The Auction: A Dark Romance: Chapter 2

Calm chaos is all around me, but it doesn’t relax me today. It still reminds me of Blakely’s eyes after all these years. God only knows where she is, and I used to feel sorry for Hugh and Madelyn that she disappeared into thin air, but now, I’m beginning to enjoy that they have a family issue.

The clawing in my gut has only gotten worse. No amount of surfing can eliminate it, including the last wave I caught, which might be the biggest one I’ve ever ridden.

The red flags started rising about a month ago when I noticed Hugh was taking longer and longer to send me numbers. Last week, my personal accountant called me.

I never liked Hugh’s guy, George. Something about him gave me bad feelings. A few years ago, I met Rachel. She instantly impressed me with her level of expertise, so I tested her with a few personal projects and quickly saw she’s one of the best in her craft. It wasn’t long before I turned all my accounts over to her.

I wanted to hire her for the business, but Hugh refused to let his guy go. It was the first time he utilized his power to override me in the business. We may both own the company in equal shares, but he’s always held veto power.

I agreed to it when we formed the company. I had no money, and Hugh gave me an opportunity I would never have had otherwise. But it burned me when he used it. I can account for over eighty percent of the growth of our firm. I’ve brought in more business than Hugh, and lately, I’m confident he no longer knows more than me. If anything, he’s become a tad outdated. And my decade-plus of experience no longer makes me anything less than him.

Although I’m sure he’d beg to differ. One thing I can always count on is Hugh’s ego. He thinks his family money will always trump me since my wealth is new. I’m not naive to it, but I’ve accepted it over the years. It’s just how he’s wired.

When I told Hugh I was keeping Rachel for my personal accounts and firing George, he did everything he could to try and change my mind, but I refused.

Now, I’m glad I listened to my gut and brought Rachel on board. She works for me and only me. And while I must be careful to keep things strictly professional since she has the hots for me, she’s brilliant.

It’s not that Rachel isn’t good-looking, but I’m not interested. She was a tad flirty the first time we met, but it quickly got a bit more intense. After that, I made her call me Mr. Madden and not Riggs. That little adjustment made it clear this arrangement was strictly business. I only discuss our accounts with her and never mention anything about my life outside of work.

Rachel called yesterday and insisted I meet in person with her. I don’t know what she plans on throwing at me, but I assume it’s not good.

A week ago, I asked her to audit the business accounts even though it’s George’s job. If Hugh knew I’d shared our information with Rachel, he’d have a fit. But my gut said something wasn’t right, and I couldn’t sleep until I either squashed the nagging feeling or discovered what was off.

I’ve never allowed Rachel—or anyone else, really—to come to my home. The only people who typically are allowed inside are my cleaners. I bought the Malibu beach house a few years ago, and for some reason, I’ve kept it my secret gem. Hugh doesn’t even know about it.

I have a condo in L.A. where I stay if I need to be in the office multiple days in a row or if I’m frequenting Club Indulgence. Besides that, I spend my time here, waking up every morning to surf the waves and feeling at peace.

Not that I love to be around a ton of people anyway. I do it for business, but ever since I was a kid, I’ve always been more of a loner. Maybe it’s because I’ve never really trusted the people around me, whether it’s the slums or the most expensive suburbs of L.A.

Hugh’s the exception. The notion I might have been wrong about him all these years makes me feel ill. Perhaps it’s because I never second-guess myself or my decisions. I’ve always trusted my gut, which makes the idea of him screwing me over even more painful.

I catch a final wave, ride it toward shore, then carry my board up the sandy path to my house. I put it away, go to my outside shower, and strip out of my wetsuit.

The hot water cascades over my body, but no matter how much soap I use, I can’t wash the feeling of grime off me.

I turn off the shower, secure a towel around my waist, and go into my house. I get dressed, debate about making my daily green smoothie, then decide to opt out. The clawing in my stomach only grows more intense the closer I get to eight A.M.

The doorbell rings two minutes before, and I let Rachel inside.

She glances around my open floor plan. ‘Wow. Nice place.’

‘Thanks. Let’s get started,’ I order, motioning for her to sit at my oversized table.

She straightens her shoulders and obeys, sitting, then opening her briefcase. She pulls several manilla folders out, then lays half a dozen highlighted spreadsheets on the wood.

I hold my breath, wondering what the highlights mean.

She hesitates, then locks eyes with me. ‘These accounts all have money missing. There are transfers throughout the last few years that tally over one hundred million dollars.’

I grind my molars, trying to calm my rage. Quite a bit of time passes before I can muster, ‘Where is the money going?’

Sympathy fills her expression, and I hate it. She answers, ‘Some offshore accounts in the Caymans.’

‘Is it George?’ I question.

