Auctioned to Him 6: Damage

by Charlotte Byrd

  When she pulls away, I see that she’s crying. Happy tears.

  “Well?” Marilyn asks, peaking around from the corner. “I can’t wait any longer. Oh my God, Avery! Why are you crying, honey?”

  “I’m not crying,” she says through the tears. “I said yes!”

  Marilyn pulls her into her bosom and when they pull away, I see that now they’re both crying.

  “For crying out loud,” I joke. “This is supposed to be a happy time.”

  “Oh, men!” Marilyn shakes her hand at me, dismissively.

  When the tears finally dry, Marilyn asks to see the ring. Avery extends her hand proudly like a proper bride-to-be.

  “Oh wow,” Marilyn gawks at the ring. It has a halo three-carat diamond with a diamond band.

  “This ring is beautiful. But it’s too big,” Avery says shyly.

  I shrug.

  “That is what happens when you take Dolly to pick jewelry with you,” I add.

  “Oh nonsense! This ring is perfect! He did good. Real good!” Marilyn pipes in.

  Avery and I both laugh.

  When Marilyn disappears back inside, I look into Avery’s eyes. She has never been so beautiful or happy as she is at this very moment. I pull her close to me and close my eyes. Pressing my lips onto hers, I know that my life will never be the same again. And that is exactly how I want it.

  * * *

  The End

  Hollywood Anaconda (Bill. Matchmaker 2)

  When Chloe get her first wardrobe stylist job, she meets an arrogant and self-absorbed movie star, Finn Dalton. Finn is People’s Sexiest Man Alive and everyone thinks he’s a God, but Chloe doesn’t get it. He’s hot. His body looks like it had been chiseled from stone. But his attitude definitely needs an adjustment.

  Finn is a famous and gorgeous playboy. He’s surrounded by women, but not the kind you can bring as a date to the Governor’s Ball. When he reaches out to Dolly Monroe, a billionaire matchmaker, she sets him up with the one girl who seems to be impervious to his charms.

  Quickly, Chloe and Finn get locked in a game of seduction. But games of love are dangerous games to play…

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

  Prologue

  My name is Dolly Monroe and I’m a billionaire matchmaker.

  I am 5’10’’ when I’m awake and 5’5’’ when I’m asleep. I’m suspicious of women who don’t wear heels, just as I’m suspicious of people who call me out of the blue asking for favors.

  I have a strict policy when it comes to my hair, one which I’ve abided by since I was a little girl in West Texas – the bigger the hair, the closer to God. My hair is as platinum as some of my client’s records, and it perfectly offsets the 10-carat diamond ring on my left hand.

  I never let my waist get bigger than 22 inches, and I do not have the same restrictions on my breast size. The girls were 36 DD three years ago, and now they’re 36 EE. Who the hell knows how big they’re going to get in another decade?

  I like my men the way I like my purses: in a variety of colors and styles and with a high price tag. My husband, who’s also my high school sweetheart, doesn’t mind, of course. Because my little business makes more than a hefty penny and keeps him in a 20,000 square foot Malibu beachfront house and allows him to spend his days surfing and golfing.

  You see, I’ve been at this for a very long time. I was 13 the first time I did my first set up: my second cousin with my best friend from middle school. They dated through 10th grade, married in 11th, and celebrated their 40-year wedding anniversary last year.

  I started my matchmaking business when I was 20 and, at first, I set up average folk like my cousins, then wealthy folk, then millionaires and now billionaires. This is the only thing I’ve ever done, and I’m pretty damn good at it. People aren’t that different, you know. Of course, billionaires come with their attitudes and highfalutin opinions of their own importance, but at their core, they want the same thing everyone else wants: for someone to give a damn about them, not just their money or power. What typically ends up being the problem, however, is that the billionaire (both men and women) think they’re going to get this thing from some 20-year-old, 5’11” bimbo, but that’s rarely the case. And that’s where I come in.

  Why do I do this?

