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

by Ana Sparks

  But, a minute or so later, he emerged, his hands clasping a set of pastels and some drawings.

  “Show me,” he said, his eyes burning. “Show me a different way.”

  I nodded dumbly, and he led me back down the hallway, back through the entranceway and to another room. Another empty room except for a table with some charcoal drawings.

  Carter flicked on a light and gestured to the small wooden chair set before the table. His face was still impassive. I accepted the pastels and drawings without a word.

  Placing on the table the darkest one yet—a blank-faced man staring bleakly at the viewer—I looked over my shoulder at Carter.

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded, and, turning back to the sketch of desolation before me, I got to work.

  At first, I was stumped. How could anyone transform what was single-handedly the most desolate sketch I had ever seen? And who was I to say that it should be transformed, that there wasn’t a sad sort of truth to it, that it didn’t have value just the way it was?

  The answer came as my hand clasped a yellow pastel stick. It had value, sure, but how many more images of misery did our world need? Wasn’t there already enough unhappiness nowadays? Couldn’t something that brought joy do so much more than another image reminding us of how empty this life could be?

  Soon, my mind was humming with these thoughts and my hand was flitting along—yellow and orange, teal and green, a bit of purple. I forgot Carter was behind me. I forgot I was here at all in this cell-like room. All there was was the art. My hand moved of its own accord, fused with the pastel until I was it, the yellow swooping along so joyously, the orange its bright companion, until my hand ached, and yet, I was not finished.

  No, I was only finished when, exhausted, the last green pastel fell to the table and, finally looking at the sketch, finally really seeing it, I let out a low gasp. It was done.

  Whether Carter would like it, however, was another story.

  I turned around, almost expecting him to be gone. But I found him in much the same position as I’d left him, standing with his arms folded and his face in that same mask-like expression.

  “Here,” I said softly, lifting the sketch to him.

  He accepted it without a word and regarded it with the same wordless neutrality. Then, after a minute, a smile began trembling onto his face, and, looking down at me, tears in his eyes, he nodded.

  I stood up beside him, clasping his hand, regarding our creation, the beautiful fusion of color and shade, meaning and mystery. As I considered it, the meaning we’d instilled returned to me: the black, harshly-drawn man with the empty eyes was still there, sure, but he was amid a triumphant surge of trees and birds and swirls of colors that flowed into each other and him a little.

  Looking at it, I was left with the same impression I’d had before. The color, the joy of life, had been there all along. It had been there behind him, only he hadn’t been able to see it with his eyes so black and narrowed at the scene ahead. And that meant that no matter the time, place, or circumstance, the same was true for all of us. The same potential for seeing the colors, the joy, the hope, was there, only it was a choice, a choice of what to view, of how to see the world. And in that, there was always hope; there always would be hope, because it was always a choice.

  Just like now, how the man sweeping me up with new life in his eyes and pressing his lips to mine was suddenly freed, could suddenly see it as easily as I did, the colors everywhere, the happiness.

  We flowed together once more, this fusion of want and need, adoration and worship. And it only made sense that we returned to his bed, where we had been bound since the start.

  Words and movements, touch and taste slipped between us as easily as breath, and love was a word in every twitch of our bodies, the whole wonderful, marvelous celebration of love, him in me and me in him, united once again, finally.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Carter

  When I woke up, I sat up. I watched her. I took in her bare, flawless back and the silk sheets below it, the soft way it rose and fell with every breath coming out of her parted pink smile. It seemed incredible, the thought that I’d had something to do with that smile, that I’d been the cause of happiness for this girl. And, as I watched her, it occurred to me how at ease she looked, how perfectly she fit into my king-sized bed. How much she looked like she belonged.

  I woke her up with breakfast in bed. Waffles with syrup and strawberries. She opened one sleepy eye and then laughed and laughed and laughed.

  “What? What is it?” I asked.

  Smiling, she told me. “I’m just wondering how you can top this, how you can treat me better than you have these past two days.”

  Smiling myself, I responded, “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  Though, really, I didn’t have anything specific planned yet. Nothing except—I checked my phone and groaned—the site visit, of course.

  As she took her first strawberry waffle bite, Donna’s still-sleepy eyes scanned my face.

  “What is it?”

  “Oh nothing,” I said. “Just the site visit. You don’t have to come, though.”

  Donna only smiled bigger and declared, “Of course I’ll come. The more time I get to spend with you, the better.”

  Although I smiled myself and said, “I’ll get ready then,” I walked into my closet wondering why there was a pit in my stomach.

  As I stood there, surveying the army of suits before me, it occurred to me that things had gone too well for too long. Something, probably today, was bound to happen to ruin things.

  By the time I emerged from my closet, fully dressed in my black and blue pinstriped suit, Donna had finished her waffle.

  “I’ll get dressed too?” she asked, and I shook my head.

  “Wait here.”

  I returned with a sleek, black-and-blue striped dress on a hanger. Donna accepted it, peering at me.

  “This… It’s for me?”

  I nodded.

  “Saw it a few days ago and thought it looked about your size.”

