Switch Bidder

by Sara Ney

  Panic has officially set in.

  Ryder Williams will be expecting me to contact him to set up a time and date to fulfill his community service, and that is just not happening. Mallory might have won him for me, but I have no desire to follow through.

  And by desire, I mean guts.

  Desire? Yes. Guts? Not even a little bit.

  “Relax, okay? Calm down, it will be fun. You can have him change light bulbs and mow your lawn.”

  “We don’t have a lawn.”

  “He can paint the fence.”

  “We don’t have a fence, either. My god, why are you like this.”

  “Because! No way was I going to let some Kappa get her paws on your man.”

  He’s not my man—he’d have to know my name first.

  “How…how many girls was it?”

  “Bidding on him? Me and four others. There was no freaking way I was backing down.”

  I laugh at that. “You were drunk with power, is that it?”

  “Hell yeah! Give a girl an auction paddle and move out of the way. That thing is dangerous.”

  “You know I’m not going to have him come to the house, right?”

  “Yeah, I figured, but I didn’t want him slipping through our fingers just in case you change your mind…”

  I won’t.

  I don’t.

  Two weeks go by and I still have that slip of paper Mallory gave me when she paid for him and used my contact information. The completed paperwork sits on my dresser, folded into thirds, Ryder Williams’ cell number on a piece of blue card stock beneath it. In his own handwriting.

  With his schedule of availability.

  Monday, wide open. Tuesday through Friday, after three o’clock. Friday, Saturday, Sunday—TBD, with enough advance notice.

  I’ve looked at that sheet of paper a million times. Stared at it, memorizing his number and studying his script like a forensic analyst, as if it’s my job to analyze every scroll…the curve of the R in his first name…the Y with its long, dipping tail.

  It’s a nice signature, masculine.

  Once, last week, I almost added him to the contacts in my phone before thinking better of it and hitting delete.

  No lady balls.

  None.

  Chapter Two

  Ryder

  When the library door blows open—partly from the gust of wind creating suction in the lobby, partly from my solid yank—the girl pushing on it from the other side loses control of the small stack of books in her arms.

  Propping the heavy door open with my booted foot, I squat, intent on retrieving the textbooks. One paperback—a romance novel—escapes. I pluck it from the tile and suspend it between us, glancing down at the cover.

  Black and white image of a shirtless dude holding a baseball bat, sweat dripping down his chest. The title is hot pink, something about hard balls and—

  It’s yanked from my grasp before I can flip it over to read the back. “Thanks, I think I got it.”

  The girl refuses to look directly at me, busying herself with stacking her books neatly, the sexy novel relegated to the bottom of the bunch. Even in this cold vestibule, I know she’s blushing by the way her head dips bashfully, burying her grimace in the colorful scarf tied around her neck.

  So bundled up, and kind of stinkin’ cute.

  I study the visible part of her face, still propping the door open with the toe of my boot.

  Her brows go up.

  I know I know her from somewhere…

  “Uh…” Her voice trails off. “Are you going to let me pass?”

  Was I staring? “Shit. Sorry.”

  “Well, thanks for the help.” Scoots past me and almost gets to the second set of doors before my next question stops her.

  “Why haven’t you called me?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re Piper Davenport, aren’t you?” Fuck, what if it’s not her?

  “I…” The rest of her words get lodged in her throat. “Yes.”

  This is the girl who won me at the Lambda charity auction and never called.

  I wondered about that, wondered why the hell someone would pay two hundred bucks and then stiff a dude instead of contacting him. What kind of girl has the kind of money lying around where she’d win something and not claim it?

  It made no fucking sense, and it makes even less sense to me now that she’s standing in front of me, obviously embarrassed.

  “Weren’t we in an econ class together once?”

  Her dark brows shoot into her hairline, surprised. “Yes?”

  “I remember you.”

  Of course I remember her, because Piper Davenport is all kinds of sweet and adorable. All smiles and good vibes, I could feel her eyes on me every time I took my seat in the front of the class—until I finally got glasses so I could actually see the notes the professor was writing. I wouldn’t have noticed her, but my friend Kevin briefly had a crush on her our sophomore year and wouldn’t shut up about her.

  He never asked her out, though, the giant pussy. Stared at her plenty, but wouldn’t talk to her. He’s fucking some random chick now, blonde, big tits—won’t last long, and she’ll probably try to get herself pregnant.

  Piper shuffles her feet, readjusting the weight of the blue backpack slung over her shoulder.

  I get back to my original question. “Why haven’t you called me?”

  She shrugs.

  “Do you plan to?”

  Her head jerks side to side.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t…know.”

  “You’d rather piss away two hundred fifty bucks than call me.” It’s more of a statement, less of a question.

  “Technically, I didn’t piss away that money. My friend Mallory did.”

  That makes even less sense.

  “She’s the one who bid on you. Then paid.”

  “But your name was on the winner form.” I’m so fucking confused.

  “I know.”

  “And…neither of you is going to call me?”

  “No.”

  Huh.