  I’m a sucker for a happily ever after. I believe everyone deserves one, and I can get it for them, if they just get out of their own way and let me.

  How can I be so sure?

  I have a great track record. I have successfully set up 3,988 couples. That’s more than 130 couples per year over 30 years of matchmaking. Not all of them were billionaires, but over the last five years a huge portion of them were. Close to four thousand couples now are living their happy ending because of me. It feels damn good to say that.

  Then I made a mistake. I told my publisher friend about this, and she went wild.

  “You have to write down some of your favorite stories, you absolutely must. People will go crazy over it!” she said.

  So, that’s how we got here. This series depicts some of my favorite couples from the last few years. Their names have been changed to protect their privacy, but everything else is as true as it happened from my clients’ perspectives. Though each couple eventually found their happily ever after, the road to get there was often difficult and treacherous. But what would life be without a little intrigue and turmoil, right?

  Chapter 1 - Chloe

  It’s the first of the month and the rent is due. I walk into my sister’s bedroom and push her awake. Lila is a sound sleeper and not someone who is easy to wake up. She’s a waitress who works at a popular bar/restaurant on Melrose, and she almost always works the closing shift. It’s not uncommon for her to get home at 4 am, which means that she sleeps until at least noon. It’s only ten a.m. right now. I know that she’s going to be moody, to say the least.

  “Lila. Lila!” I shake her.

  “What?” she mumbles, burying her hear deeper into the pillow.

  “Where are your tips?”

  “Go away.”

  “The rent’s due. I have to take all your cash to the bank so I can write a check and it doesn’t bounce.”

  I’m sure that the details of the whole situation are lost on her. Honestly, I don’t know how she ever lived on her own and didn’t get evicted. I’m the one who takes care of all the bills – actually, pays them. She works and brings in good money, more than I do most months, but she never bothers to deposit any of her cash on time and constantly forgets to pay her credit card bills.

  “Lila,” I say again. I can see that she’s not sleeping anymore, just refusing to engage me.

  “Lila. I’m going to stop bothering you if you just tell me where you put your tips from last night. They’re not in your purse.”

  “Check my coat,” she says after a beat. “Inside pocket.”

  I look around for her coat on the coat rack, but it’s filled with four jackets that she rarely wears. The one she was wearing last night is on the floor at the bottom of her closet. I search the pockets and finally find a wad of cash. I count the money.

  “You made over three hundred dollars last night?” I ask, astonished.

  “There was this old guy who really had the hots for me,” she says, finally flipping around to face me.

  Her makeup is all smeared, with half of it rubbed into her pillow. I know that all the dirt on her pillow is new because I just did the laundry yesterday afternoon.

  “Still, $300 is really good.”

  “Well, I told you that you need to find yourself a job at some place that stays open past eleven. Nothing good happens between 11 and 2, except the tips. People drink a lot and they tend to tip a lot too.”

  I roll my eyes. I’ve heard this spiel a number of times before, and frankly, I’m pretty sick of it. I like my job at Fat Dog, just fine. I like the fact that they close at 11 so that I can actually get a full night’s rest. Though the tips do leave a lot to be desired for.

&n
bsp; “All I need is another $150 from you,” I say. “Where do you want me to leave the rest?”

  “Wherever,” Lila says, rolling away from me.

  I put the rest of her money on her makeup table. It’s wide and expansive and filled with all sorts of eyebrow kits, lotions and tiny bottles of liquid. It’s like a whole Sephora there, without any of the organization. How she can find anything there is beyond me.

  “Can you pull those shades closed?” she mumbles.

  I pull them down and walk out.