  Twirling the hanger once in her hand, grinning, Donna said, “Thanks.”

  Then, using the dress to whoosh me away, she declared, “Now shoo. I have to get dressed.”

  I responded by swooping over, scooping her up, and tossing her onto the bed.

  “Carter!” she squealed. “We’ll never get there at this rate.”

  As I lowered myself onto her, a thought stopped me in my tracks: that was exactly what I was hoping for.

  I drew back and walked to the door. Over my shoulder, I said, “I’ll be waiting in the car.”

  Although Donna took a few minutes longer than she should have to join me, I said nothing. I was in no mood for conflict, and something told me that this site visit was going to be bad enough already.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Donna

  I tried to make conversation as we drove, but Carter wasn’t having it. He seemed tense, distracted.

  Finally, I asked him, “Which site are we headed to?”

  His response came back as immediately, as if I’d pressed a button: “The McCarter site.”

  When I asked which one that was, staring out the window at some abandoned houses we were passing, Carter shrugged.

  “Not sure, actually. It’s good land, a perfect path for the pipeline—if it weren’t for the protestors, of course.”

  I glared at him. He had seemed to say it expressly to bother me, and yet, he wasn’t looking at me at all. Instead, still gazing out the window, now at a small stream, he continued.

  “There have been so many protests at our pipeline sites, I’ve lost track.”

  I countered, “Doesn’t that make you think? That there might be something wrong with where your company wants to build these pipelines?”

  A furrow appeared in Carter’s brow.

  “This was my father’s plan, his master project. On his deathbed, I promised him I’d do it.”

  That admiss
ion shut me right up. How was I supposed to argue with that? The following silence, however, after a whole two days of breathless fun, was nearly unbearable.

  Finally, before I could think better of it, I said, “You’ve never mentioned your father before.”

  As he stared out at the edge of the now forest-covered land, I scrutinized his dead gaze.

  “Yes. He died last year. He was a good man, a hard worker.”

  Another pause. Then I said, “And when your mom…”

  “They didn’t get along,” he said brusquely. “Only ten minutes until we’re there.”

  Carter was right, but that didn’t make the quiet, tense wait feel any closer to ten minutes. By the time his car finally, thankfully, pulled up onto the side of the road, it felt more like several hours had passed rather than mere minutes.

  In gloomy silence, we got out of the car and walked over to the site with its already visible mob.

  Seeing them, Carter gave a sardonic smile.

  “Should’ve figured there’d be protestors at this one, too. It’s not like these people have any real causes to support or anything actually productive to do.”

  I stopped walking.

  “What did you say?”

  Carter turned to me with that same ugly sneer.

  “You heard me. If these people had decent jobs, do you really think they’d be here, wasting their time with what’s inevitable?”

  His face was all narrowed, sharp planes, almost unrecognizable. I didn’t care. I was so mad that I could barely speak.

  Advancing toward him, shaking my head, I said, “You’re wrong.” It was all I could manage. His sneer deepened.

  “And how would you know?”

  I stepped forward so our chests were touching, so I could glare right into his narrowed, hateful eyes.

  “Because, babe, I’ve protested at several of your pipeline sites. That’s right; I’ve protested your unethical, nature-destroying atrocities.”

  To this, Carter said nothing, and I continued. “And what you said about it being inevitable—I thought you agreed to reroute some of them. You called one of your guys right in front of me.”

  Carter’s face was still that unrecognizable, remote mask, like he was a robot or a frozen corpse.

  “It was always going to be a slow process,” the man I couldn’t even recognize said.

  His words were a blow to my gut. I stepped back, tripped on nothing, and fell to the ground.

  Splayed there, the realization sputtered out of my lips: “You were never serious, were you? You were just using me for sex. You never cared.”

  Looking down on me with a stranger’s narrowed eyes, Carter only said, “Be careful what you assume.”

  At his words, anger flared through me, springing me to my feet.

  “Well, you want to know something? Congratulations; you did it. You succeeded. I was the idiot who fell for the sociopathic billionaire, the fool who thought she saw something different in him, something good. So, congratulations, Carter Ray, you tricked me. You win.”

  As I stormed off, my pride in tatters at his feet, the worst part was what I wanted. As I walked away from the only man I had ever loved, the heartless man who had hurt me even more than my worst fears, the only thing I wanted him to do was stop me, run after me.

  Yes, all I wanted from this unfeeling monster of a man was to feel his arms around me once again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Carter

  The alarm went off at 6:55 a.m., as it always did. I got out of my bed, put on my robe, and went downstairs.

  Breakfast was on the table, one bowl of shredded wheat. I had fifteen minutes to eat, but I did it in five. There was no time to waste, after all. Wasted time was wasted money.

  I picked up my phone. It was a blinking swamp of messages: Selma was wondering if we were still on for later. Jane was screaming about my three-in-a-row missed calls, saying that I was as much of a prick as she’d always thought. Tammie was calling me a cheating bastard, telling me to go fuck myself. Paul was whining about something I’d look at later.

  Nothing from Donna.

  I put down my phone. No matter. It was better this way—disappointing her sooner rather than later.