  Why am I pushing the subject with her? Half the guys from the auction ended up cleaning dirty apartments—unclogging drains, taking out garbage, scrubbing floors on their hands and knees. Axel Holzinger had to get a freaking live bat out of some chick’s attic and only had a bucket, an oven mitt, and a tennis racket.

  I should count myself lucky Piper hasn’t called in the favor of her winning bid.

  “All right,” I finally say into the silence, letting the words hang there, offering up nothing more.

  Piper Davenport’s lips are zipped shut, but she offers me a tight smile.

  “Well, I guess I’ll…see you around.”

  Right.

  Or not, since you’re not planning to call—it’s on the tip of my tongue to add, but I fight the urge. I’m not a big enough asshole to stoop to being snarky. Besides, what do I care if she calls or not?

  Although…

  “Do I scare you?”

  She turns, hand on the metal bar across the door, ready to push.

  “Huh?”

  “Did you not call because I scare you?”

  It’s not unrealistic to think she might be.

  I’m a big guy, solid. At six foot two and a little over two hundred and fifty pounds, I loom over almost everyone. Not many people are intimidated by my size, but some are, mostly women, especially the short ones—like Piper.

  Really, I’m harmless.

  Big, but harmless.

  Piper offers me another smile, this one friendlier. Almost regretful? “No, Ryder, you don’t scare me.”

  Oh. “Good.”

  Except now I’m even more confused.

  Without so much as a backward glance, Piper finally pushes her way through the door, letting the winter wind blow through the lobby, forging onward with all her might until she’s outside in the cold. Hair billowing out around her head in a million different directions.

  She
hunkers down, head bent, breaking into a jog. Crosses the street, shoving her key into the driver’s side of a cute, red Jeep. Tosses her shit in and hops up.

  I stand, watching as the muffler kicks out steam, as the brake lights go on and she backs out of the parking spot.

  Watch until she’s gone, until there’s nothing for me to do but go inside the library and study.

  Chapter Three

  Piper

  Even three hours later, my heart is still racing a million beats per minute. A slight exaggeration, maybe, but it might as well be. I don’t think I’ve been this fidgety since Mallory entered me to sing with her in the high school talent show.

  A wry smile crosses my face.

  Mallory.

  Always getting me into some kind of drama in an attempt to make me more outgoing and less shy.

  I cross my bedroom and quietly close the door, locking it behind me. Pad quietly to the dresser and remove the slip of paper I’ve been hiding in an old copy of Jane Eyre.

  Unfold it, the phone number I already have memorized causing my heart to pound harder. Just the sight of it along with his name…

  Ryder Williams

  555-2389

  My teeth run over my bottom lip, biting down.

  I should text him and apologize, right?

  He seemed oddly…disappointed that I hadn’t contacted him yet. Confused. As if it was personal.

  I mean—it is, but not in the way he thinks it is.

  I fold it up again, sliding it back into the safety of my book.

  Palm my phone. Slide open the lock screen, thumb tapping on the compose icon.

  My fingers hover. Tap, tap, tap.

  Hey, it’s Piper. I just wanted to say

  …what do I want to say? Sorry I’m such a freak? Sorry I don’t have the guts to have you come take out my garbage? Sorry I can’t look you in the eyes because all I think about is kissing you?

  Yeah—no.

  Hey, it’s Piper. I just wanted to say thanks for being so cool about me not having you come do chores around my house. At least the money is going to a good cause, right?

  There.

  Perfect.

  I hit send.

  Pace the room like a caged tiger at the zoo, picking up my phone every thirty seconds. Put it on silent. Take it off of silent.

  Toss it on the desk on a stack of textbooks.

  Check it again and Oh my god, what is my problem!

  Seven minutes go by before it pings.

  “I can’t look,” I mutter to no one, grabbing the phone and staring at the name lighting up my screen.

  SMS from: Ryder Williams

  Ryder: I would have felt better actually doing my part after the auction, but that’s not my call to make.

  I inhale a breath. Am I supposed to respond to that?

  He saves me the trouble by texting me again.

  Ryder: Is it?

  I’m immobile, standing in the center of my bedroom, neck bent and shoulders hunched, reading and re-reading his words. Not really knowing what to say.

  My phone buzzes, but not from a text.

  An incoming call.

  Oh my god, why is he calling me? Why is he calling! Who does that these days? What the hell do I do, answer it?

  With only a second to spare before the call times out, I slide the green button to answer.

  “Um…hi?”

  Good one, Piper. Real smooth.

  A deep, masculine laugh echoes on the other end. “I thought I’d save us the trouble of all this back and forth by actually calling. That okay?”

  Yeah it’s okay—but what guy wants to talk on the phone? On purpose?

  “Sure?” I need him to get to his point so my mind will stop reeling.

  “I didn’t interrupt anything, did I? You have a free minute?”

  Only if you consider pacing my bedroom and flipping through movies on Netflix something to interrupt.

  “I have time to talk.” Tons of it, actually. My roommates are both gone, Mallory is studying at the library, and Diana is at the student union working on some fundraiser for her sorority.

  “Good. Yeah, so…not to beat this subject into the ground, but I just wanted to make sure you were okay not cashing in on your two hundred and fifty bucks.”

