Bought: Highest Bidder

by Lauren Landish

  So here I am, in a big city, parentless, with only my dreams and aspirations to guide me.

  A sharp voice snapped me to attention.

  “Where is my coffee?”

  I froze, a stack of papers filled with clothing designs, measurements and fashion models bundled in my arms. Slowly, I turned around to see Christine Finnerman, my boss, leaning against her desk, her palm resting against the polished wood. She impatiently tapped on her desk with her immaculate nails, making a clack, clack, clack sound.

  As usual, she was dressed as sharp as a tack. A white dress wrapped around her matronly frame, fitting her like a glove, and a shiny black belt circled her waist, giving her shapely figure a va-voom appearance. She was wearing black glossy heels I’d contemplate killing my mother for, and not one bit of her shoulder-length hair, which is a striking pepper gray, was out of place.

  “I’m sorry, Christine,” I said when I could finally manage, trying to push down the anxiety that was suddenly rushing up my throat. “I was just about to get it. I didn’t expect you to arrive ten minutes early.”

  Christine eyed me with contempt reserved for a dog. “One should always be prepared for the unexpected, especially in this industry.” She paused for dramatic effect. Hurry up. I swear she spoke the last words with her mouth closed.

  “Right away.”

  Scrambling in my three-inch Christian Dior heels—a job perk that I particularly enjoyed—I made my way to my desk that’s in the adjoining room to Christine’s office. I threw the stack down on it, breathing in and out, trying to catch my breath. I was wearing a tight black dress that makes it difficult for me to breathe as well as move because it’s a size too small. Christine told me that at a size eight, I’m fat by industry standards, so I’d started trying to squeeze into smaller dress sizes, hoping that the discomfort would encourage me to lose weight.

  Once I thought I could breathe again, I scurried over to the professional Keurig machine that sat in the hallway leading up to Christine’s office. A few seconds later, I’m setting down a steaming mug on her desk.

  I stepped back and beamed proudly as if I'd just won a nationwide competition. “Will that be all?” I asked her, my tone respectful.

  Christine didn't even bother to look up at me as she flipped through the pages of a fashion book. “You may go,” she said, motioning her hands as if she was shooing a fly.

  I turned away, feeling dejected. I hated how Christine treated me, but I was used to it. I saw my tenure as her indentured slave as a necessary sacrifice. As one of the most powerful women in the fashion world, working for Christine would open up many doors for me.

  And once that door opens, I’m going to run through it, slam it, and never look back.

  I made it to the door before Christine spoke again. “Oh, and Victoria, I need you to call Adam Pierre to tell him I won’t be attending his show next week.”

  I turned back around, my mouth agape like a frog. “But . . . Adam throws one of the biggest shows in the industry,” I dared to protest. “You can’t just not show up.”

  Christine looked up from her book, her expression sharp enough to cut glass.

  It was the only answer I needed.

  “I’ll get right on it,” I squeaked.

  I scurried back to my desk and flopped down in my seat. Blowing strands of hair out of my eyes in frustration, I took a deep breath and picked up the phone. Did I mention that I really hated working for Christine? I consider myself a pretty headstrong girl who can speak up for myself whenever I feel like I’m being mistreated, but in the face of Christine Finnerman’s wrath, I became a doormat—mainly because I so desperately needed my job.

  I quickly dialed Pierre’s number.

  “Bonjour?”

  I was surprised when Pierre himself answered. Usually he had some lackey to handle his affairs, but when Christine Finnerman was calling, I guess even if you're the busiest honcho in town, you have time.

  “Mr. Pierre?” I asked nervously. “This is Victoria Young, Christine Finnerman’s assistant.”

  “Ah yes, Victoria,” Pierre said in his heavy French accent. “Christy has told me a lot about you.”

  None of it good, I’m sure.

  Sweat beaded my palms. “I’m sorry to tell you this, sir, but Christine has informed me that she must cancel for your upcoming show.”

