Auctioned to Him 2: His for a Week

by Charlotte Byrd

  When we finally get to the airport, I get out of the cab with a newfound confidence. My tears have all dried up and I’m forcing myself to look forward to a new chapter in my life. Summer in Southern California. There are worst places to go home to. I’m looking forward to the beach, surfing, drinking too much sangria in some Malibu beachside café, and driving a little too recklessly through the winding Topanga Canyon with the top down. It’s going to be fun. You’ll see.

  After I pay the cab driver, I don’t bother to get a cart and instead choose to struggle with four large bags all by myself. The ticket counter isn’t far; I can see it from here. I don’t need a cart. But then I quickly realize that I do. Otherwise, I have to keep dropping my enormous bags off one by one a few feet away from me and go back for the others. I can’t very well leave them entirely by themselves as I get in line out of fear of getting one of them confiscated and examined by the airport police.

  As I fumble with my bags during one of these mini-trips on my way to the check-in line, I hear someone say my name.

  “Alice.”

  At first, I think they must be talking to someone else. I’m not expecting to see anyone I know here. So I ignore the voice and keep making little trips for all of my bags.

  “Alice!” the man’s voice says louder. “Alice!”

  When I finally get all of my bags to the place where the check-in line begins, I am covered in sweat and out of breath. I turn toward the direction where the voice is coming from and see…Tristan.

  “Tristan?” I ask cautiously. I am actually so physically and emotionally drained that I don’t quite believe my eyes. I am seeing bright spots all over the place; maybe the Tristan before me is also a figment of my imagination.

  “Alice,” he says again. He’s dressed in a casual pair of jeans, a plain t-shirt, and he’s holding a bouquet of daffodils – my absolute favorite flowers. His hair falls slightly into his eyes and he pushes it out of the way with his free hand.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “These are for you,” he says. He hands me the daffodils and I can’t help but inhale their sweet scent. They smell of hope and springtime.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “Alice, I’ve thought a lot about what you said yesterday. And I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re wrong.”

  “I’m wrong?”

  “Yes. That happens sometimes, you know,” he jokes. “Alice, I want you back. I want to be with you. I love you. And love is all we need. What else is there that matters?”

  “But how is that going to work?” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “You’re going home to the Bay Area…”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I’m not,” he says. He tilts his head, exposing a mischievous smile.

  I stare at him. I have no idea what he means.

  “I’m coming back to LA with you. On the same flight as you,” he says, holding up his ticket as proof.

  I don’t believe what he says. I look into his eyes. It feels like minutes pass before anyone speaks again. He gives in first.

  “I’m going to live in my parents’ old house in Calabasas.”

  He lived in that house since he was born until his senior year in high school when his parents moved to the Bay Area. It’s only fifteen minutes away from my parents’ house. It’s a place where we made a million memories. It’s a place that I will always associate with being his home.

  “I thought they had sold it,” I say slowly.

  “No, they just rented it out. They owned it for so long that they barely had a mortgage on it. And you know Calabasas, the prices went through the roof. They’re getting a ton of money for it in rent.”

  I don’t know why he’s telling me all of these details when all I care about is why he’s going back to the LA area.

  “Anyway.” Tristan catches himself babbling. “You don’t care about any of that. The only thing that’s important is that the renters just moved out and they were going to put it back on the market, but I asked them if I could stay there for the summer.”

  “So, you’re coming back home?” I ask. The word “home” feels both strange and familiar in my mouth. I don’t mean to say it, but Tristan just smiles at me and gives me a wink.

  “Yes, I’m coming back home.”

  He comes a few steps closer to me.

  “That way you don’t have to worry about us being apart this summer, Alice. I want to be with you and I want to spend the summer with you. I love you.”

  I inhale slowly. For some reason, tears start to well up in my eyes.

  “I thought that you had left without saying goodbye,” I whisper. “I was so mad at you.”

  One lonely tear rolls down my cheek. Tristan takes me into his arms. He wipes my cheek with his thumb. His touch sends a warm sensation throughout my body.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m such a jerk.”

  “You are,” I say. “But I am, too.”

  Slowly, he bends his neck forward. Our lips are so close together that our breaths intertwine. He smells of mint and lavender.

  “I love the way your hair smells,” he whispers. “Honey.”

  I smile. It’s my new shampoo.