  I don’t have much time to eat and put on my makeup. I usually shower at night, which means that my hair is a little bit of a mess in the morning. I head to the bathroom and spray about half a can of dry shampoo onto it. I really should’ve taken a shower this morning, given the important meeting, but it’s a little too late for regrets now. I’m lucky that my hair is straight and relatively easy to handle. I flip my head over, running my fingers through it. When I flip my head over, it’s magically filled with body. Both Lila and I have light brown hair, but she has been dying her hair platinum blonde for as long as I can remember. She goes to the salon every six weeks like clockwork, leaving behind about $150 each time. I don’t have that luxury. I tried coloring with box dyes a few years back, but gave up and grew out my natural color. A few weeks ago, for my birthday, Lila got me a gift certificate so I got some highlights put in. They looked amazing for about a week. Now, they are clearly growing out and I have a decision to make. Do I keep growing them out or go back to shelling out $70 every two months on new highlights? The decision to this question will have to be made later.

  I pour milk over my cereal and chow it down without sitting down. I look out of the window at the cloudless Los Angeles sky and the tall palm trees reaching for the sky. Today has to go well, I say to myself. Just be yourself, and it will. Then I run back to the bathroom and apply some eyeliner, mascara, eye shadow and lipstick. I put on a tiny amount of foundation, and I’m ready. I look in the mirror. Something is off. Oh yes, I have to fix my eyebrows! I almost forgot. I get out the eyebrow liner and quickly fill in some spots. Apparently, lush eyebrows are back in. I didn’t get the memo until a month ago when Lila suddenly stared at me and said that I looked sick.

  “Oh wait, no,” she had added. “Your eyebrows are just natural. You really need to do something about that.”

  Later that night, she showed me how to fix them. Her process had about a million steps, so I cut it down to two. A few brushes of the pencil and then a few smudges of the brush. Perfect. Well, probably not perfect, but fine.

  I look at my phone for the time. Dammit. I’m running late.

  I pop back into Lila’s room.

  “Lila, can you take the money to the bank?” I ask. She’s asleep again so I say it extra loud. She jumps up a little as I startle her.

  “What?” she asks.

  “I’m running late to my meeting, but I won’t have time afterwards. I’m afraid it won’t deposit in time.”

  “I can’t. I have an audition,” Lila says into the pillow.

  I roll my eyes. Lila always has auditions. I decide not to rely on her. She will probably forget. She isn’t much of a stickler for deadlines. Nothing bad happens when she misses them, but the fact that there is a deadline makes me super nervous. Besides, we’ve been late on the rent before, and the landlord was none too pleased. We got this long email about how he could get way more than $2000 for our two-bedroom apartment, and he’s doing us a favor for renting it to us for so cheap in this area. And that if we’re late again, he going to start proceedings to find new tenants after our lease runs out. Lila got mad and was going to write him back something mean and colorful, if I hadn’t stopped her. The thing is that the landlord is right. Despite the fact that the rent is astronomical, it is underpriced for West Hollywood. It should cost at least $2500, and he’d have it rented in a day if he listed it for $2300. I’m going to go to the bank myself. I have time.

  Chapter 2 - Chloe

  After depositing Lila’s money into my bank account, I head to my meeting. I have an hour to get to Studio City, which should be enough time even if there’s traffic (there almost always is). Driving my 2002 red Dodge Neon with a smashed in driver’s door, I do mental mathematics of the money that I currently have in my account. With Lila’s money, I have just enough to cover the rent for the month. Plus, I have an additional $200 and change to pay for groceries and whatever else. I let out a deep sigh. Okay, there’s just enough there. As long as the landlord waits until tomorrow to deposit the check that I wrote today. He usually waits about a week or two, which actually screws up my accounting even more. I assume the money is gone, and then it’s not and I splurge and get something at Whole Foods.

  “Okay,” I say to myself out loud. “Enough about money. You have a very important meeting ahead of you. Focus on that.”

  I turn up the radio and try to get into a happier and more upbeat mood. I’m excited about this, and my level of peppiness needs to reflect that. If there’s one thing that I’ve learned about Los Angeles, it’s that it’s important to always be happy. It’s almost like bad days aren’t allowed here. At least, not in the entertainment industry. When I first moved here, I thought that everyone was faking it, but then I realized that it was something like a self-realization thing. If you think happy thoughts and put out positive vibes, those things will come back to you. Lila’s a natural at it. Me, on the other hand, I have to try a little bit harder. It’s hard to be upbeat all the time. Especially if you’re broke most of the time. And have no idea how you’re going to pay for your student loans.