  Pierre let out a gasp, sounding like he was choking on a hot dog. “What? Impossible! If she doesn’t show up, it’ll be a disaster.” I could hear frantic movement through the phone and a rustling of papers. “Where is Christine?” he demanded a moment later. “I must speak to her.”

  I glanced up from my desk. Christine had made it absolutely clear that she wanted to cancel. If I went inside of her office and tried to convince her otherwise, I might be out of a job. She doesn't have patience for employees questioning her decisions.

  “I am very sorry, Pierre,” I insisted, “but Christine must respectfully decline. Perhaps I can call around for a replacement for you?” Of course I’m just blowing hot air. As one of the biggest names in the fashion world, one couldn’t simply replace Christine Finnerman.

  Pierre’s breathing was erratic. “What will it take?” he rasps. “What will it take for Christine to show up?” The sounds of tears in his voice tugged at my heart strings. “My reputation is riding on this.”

  I took a deep breath, feeling bad for the man. But what could I do for him?

  “Please, Victoria,” he begged me. “Get her to speak with me.”

  It wasn't lost on me that here was a powerful man himself, begging me to get my boss to listen to him.

  And that’s why I’m working for her. Because in the eyes of the fashion world, Christine Finnerman is God.

  I sat there listening to Pierre’s pathetic begging, not sure what to do. Finally, I could take no more. “Hold on,” I told him. I got up from my desk and took the phone with me.

  I made it to Christine’s office doorway when the telephone line went taut. I couldn't move any further. Normally I'd have just put him on hold. I don't know what had come over me.

  What am I doing?

  I placed the phone against my hip to block out sound.

  “Christine?” I dared.

  She looked up at me and my heart jumped in my chest. “What is it, Victoria? Have you told Pierre that I'm not coming?”

  “Uh,” I mumbled. Then I took a deep breath and gathered my courage. “I’m sorry, Christine, but he's adamant that he speaks with you—”

  “Since when does telling a client that I will not be attending mean that you must listen to his pathetic whining and feel honor-bound to go against my orders, hmm?”

  Blood rushed to my cheeks as I fumbled for an answer.

  “But,” Christine continued, “Since you’re fairly new here and quite easy to influence, I’ll forgive you—just this once.” She sat back in her seat and appraised me with her frost-blue eyes. “Now tell me, what does Mr. Pierre want?”

  I pushed down the anger that rose in my throat at her insult. “He wants to know what it will take for you to attend.”

  Christine stared at me for a long moment. “There is a designer by the name of Amanda Kersey. Heard of her? Terrible designer with clothing that looks like a blind woman designed it and models that look like they’re meth addicts straight off the streets. Anyway, a trusted advisor told me she used choice words in speaking about me . . .”

  Christine’s words trailed off, but her meaning was clear. She gave me a direct look to drive her point home, and I shook involuntarily at what she wanted me to do. Much like me, Amanda Kersey is young and starry-eyed. She's a popular upcoming designer, who I’m sure has a lot riding on this.

  And with one word, Christine destroys her.

  My immediate urge was to hang up the phone, tell Christine to kiss my ass, and then walk out of her office for good. But as a newly-graduated twenty-two-year-old who was estranged from both parents and alone in a big city with a lease to pay, I couldn't affo
rd to piss off such a powerful woman.

  “Is there a problem?” Christine asked me.

  Numbly, I shook my head and raised the phone to my lips.

  “Pierre?” I ask weakly.

  He was still there after all this time.

  “Yes?”

  Despite the grave situation, I almost laughed at the desperation in his voice.

  “There is a fashion designer by the name of Amanda Kersey—”

  “She’s done,” Pierre cut in. “I'll be calling her immediately to tell her that something came up and someone else will be taking her place.”

  The line went dead and I stood there, feeling numb all over.

  “Victoria?” Christine said to me. I looked over at her, noting the wicked curl to her lips. She’d won her little power play and now could privately gloat. “Stop standing there like an imbecile and get to work.”

  She’s really testing me.