  We stare into each other’s eyes. Everyone else in the airport ceases to exist completely. I feel like we’re in one of those scenes in the movies where the whole world spins around the couple and the couple stands still.

  And then, just when I can’t wait any longer, Tristan slowly presses his lips onto mine and the whole world explodes in a wild array of colors.

  “So, what do you say?” he asks through the kiss. I pull away from him to look into his eyes.

  “About what?” I ask, trying to be coy. But the huge smile on my face is exposing my true feelings.

  “Will you take me back, Alice Summers? I find myself unable to live without you.”

  I make him suffer for a moment. And then say, “Yes.”

  Tristan grabs me by the waist and spins me round and round. My feet leave the ground and I feel like I’m a bird, flying high above the clouds. When I finally come back to earth, Tristan gives me one more kiss, takes my hand, and we head toward the check-in line.

  Epilogue

  Two weeks later – Malibu, California

  * * *

  Carrying two smoothies – mango yogurt and green ginger peach – I make my way back from the smoothie truck toward our spot on the beach. The sand feels warm and relaxing under my bare feet. Warm breeze toys with my summer dress, making the skirt fly up and exposing my little yellow polka dot bikini bottoms. The sky is so high it doesn’t even come close to touching the cliffs of Santa Monica Mountains above me. There isn’t a single cloud in the sky.

  The sun is bright and hot and the beach is filled with people on multi-colored blankets. White waves rush toward me, tossing boogie boarders in the surf. Somewhere in the distance, where the water is blue, I see a lone figure sitting on his surfboard.

  Tristan.

  A second later, he takes on a wave like an expert, dipping his long green board along the waves. He rides one long wave all the way to the edge of the sand. He walks out of the water, holding his board to one side. His gorgeous tan body glistens in the sun accentuating each chiseled muscle. A few steps away from me, he tosses his hair, exposing his sparkling eyes.

  “Hey babe,” he says, dropping the board and wrapping his wet arm around me. I’m burning up – not just from the summer heat – and the coolness of his body brings me relief.

  “Thanks for the smoothie,” he says, taking a sip. “It’s delicious.”

  “Anytime.”

  Tristan takes me into his arms and gives me a big kiss with his incredibly soft lips.

  “Mmm, salty,” I say after the world around us stops spinning and I finally manage to pull away from him.

  After he finishes his smoothie, Tristan puts suntan lotion on my shoulders. His hands are strong and I close my eyes in pleasure. He takes extra care to make sure not to get suntan lotio
n into my hair.

  “You ready?” he asks after I take the last sip of my smoothie.

  “For what?”

  He pulls my sundress off.

  “For what?” I ask again, laughing.

  Tristan flashes a smile and winks mischievously. Then, before I know what’s going on, he pulls me up to my feet, tosses me into his arms, and carries me into the waves.

  * * *

  THE END

  Indebted (Book 1)

  When 25 yr. old waitress, Brielle, receives a mysterious check for $250,000, she uses the money to pay for her mother's very expensive cancer treatment, saving her life.

  Two years later, she is called to pay back her debt. All she has to do is travel to an isolated mansion and work for one year as a personal assistant to an arrogant asshole whom she hates.

  Wyatt Wild is a gorgeous alpha billionaire playboy who is not used to girls saying no to him. He has bedded models, actresses and socialites and then a waitress from some crappy roadside cafe dares to reject him. Who does she think she is?

  Wyatt always gets what he wants and his desires focus on the innocent and stubborn Brielle. Neither give in easily and they quickly get locked in a game of seduction.

  * * *

  **WARNING: Steamy scenes, NO Cheating, HEA!

  Chapter 1 - Wyatt

  I wanted to fuck her the first time I saw her. She wasn’t my type. Not at all. A little plump with messy, brown hair and a sweaty forehead from taking too many orders and delivering food to strangers who left her fifty cent tips.

  She was dressed in a plain white t-shirt and ratty jeans. The jeans dragged a bit on the floor and the holes were definitely not made by a manufacturer. No respectable girl I knew would ever wear something like that, and that made me want her even more.

  Her jeans were tight at the waist, and she adjusted them periodically. Pulling them up over her hips while pulling down her shirt. She was trying to hide her figure, as if she was embarrassed by her gorgeous thighs, hips, and breasts. Contemporary society is all fucked up. This girl’s –this woman’s body, was what every man wants. Every straight man of every race, ethnicity, and creed. A tiny waist, shapely hips and legs, and breasts big enough to grab on to. Despite that, all the women’s magazines try to do is to convince them that they’re too fat because they’re not shaped like 12-year-old boys!