She shrugs. ‘Him. Or Hugh. But I have a hard time believing Hugh could do it without George. My guess is the accounts are layered so they’re untraceable.’

Bile rises in my throat. I swallow it and stare through the glass, watching the waves crash and white foam hit the shoreline.

Rachel clears her throat and sets another piece of paper in front of me. ‘I’ve made a summary so you can turn it over to the FBI.’

I glance at the cheat sheet, my stomach diving further. The FBI will have to call in the SEC. The investment firm I’ve spent my life creating will have a stain on it forever. Trust will be lost, and that’s hard to earn back.

I firmly state, ‘I’m not calling the FBI.’

Rachel furrows her eyebrows. ‘But—’

‘I’ll handle it. As always, you’re under a strict confidentiality clause,’ I assert.

Her eyes turn to slits. Irritation fills her voice, and she seethes, ‘You don’t need to remind me.’

I ignore that I just offended her and inquire, ‘Is there anything else I should know?’

Her jaw twitches. She rises, slings her briefcase over her shoulder, and dryly answers, ‘No, boss.’

I don’t miss the attitude. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard it from her, but her feelings are the last things I’m worrying about right now. I’ve got bigger problems. She can put on her big girl panties and deal with my usual bluntness or cry like a baby. Either way, I don’t care. I walk toward the entrance, and she follows. I open the door and state, ‘Thanks for bringing this to my attention.’

She crosses her arms and glares at me.

I wait her out, giving her my most challenging stare. The last thing I’m going to be is intimidated by my employees.

She finally asserts, ‘A little kindness would go a long way.’

I keep my tone flat and reply, ‘I’m sorry. Did I hire you to be friends?’

She glares at me.

‘Well?’ I push.

‘No,’ she answers.

‘That’s right. I hired you because you’re the best accountant I know. And I appreciate you for your talent. That’s also why I pay you what I do and give you huge bonuses. Have I upheld my end of the deal?’ I arch my eyebrows.

Her face hardens. ‘Yes.’

I nod. ‘Good. You’ve always upheld yours as well. Now, is there anything else we need to discuss?’

She leers at me another moment, then steps outside. I wait until she’s next to her car, then close the door.

For over two hours, I pace my house. From time to time, I reread her summary and revisit the numbers on the spreadsheets, still unable to believe Hugh would do this.

I’ve seen him do some unscrupulous things, but I never thought he’d screw me.

Most people would turn the evidence over to the FBI and SEC, let Hugh rot in jail, and try to recover from the fallout.

Not me.

The longer I stew over it, the clearer it becomes. I grow more and more determined to make his life ten times worse than if the FBI and SEC went after him.

Hugh doesn’t deserve a white-collar penitentiary.

Instead, I vow to destroy him, take anything close to his heart, and burn it to the ground until there’s nothing left except ashes.

I spend another hour pacing, my mind spinning with questions about how to take him down. Then it hits me.

I pick up my phone and type in Jones. My time in Compton wasn’t a total waste. Only a few people I know got out. Jones is one of them. And over the years, he’s come in handy for some of my top-secret jobs. Plus, Hugh has never met him.

Something told me not to disclose my relationship with Jones to Hugh. I assumed it was because he was from my neighborhood, and I know how Hugh looks down on anyone not raised in Beverly Hills or a similar suburb. I was the exception. However, maybe it wasn’t about that. Perhaps I kept Jones a secret because I knew deep down not to fully trust my partner.

I push the disturbing questions to the back of my mind and hit the dial button.

Jones answers, ‘It’s been a long time, Riggs.’

I run my hand through my hair, studying the waves, replying, ‘Indeed.’

He continues, ‘I assume you have a job for me?’

He’s always straight to the point. It’s another reason I respect him. ‘Yes. It’s extremely sensitive. Can you meet in the next hour?’

‘I’m in Compton,’ he informs me.

I groan inside. One place I hate returning to is the old neighborhood. Jones may have survived, but he can’t seem to leave it in the past. He owns an entire block, has fixed up the houses, and often uses one to do his work.

I don’t get it. He could go anywhere. The guy’s a millionaire and works off his laptop. Whenever I’ve asked him about it, he claims he likes to stay true to his roots.

I inquire, ‘Is your garage free? I’m not parking on the street.’

He chuckles. ‘Maybe you should get an average car.’

‘Maybe you should do business somewhere else,’ I retort.

He snorts. ‘Still driving a Porsche?’

‘Is there any better car?’ I reply.

‘That’s debatable,’ he answers.

‘Not to me. You got an open space or what?’

‘Yeah. Come on over. I’ll lock it up nice and tight,’ he states.