  Holding back an acidic reply, I turned away and numbly walked back to my desk, slamming the phone down. I grasped my head in my palms and blew out a stressful breath. After a moment, I straightened up and began going through Christine’s schedule, marking the calendar for Pierre’s show.

  As much as I wanted to quit my job, I knew if I stuck it out for a little while longer, big things would happen for me. At least that’s what I hoped.

  “That door just can’t open quick enough,” I muttered to myself.

  Chapter 2

  Tyler

  “You’ve got to get your shit together, man,” Jeff growled at me.

  Sitting back in my chair, I winced as a sharp pain sliced through my brain. As usual, I’d stayed up late after a night of drinking and wild sex. It would’ve been worth it, but the girl I’d gone home with last night, a blonde with big tits and a nice round ass, had been too eager to suck my dick.

  I like a challenge, a girl who likes to play hard to get, and lately, all of them have given it up without any effort from me.

  Too easy.

  It probably had something to do with the fact that I was a man of wealth, co-founder of Armex Corp with my father, James Locklin. Or maybe it was just my confident swagger. I was, after all, six-foot-three, tall, blonde and cut like exquisitely carved stone thanks to my workout regimen.

  Jeff hissed with exasperation and leaned across the table. “Are you listening to me?”

  The pain in my skull pounded relentlessly. I didn't want to listen to this shit. How many times had I heard it before? Ten? Twenty? A hundred? Who gives a fuck? I don’t.

  “You can’t keep sleeping around with these groupie sluts,” Jeff continued. “As one of the top executives, you're making Armex look bad.”

  I settled my gaze on Jeff. With dark brown hair and hazel eyes, he was a few years my senior. He was dressed in a business suit that made him look older than what he really was. I think he needed to lighten up and go out and get some pussy, then maybe he wouldn’t be so uptight all the time. I could fix him up in one night.

  “I don’t see how the girls I fuck are any business of the company,” I responded in a cavalier tone that I knew would piss Jeff off. I enjoyed getting under people's skin, for no other reason than I knew I could without consequence.

  It worked.

  “Well, it is when it's affecting our public image and our bottom line,” Jeff growled back at me, his face twisting into an angry scowl. “If you made sure no one saw you publicly consorting with those skanks, then it would be different. Since you don’t, the board members are getting tired of it. They’re tired of your making us look unprofessional.”

  Anger boiled up from my rock-hard abs. How dare my peers complain about my private business? I was the co-founder of the fucking company. They wouldn’t be shit without me.

  "That's bullshit, Jeff, and you know it. Since when is it a crime to have a life outside of your place of business? Shit, half these guys cheat on their wives behind their backs and have the fucking nerve to tell me that I can't live the way I want to on my own time? Fuck off."

  I didn't miss the poorly-hidden smile flash across Jeff's face. "All I know is, if you don't start behaving soon, you might be out of a job. There’s talk of a vote. Co-founder or not . . .”

  Enraged, I jumped out of my chair and regretted it a second later. The pain stabbed my brain like a hammer pounding a nail into wood. "A vote?" I snorted, fighting back the momentary dizziness that overcame me. “The fuck for? Are they going to demote me? Fire me? They can't do that. My dad will—”

  Jeff gave me his infamous gotcha smirk. "Your dad is in agreement.”

  I froze momentarily, shocked. I couldn't believe that my dad, the biggest womanizer I know, could be party to something as asinine as this.

  "Your dad thinks if you're to become CEO one day, you have to drop the bad boy image. Instead of rolling around with the local sluts, maybe it's time you start looking for a suitable partner. Settle down."

  "Fuck that." The idea appalled me. I'd been in a serious relationship before and it didn't turn out well. I'd worn my heart on my sleeve only to get fucked royally in the end when I caught her cheating on me. On me.

  After that, I'd decided that no girl was worthy of my love, and my new motto was to fuck 'em and then leave 'em.

