn’t remember what it was.

  “What would you recommend, Brielle?” I say reading her name tag. Her name is burned on my cock, but I can’t let her know that. Not yet.

  “Our spinach omelet with feta cheese is quite good.”

  “Okay, I’ll take that.”

  * * *

  The café clears out a bit. While my friends continue to pick at their food, I excuse myself and head towards the bathroom. Before I get there, I pop into the back and find Brielle sitting on a crate reading a book. She quickly puts it away, but not before I catch the title. Jane Eyre. My sister’s favorite.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  “No, not really.”

  She stares at me. I know I need a reason for being here.

  “Yes, actually. I was just wondering if I can take you out for a drink sometime.”

  I catch her off-guard. Her face lights up, and a brief smile crosses her face.

  “That’s probably not a good idea,” she says with a forlorn sigh.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, for one thing, you don’t even live here.”

  “How do you know?” I ask.

  She furrows her brows and folds her arms across her chest, pressing her breasts together in front of me. They look as if they are on a platter, and it requires all the strength within me not to reach out and touch them.

  “People who drive Bentleys don’t live around here.”

  She’s right, of course.

  “And the other thing?”

  She takes a deep breath.

  “I’m not looking for a relationship.”

  “Who said anything about a relationship?” I ask and immediately regret my choice of words.

  “And I’m definitely not looking for anything casual.”

  “Why’s that?” I ask.

  I should just drop it, but I can’t. No one, and I mean no one, has ever turned me down. I can’t even believe that this is really happening. Maybe she’s just toying with me. Maybe she’s just flirting.

  “Because I’m not into one night stands, Wyatt,” she says and walks away. I love the sound of my name in her mouth. I want to put more of me there.

  * * *

  Brielle avoids eye contact with me the rest of the time that we are there. That makes me want her even more. She iss feisty and hot, and she doesn’t take shit from anyone. An unusual girl. I wanted her so much then, I thought I was going to explode.

  When she comes over with the check, I purposely extend my hand. She tries to place the plastic cover with the check into my hand, but I take the opportunity to reach out and touch her. Her touch is electric. It sends shivers through my body.

  Suddenly, Brielle lets go of the plastic cover, and it drops to the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m so clumsy.”

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” I apologize.

  I see Logan, Tyler, and Ryan smirking at me from around the table, but my eyes remain fixed on Brielle. When she bends over, her cleavage expands, and her breasts look like they are going to spill out of her t-shirt.

  “Thank you,” I say and hand Logan the check.

  It is Logan’s turn to cover the bill. We never split the bill, unless it was a VIP table at a Vegas nightclub or something extravagant like that. The bill at this roadside café hardly registered as real money. Logan’s family is equally wealthy, but he is cheap on tips. If the girl didn’t flirt with him or go really out of her way to impress him, he didn’t like to leave her more than fifteen percent.

  I make sure that I am the last one out of the booth and quickly slip a $100 bill under the check.

  Chapter 2 - Brielle

  I notice him just as he pulls into our little dusty parking lot with his Bentley. That car costs more money than I’ll make in a decade. There are five guys in it, all equally attractive and cocky, but he is the only one who catches my attention.

  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.

&nb
sp; “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.