  The name tag on her shirt said, ‘Brielle,’ which was a fancy French name to have for a girl who worked at a crappy roadside diner in the middle of the workday. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that this was her full-time job. I would be surprised if she worked here to get through school. There wasn’t a college for a hundred miles in any direction.

  No, this Brielle was all wrong for me, and the worst part was that she didn’t have any money!

  I don’t like girls without money. It’s not because I’m shallow. It’s because I’m practical. I don’t fuck girls without money, because it gets too complicated. It’s much more likely to make things more complicated. Girls without money feel taken advantage of. They want to see me more. They think that a one night stand is unreasonable, and if it goes past one or two nights then they want me to save them. Rescue them from their pathetic little lives. But I’m not a prince. I’m not a white knight either. I don’t have it in me, even though I do own a white horse that I love to ride.

  I don’t like to rescue girls. I don’t like needy girls. No, the girls I fuck have to have their own careers – a starring role in a TV show, a signed contract with a prominent modeling agency, or at the very least, a reasonably-sized trust fund with one or two million from mommy and daddy. Oh hell, who are we kidding? It’s always from daddy.

  I established these rules long ago, and I abide by them religiously. They are there to keep both of us safe. To make sure that we both have fun, but not too much. I don’t want the girls I fuck to have expectations about me. Expectations that I will never live up to.

  And now, walking into this café and seeing Brielle, I’m ready to toss them out of the window. I want her. I want to put my throbbing cock in her wet pussy and pull her hair until she moans.

  I get hard in anticipation as I watch her take an order from an old trucker at the next table.

  “Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Brielle says, pushing his hand away from her ass.

  I was too focused on her breasts that I hadn’t even noticed the trucker’s itchy hand reach out and grab her ass.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he says sarcastically and laughs to his friend.

  “Not as sorry as you’re going to be,” she says, grabbing his uneaten plate of food.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I don’t know where you think you are, but this isn’t that kind of establishment. You can’t just go around touching women inappropriately here. And you’d better get the hell out.”

  “But I didn’t finish eating,” the trucker stands up dumbfounded. He reaches out for his plate, but she moves it away from him.

  “You’re done,” she says with the kind of determination in her voice that makes me ever more hard. “Please leave,” Brielle says. “And don’t come back.”

  “I’d like to see your manager, you little cunt. You’re going to get fired.”

  “I’m the manager here. Now, get the fuck out!”

  I get out of the booth and stand next to her. I’m thankful for my loose fitting jeans.

  “You heard her, sir,” I say. “The lady would like you to leave. So please leave.”

  People at the next booths start to clap and cheer, and my friends join in. The trucker and his friend curse her out, but head towards the door.

  “You’re a real cunt. You know that? You’re going to be sorry for this!”

  I’m standing right next to her and, though, she’s trying to stay strong, I can see that she’s really shaken. Her chest is flushed, and the trucker’s plate is rattling slightly in her hand.

  “That was really impressive,” I say.

  She turns to me.

  “I’m probably going to get fired over it.”

  “I thought you were the manager?”

  “No,” she shakes her head and starts to gather the plates and cutlery from the trucker’s booth. “The manager’s coming in later tonight. I’m just the waitress.”

  “Well, I don’t see why you’d get fired. He had no right to grab your ass like that. He was a real asshole.”

  “Thanks,” she smiles. Her smile lights up the room. “Can I get that in writing from you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  I startle her. Catch her off-guard, in a good way. I like that.

  “I’m just kidding,” she finally says. “Let me just get all this stuff to the kitchen, and I’ll come back and take your order.”

  When I return to the booth, the guys laugh and slap me on the shoulders. They know she’s not my type, they know that I’m breaking my rules.

  “I don’t know, Tyler. Looks like Wyatt’s in love,” Logan laughs.

  “With a waitress!” Tyler chimes in.

  “What happened to only dating girls with jobs or rich girls? Preferably both?” Ryan asks.

  “She’s got a job,” I say. “We’re at her job.”

  “Oh, please. A waitress? That’s not a real job. You’re breaking your rules, and you know it,” Logan jokes.

  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.

  Briell
e 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.