  Jeff stared at me. "This isn't a game, Tyler. You need to seriously get it together or face losing your position in the company." He paused, smirking once again. "Charles Whitmore is looking to take your spot if you don’t shape up."

  I stared at him incredulously. "Is this a fucking joke?" It had to be. I couldn't imagine my father listening to such bullshit. Charles Whitmore, my nemesis at Armex, had swiftly risen through the ranks of the corporate world. Although pretty douche, he was only a few years older and a pretty shrewd businessman—as much as I hated to admit it.

  Still, there was no way he could fill my shoes. No fucking way. This had to be one huge conspiracy by my lesser peers to fuck with me.

  Jeff shook his head. "Nope. Not at all."

  "I don't believe this," I growled. "I'm going to talk to my father about it. I don't believe for one second that he'd ever go against me."

  Jeff leaned back in his chair and continued to grin at me, making me want to smash his face in. "You do that."

  "You have become a liability to the company," my father said to me. I was standing at his desk in his swanky office within his three-story mansion, and I needed a strong drink to take in what I was hearing.

  I studied him with disbelief. My father's a big man, barrel-chested with greying hair, and a complete egomaniac. He was dressed in a business suit, his tie loosened and his blazer draped over the back of his chair.

  I thought Jeff was blowing hot air when he told me that my father was in compliance with this nonsense. To hear it from the horse's mouth enraged me.

  "Word of your . . .” my father paused, searching for the right word to describe my antics that had riled everyone up, “play has gotten around and is traveling around the corporate circles."

  I began to protest, but my father raised a stern finger to quiet me. "Ordinarily your behavior wouldn’t be a problem. You’re a grown man who’s free to do whatever you choose when it comes to your personal life. But, a large demographic of Armex customers hold family values in high regard. If you continue to . . . misbehave in public, then the board will vote to replace you.”

  I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

  “I founded this fucking company with you,” I growled as I stabbed a finger at the ground, anger burning my throat. “You can’t replace me.”

  My dad stared at me calmly. “Yes, you did. And despite your bad habits that you've developed over the years, you are a wonderful businessman—shrewd as they come. But in order for our company to survive, concessions must be made. Clean up your act—or else.”

  “Are you fucking serious?” I shouted, unable to control my anger any longer.

  He didn't answer, but he didn't have to. He was dead serious. He wanted to out me. His son. Me, who'd h
elped him build the company from the ground up. And for what? All because I scorned relationships and liked to get pussy whenever and however I wanted?

  “Listen to yourself!” I continued. “If you had any balls, you would tell them to go fuck themselves. I’m your son, for Christ’s sake! Armex wouldn’t be shit without me.”

  His jaw bulged and he gripped the edge of his desk, a sign that my words had gotten to him.

  “Charles Whitmore?” I demanded. “Charles fucking Whitmore?”

  “He’s shown himself to be an exemplary employee, and he wants to see this company to the next level . . .”

  Unlike you.

  His words trailed off, but I heard the unspoken meaning behind them.

  Clearing his throat, Dad stood up and grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. “I’m sorry that you're angry, son. But this really shouldn't be a problem. The solution is simple. Stop with the public womanizing and keep your job.”

  “You let those assholes vote against me, and I’ll make sure you regret it.” The words left my lips before I could stop them.

  He paused for a moment, considering my words. Finally, he said, “Choose your battles carefully, son.” He shrugged on his coat. “I’m going to pick up Martha from the Bolingers’. They're planning a dinner party for an event later this month. If you haven’t dug yourself into a hole by then, I expect you to attend.” He walked from the room, leaving me standing there simmering with anger.

  Martha was his newlywed wife. I’d only met her twice, once at the wedding and another time at a family function. She was nice enough, I guess, but a woman who had no real assets to speak of. It was a mystery why my dad chose to marry her.

  “Oh, trust me, Dad,” I said to myself as I walked over to the cabinet behind his desk and pulled out a bottle of brandy along with a glass. I needed something to drink to calm the frustration that I felt. “I have every intention of fighting this battle.”