  Though there’s a large parking lot in front of the office building, I park outside on the street. I’m not sure if they validate parking for this, and I don’t want to waste $5. I check my makeup in the rearview mirror and walk confidently toward the entrance. The security guard in the front tells me to head to the fifth floor and there will be signs for auditions there. The producers are holding auditions today, and they’re squeezing me in the middle. When I get out of the elevator, I’m greeted by a line of women standing along the wall of a narrow hallway waiting for their turn. Most fit this impossible LA look: over 5’7” tall, less than 130 pounds with long hair, even longer legs and large breasts. Everyone turns to look at me as I walk by, measuring me up. I head straight to the front. Most limit their scorn to giving me dirty looks as I dare to cut in line, but one even says,

  “The line starts back there.”

  “I’m not here for an audition,” I say loudly, to just appease everyone’s feelings. I feel the whole hallway give out a sigh of relief – one less person to compete with. As if I could really be competition, I chuckle to myself.

  There’s a tiny woman with thick frames and short black hair sitting at a table at the end of the hallway. She looks up from her clipboard.

  “You have to wait in line, miss,” she says.

  “I’m actually not auditioning. My name’s Chloe Nichols and Tim is expecting me,” I say as confidently as possible. Tim is the producer who responded to my email. At this moment, I can’t remember his name. Shit. She looks at her clipboard.

  “Oh yes, here you are. You’re right on time, but we can’t interrupt the auditioning process. I’ll let you in as soon as that girl comes out.”

  I nod and wait. By the look on her face, I can tell that the girl in front of whom I’m cutting in front of isn’t happy. She’s not one to hide her discontent.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say. “But I had this appointment set up a week ago.”

  In a flash, her bad attitude vanishes and she gives me the biggest smile. I’m not sure if it’s genuine, but it makes me feel better.

  “No worries,” she says.

  Erdoes! Aha! The producer’s name is Tim Erdoes! I suddenly remember.

  A girl comes out of the room, and the receptionist shows me inside.

  “This is Chloe Nichols. She has an appointment with you, Tim.”

  I enter a tiny, windowless ro
om with a long table at the head of it. There are four people sitting at the table buried in head shots and notes. The small pudgy guy in a stained t-shirt looks up from his clipboard.

  “Yes, Chloe! Come in, come in.”

  “This is the wardrobe designer who contacted me earlier,” he tells the people in the room. “Chloe, this is Martha, Richard, and Barbara.”

  “Nice to meet you,” everyone says as I shake their hand.

  “To tell you the truth, I didn’t really give wardrobe much thought. And I’m glad that you contacted me.”

  I smile. His warm demeanor and everyone’s friendly faces are putting me at ease. My adrenaline is still running on overdrive, but my breathing is getting a little bit steadier. You can do this, I say to myself.

  “I’ve worked on a number of small films,” I lie. I really worked on one, and it was a short film. I wasn’t the main wardrobe stylist, just an intern. After months of not hearing back from anyone, to even work for free, my sister insisted that I make up (‘exaggerate’ was her word) some jobs on my resume to get my first real job.

  “So I have experience styling actors. I think you’ve seen my portfolio on Instagram.”

  Lila is also responsible for my Instagram feed. She wore most of the outfits and posed for photos. In some photos, you can see her face in others you can’t.

  Tim smiles at me.

  “Yes, we liked it very much,” he says, cracking his knuckles. It’s some sort of nervous tick. The sound of cracking knuckles makes me cringe, but I remain professional and personable.

  Lila’s words ring in my ears. “Just keep smiling. It’s harder to reject a smiling face.”

  I hand them a portfolio of the best photos from my Instagram feed. I wait for a moment for Tim to pass the photos over to the other side of the table. Once I feel like his attention is back on me, I add, “As I’ve stated in my email, I work for a very reasonable rate. $150-$200 per day. Plus expenses.”