  A thought occurs to me. “Is the fraternity giving you shi—I mean, a hard time about it?”

  “No one has said anything.” There is a long, pregnant pause. “This is just me covering all my bases.”

  “There’s no statute of limitations, is there?” I laugh.

  “No. I mean, how about we call it thirty days from the auction.”

  That’s sixteen days from now.

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  Ryder laughs again. “You’re never going to take me up on it, are you?”

  He doesn’t sound put out, but he put me on the spot, and now I have to answer truthfully.

  “No.”

  “All right. I just wanted to make sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  A stretch of silence ensues. “So, what were you doing when I called?”

  Staring at your phone number and torturing myself because I’m too afraid to talk to you.

  “Getting ready to crack open a book.”

  Liar.

  “Which one?”

  I glance around, zero books in sight. “Um…a novel.”

  He’s quiet. “I like to read. Right now I’m in the middle of the biography of a sniper in the Navy SEALs.”

  “I’m…” I clear my throat. “I read a lot of romance novels.”

  “I’ve never read one. What are they about?”

  “Romance, usually.”

  Ryder’s chuckle fills the air. “I get that, but what’s the book you’re reading right now about?”

  “Well, it’s about a girl who falls in love with a boy from her class who’s black, and the struggles are because they come from two different places. But…it’s beautiful and I’ve already cried twice.”

  “That sounds depressing.”

  “The ending is depressing,” I admit. “It’s not one of those happily ever afters, so I bawled like a baby.”

  “What do you do, skip to the end?”

  “No, I’m re-reading it. It’s one of my favorites—books I’ve already read are easiest during the semester when I should be studying.”

  “Procrastinate much?”

  “No, it’s more like a distraction.” I take school way too seriously sometimes, and reading something that’s not for a class keeps me grounded. “I need to think about things other than neurons and microorganisms.”

  “I put together model cars to take my mind off of school and shit.”

  “Excuse me?” Is he talking about the little plastic ones you buy in a box at the craft store and put together with glue?

  Ryder clears this throat. “Um, you know those, uh…model cars? You can get them at Hobby Lobby if you want the shitty kind, but I get the good ones at a specialty store and they take hours—sometimes weeks—to put together. So…yeah.”

  Wow. Why is he telling me this? He sounds embarrassed to have admitted all that out loud.

  I throw him a bone so he doesn’t feel like an idiot for sharing such intimate information. “I’m teaching myself how to play the guitar.” And I suck pretty hard at it.

  I’ll never be T-Swift.

  “No shit? Are you any good?”

  “Um, no, not even close.” A laugh slips out—more of a giggle, actually. “I’ll never be in a band. Not even as backup.”

  “We’re our own worst critics,” Ryder says good-naturedly. “I’m sure you’re—”

  “Nope,” I interrupt. “I’m pretty terrible. Trust me, I’m not being modest.”

  It was real sweet of him to suggest I might have some skill, though.

  Too bad I don’t.

  “Three things I’m atrocious at: singing, dancing, and baking—and don’t get me started on the time I tried out for the musical in high school
. For the audition, you had to sing and dance at the same time. You can imagine how that ended.”

  “How did it end?”

  “Not well. I didn’t get the part, any part—not even a nonspeaking role.”

  The line goes quiet. “I can’t throw a football in a spiral, and the last time a guy took a shot at me in a bar with his fist, I wasn’t quick enough and ended up flat on my ass.”

  On the ground in a dirty bar? Gross.

  “The last time I tried doing the limbo at my kid cousin’s birthday party, I clotheslined myself.”

  Ryder snorts. “Yeah? Well I have to look at my laptop keys while I’m typing.”

  He does? Yikes.

  “I…” I think hard for a second. “Don’t know how to play video games.”

  What the hell is happening right now?

  What are we doing, having a contest to see who sucks the most at being a functioning human in today’s society?

  I wrack my brain for more things I’m awful at doing.

  “Oh! I have another one!” I pause for effect. “I took a knitting class once and got kicked out because I couldn’t knit a hot pad.”

  “Wait—what?”

  “I mean, technically I got kicked out because I tried to plan a revolt.” Mallory is a dreadful influence on me. “But that’s just hearsay. All I’ve ever wanted to do was knit myself a poncho—is that so wrong?”

  I sound disgusted. And I was! Was it so much to ask for the instructor to show me a design other than a pot holder? Who the hell wants to make one of those? And I mean, how hard could a poncho be? Pfft.

  “Once I tried making an omelet in the microwave and blew the whole thing up,” he grumbles. “Eggs fucking everywhere.”

  “I’m right there with you. Once I tried warming up some wax in the microwave and the container started crackling—I thought for sure that was going to blow up, too.”

  “Wax for what?”

  “My…” Upper lip. Chin. Hairy face. “Uh. Eyebrows?”

  “Ah.” I picture him nodding in understanding.

  Laser hair removal is on my bucket List. No man wants to—or should—feel the Fu Manchu growing from my bottom lip when he kisses me. Not that anyone is kissing me any time soon, but still—someday, someone will, and when they do, I want my face to be smooth as silk.