Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
I press my fist hard against my chest and let out one short, ragged breath.
Then I pull myself together, square my shoulders, and watch the numbers light up in the glass.
Ground floor. Lobby. Sunlight blinding, cars whipping by on the street, everyone with somewhere to go.
I step out into the world, and I promise myself: I won’t let him be the thing that ruins me.
Not for anything.
Not even for this.
15
MY HIDDEN PAST
Trevor
The North Side Country Club has always reminded me of a mausoleum for rich men’s bad decisions. It’s nothing but stone and glass, massive windows framing the golf course and city lights, chandeliers like inverted candelabras dripping from twenty-foot ceilings. Tonight the place is packed—auction night, one of those obscene society events where people donate to charity by purchasing humans, and everyone acts like that’s not the most on-brand thing for old Minneapolis money to do. Even more unfortunate, I’m the product tonight, and it fucking sucks to be me.
I park the Mercedes in front, leave the keys with a valet who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. The drive over was a blur—no music, just the hum of the engine and a single, looping thought: I should have kissed her. I never should have sent her away. I should have kept her, ruined her for good, and never let her leave my bed. It’s pathetic, the way Kayleigh’s been under my skin, and yet there’s no antidote for it. All week, I’ve been waking up at 4am, hard and sweating, the imprint of her pussy on my tongue, her laugh echoing off the stone counters of my kitchen. I see her every time I close my eyes: on her back, on her knees, legs folded over her head, a smile on her lips and that wild, hopeful light in her eyes.
But we can’t. I can’t, and I put her out of my mind, at least temporarily. After all, I’m here to do a job. I’m here to be auctioned off in front of a crowd of squealing ladies who will range anywhere between the ages of 21 and 85. And I look the part: black tux, hair swept back, face shaved to a blue-shadowed jaw. The effect is deliberate. Predatory, but safe. The kind of guy you’d trust with your money, and your daughter—for one night at least.
Inside, it’s all color and heat. The bar at the entrance is five deep with cocktail dresses—plum, turquoise, wine red, every color calibrated to catch the eye in a sea of black. Most of the men are clumped together like cattle before a slaughter, tuxedos and pinched faces, a few recognizable assholes from the local startup world who look everywhere but at each other. The women are different: they glide, they cut, they move in packs or on the hunt, heads turning like sunflowers toward any source of heady cologne. Oh yeah, they’re on the hunt tonight, and the periodic squeals of joy make my heart sink.
But I keep my hands in my pockets, move through the crowd with a smile that feels exactly like the one I wore at my father’s third wedding. Women brush against me, hands on my arm or the small of my back, all of them with the same look: Is this the asshole from the magazine? Is he actually single? Is he worth the price? One of them—blonde, somewhere between forty and ageless—catches my eye and holds it.
“Trevor, right?” she coos, putting a hand on my forearm. Her nails are immaculate, the color of dried blood.
“That’s me,” I say, giving her the full wattage of my business smile.
She leans in, lowering her voice like we’re sharing a secret. “I’m so glad you agreed to be auctioned. Half the ladies here were threatening to riot if you dropped out. Some of us have bets going.”
“I’d hate to disappoint,” I say. I can’t even remember her name, but I know her type. Married, probably has kids at Breck, hasn’t come in ten years except by accident. She’s beautiful, but brittle.
She smiles, letting her teeth show just enough to hint at something feral. “See you up there,” she says, and floats away, trailing a scent of Chanel and gin.
I snag a scotch from a passing tray, drain half of it, and scan the room. If Kayleigh’s here tonight, she’ll be at the edge, probably chewing her lip and trying to avoid the scene. She’s not the type to squeal and embarrass herself—more likely she’s elegant, in something sexy but demure, hair in loose golden waves, makeup subtle, with high, high heels. The thought of it makes my cock stir. I force the image of the gorgeous girl away, but my body doesn’t listen. I’m half hard, and the room is a heat map of potential humiliation.
The auction stage is at the far end of the room, lit like a prizefight. Someone’s already up there doing a sound check, and the crowd is starting to drift toward the rows of gold chairs set in front. My father is nowhere in sight, but that’s fine—Henry will make his entrance sooner or later. I move through the throng, nodding at people I only vaguely know, smiling and nodding mechanically. Every time I let myself look around, I think I see her—Kayleigh, head thrown back, laughing at something outrageous; or Kayleigh with her arms crossed, biting her lip, eyes scanning the ceiling for a way out. But she isn’t here. Not yet.