  It all ended up the same way, the same furious faces, hollering for something I couldn’t give them.

  “Today’s the day, you know.”

  I didn’t turn to look at the owner of the sniveling little voice behind me. This was probably the earliest Paul had gotten up in years. Nothing like the possibility of harassing his brother to spur him into action.

  “Sadly, I’m all booked,” I said before starting to shovel food down my throat as fast as it’d go.

  Slumping in the leather seat across from me, his hands full of what looked to be photos, Paul shook his head.

  “Not today you’re not. The anniversary only happens once. I’m not going without you.”

  After a particularly ambitious gulp of shredded wheat, I repeated in the same sure voice, “I’m not going.”

  But Paul hardly heard me. He now had all his attention focused on the rectangles that were actually blown-up photos.

  “Got some good shots of the protestors a few weeks ago, before I came here. They just got developed now,” he said as his hands spread them on the table and his eyes scanned them.

  “Can’t you look at them in your room?” I said.

  I shot him a glare to find myself face to face with Donna. Or, rather, a photo of Donna.

  Those big baby blue eyes, that freckled nose, everything passionate and defiant—there was no mistaking her. It was a fantastic shot, with one of her hands raised in a fist with the sun right behind her, its rays spilling across her face in an incredible chiaroscuro effect.

  “That’s a goodie, eh? Pretty girl too,” Paul said before thoughtlessly pushing it under another. “Probably gonna go again in the next week or so. Then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  My breakfast now shoveled down my throat, I rose from my seat and marched off—fast, though not fast enough to avoid hearing Paul’s, “Though don’t think this means that I’m letting you off the hook for the grave visit.”

  The drive to work was uneventful, work itself equally so—more deals and meetings and people I swayed to my point of view. Cynthia kept popping in, leaning over in that low-cut, fuchsia blouse with her brown doe eyes, indicating that her boyfriend hadn’t fucked her in weeks.

  All I could think about, however, was the last girl I had fucked in my office, the one with the eager blue eyes that had seemed to really see me somehow.

  So, by the time Cynthia knocked on my door and announced a visitor, I sprang up and said, “Let her in!” As soon as the door swung open, however, I realized my mistake.

  It was Paul. Self-righteous and embarrassing in his hideous green and orange suit, regarding me like a bull about to charge.

  “It’s time,” he said.

  I glanced at the grandfather clock. Three p.m. My coworkers would still be around, would still see if Paul decided to make a scene.

  I glared at him and rose.

  Clearly, there would be no avoiding this. Besides, it wasn’t like I had been getting all that much work done with a certain someone on my mind.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go. We can even go your way.”

  By the time we got to the lobby, my very noticeable, very out-of-place companion and I had established that we would not be getting there “his way.”

  Amazingly, he had rattled off the directions as if they were actually feasible. “You just take the 75 express, get off at Hurdman, switch to the 67, go two stops to the Go-Train, take five stops to Empire, then get off and walk five minutes—I’m not sure where—and you’re there.”

  To that, I delivered a raised brow, silently thanked God I had never had to undergo the perils of public transportation, and concluded that we would take my car. Paul gave me a suspicious glare.

  “How do I know that you’ll keep your word—that you’l
l actually drive us there?”

  I glared back at Paul for immediately seeing through my plan. With a sigh, I handed him my house key.

  “Here. You can have this until we’ve gone and visited Mommy dearest.”

  Paul gave a satisfied shrug while still glaring, and then we were off.

  As I pulled onto the freeway that would get us there in ten minutes, tops, I cast a glance at Paul. Really, he was lucky; I could have just dumped him at some fast food joint right now if I’d really wanted to.

  By the time we got to Riverside Cemetery, before we’d even gotten to her tombstone, the sniveling had begun. When we reached the flat gray stone, the sniveling swelled into full-blown sobs.

  I took in the tombstone dully. It was the same as I remembered it: the rock as smooth as ever, the ‘RIP’ clearly engraved with our parents’ names beneath it. Mom hadn’t wanted to be buried, but Father had reasoned that if she’d wanted to have a say, maybe she shouldn’t have killed herself. There were weeds all around the stone and a crumpled pile that was probably the flowers Paul had deposited there a few months ago. No matter. Today he was armed with a new bouquet of flourishing roses.

  Paul’s whine came as an unwelcome break from my thoughts. “Aren’t you even sad?”

  “Do you really want to know?” I shot back.

  Anger flashed in his weak, light brown eyes—the same color hers had been. Scrutinizing me with his teary eyes, he shook his head.

  “I just…I can’t believe it, Carter. She was our mother.”

  I looked away. “She left us.”

  Paul grabbed my arm. “She was sick. She loved us.”

  I ripped my arm away. “She left us. She left me to find her—like that.”

  Paul said nothing, his hand still clenched midair, hovering, the tears the only movement on his face.

  It was fine that he didn’t have words. I had enough for both of us. The bottled-up, unsaid words surged forth now.

  “Love? Give me a break, Paul. Abandoning your kids, that’s not love. She loved herself more than she loved us. If she’d loved us, she would’ve stayed. She would’ve kept trying.”