‘On my way.’ I hang up and grab my keys. I go into the garage, slide into my Porsche, and make the trip to my old neighborhood.

My chest tightens as it always does whenever I come here. A trip down memory lane is the last thing I’m ever interested in, but desperate times call for desperate measures. The only way to take Hugh down is to access his offshore accounts and the funds inside them. Once I have that, the rest is going to be fun.

Now that I know what he’s done, I look forward to watching his demise. It’s something I never contemplated before his betrayal.

Hugh should have known not to fuck with me. One thing I don’t do is forgive and forget. Revenge isn’t something new to me. He’s seen the extent I’ll go to right a wrong done to me. He’s witnessed me take others down before. It’s why I don’t understand why he’d even attempt this. He has to know I’d find out and come after him.

I deal with the pileup on the expressway, inching through traffic, with my thoughts racing. By the time I get to Compton, my desire for revenge grips me tighter than ever before.

I reverse into the driveway and text Jones.

The cedar door, which looks too upscale for Compton except for this block Jones fixed up, opens. He takes a final drag of his cigarette, then tosses it on the ground. He grinds it out with his sneaker.

I back up the Porsche until I’m inside, get out, and he closes the garage. He slaps my back, then opens the entrance. ‘You made good time.’

I step into the house and grunt. ‘It’s a mess out there like always.’

He leads us into the biggest room. It’s dark, aside from the green glow from the dozens of monitors secured on one wall. Blackout shades cover the window, and Jones rolls a second chair next to his.

I sit and say, ‘I need you to hack into Hugh Gallow’s network.’

Shock fills his expression, then he mutters, ‘Always knew you shouldn’t trust that rich bastard. What’s he done?’

If I hadn’t just discovered my partner’s been fucking me, I would have called him out for his stereotyping and stuck up for Hugh. Jones is a self-made millionaire, but he’s never trusted anyone who came from money.

My gut dives. I stay quiet, not even wanting to speak the words.

‘I need to know what I’m looking for,’ he asserts.

My pulse pounds harder in my neck. I confess, ‘He’s stealing funds from the firm. My accountant said the money’s going to some offshore accounts. I need the account details and the ability to get into them and move the money.’

Jones whistles, then mutters, ‘Sorry, man.’

‘How long do you think it’ll take?’ I ask.

He scratches his head, then answers, ‘Not sure. It depends on how encrypted everything is, and the banks will take more time. But once you have access, you need to be smart. If you move that money, make sure it disappears.’

‘That’s why I have you,’ I declare.

He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. His eyes turn to slits.

‘Is there a problem?’ I ask.

‘You’re talking about money laundering.’

‘So? Since when do you do anything on the up-and-up?’

He clenches his jaw.

I push, ‘What’s the issue?’

‘It’s a bigger risk for me,’ he claims.

‘But you can do it, right?’ I challenge.

He nods. ‘Sure. But if I’m going to take a bigger risk, the fees are going to double.’

‘Jones, I don’t care what you charge me. I need to know that you can get this done and it’ll be a priority on your list. The clock’s ticking,’ I state.

He picks up a clipboard, flips through a few pages, then tosses it back on the desk. He declares, ‘I can start tomorrow. I’ve got several projects I need to wrap up.’

‘Then you’ll focus exclusively on this? Right?’

‘Yeah.’

Relief fills me. ‘Great.’ I rise.

Jones points to the chair. ‘We aren’t done.’

I take a seat. ‘What else is there?’

He turns to his computer. ‘I need to know information on him. The more I have to go on, the quicker it’ll be.’

It’s close to one when I finish answering all his questions. Then I get back into my Porsche and head toward Malibu. The traffic is just as bad, and I’m at a complete standstill when I get a text.

For the first time all day, I grin. This is just what I need after the shit I’ve discovered today. Lately, I’ve had a hard time feeling satisfied at the club. It’s the same faces, and I’m bored.

A new woman, preferably one I get to break in, is exactly what I need to get my mind off this situation. It’ll help relieve my stress, and since it’s an auction, I’ll have all month to train her accordingly.

It won’t be the first time I’ve participated in an auction. The club has them a few times a year. Both parties agree to terms. Then the sub gets to choose a charity and the Dom writes the check. I could give a shit about the charity, but the prospect of developing a newbie sub heats my blood so hot, I veer off the exit and head toward my condo in the city.

I spend a bit more time stewing over all the deceit, then change my focus on what’s ahead of me tonight.

Patience is a virtue I’ve worked on over the last decade. I lacked it as a child but learned to embrace it as a businessman. Until Jones gets me the information I need, there’s nothing I can do about Hugh. So while I’m waiting, I’ll see to my other needs. And there’s nothing more perfect than a fresh face to be at my mercy—especially for an extended timeframe.