The Auction: A Dark Romance: Chapter 7

I‘m making coffee when Riggs walks into the house, naked, except for a towel around his lower body. The tattoos on his torso glow in the morning light, and I wonder if I’ve ever seen anything so majestic.

He quickly disappears into the bedroom, forcing me to tear my eyes off his backside, which is just as toned from surfing as the rest of his body. I return to focusing on brewing the coffee. I’m pouring my first cup when he returns to the main room.

He’s wearing khaki shorts and a pink linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, displaying his ink. I could look at him all day, clothed or unclothed, and when he gives me an arrogant expression, I realize I’ve been staring.

I clear my throat and ask, ‘When did you get all those?’

He glances at his forearm and shrugs. ‘Over the years. I got my first one when I was sixteen.’ He points to the big swell on his arm.

I trace my finger over it, questioning, ‘Did you always surf?’

‘I stole a board when I was thirteen. Been obsessed ever since,’ he confesses.

I laugh. ‘You stole it?’

He nods. ‘Yep.’

‘Why didn’t you just have your parents buy one for you?’ I ask.

His face darkens. He answers, ‘They weren’t into surfing.’ He turns and grabs his keys off the counter.

I point out, ‘You’ve never shown your tattoos when you were at my parents’ house. You’ve always worn long sleeves, even when it was hot. Why is that?’

He grunts. ‘Your father looks down upon them. He believes that the people we deal with look down on tattoos. He claims they don’t give off the impression we should make. When we started our business, I agreed to always keep them covered during events or business meetings.’

I mutter, ‘Sounds like my father.’

‘You know him well,’ Riggs says with disgust in his voice, making me wonder again how my father screwed him over. Riggs tosses a notepad and pen on the table, then points to the contract. ‘You’re to spend all day going through this. Do you understand, Blakely?’

I roll my eyes. ‘Yes.’

‘Don’t do that when I tell you to do something,’ he warns.

‘You’ve told me several times,’ I remind him.

He ignores my statement, demanding, ‘Sit down.’

His tone annoys me but also gives me butterflies. It happens every time he orders me around. I don’t understand why I like it, but something in me does. So I oblige him and sit down.

Riggs asks, ‘What do you need to work on your music?’

Surprised he’s asking, I recover and tap the notepad. ‘Only this.’

He peers at me, then asks, ‘That’s it? Didn’t you used to play the piano? You need an instrument or something, don’t you?’

A wave of frustration passes inside me as I think of the grand piano my parents bought only for looks. It wasn’t meant to be played, except at high-end parties when my father hired what he referred to as ‘the talent.’ I question, ‘How do you know I used to play the piano?’

Riggs admits, ‘Your mother told me.’

I shift on my feet. ‘I only played it when no one was home. She caught me a few times. My father didn’t like me using it. He claimed it encouraged me to keep my head in the clouds.’

Riggs stares silently for a moment with a look of disapproval on his face. He finally asks, ‘What have you been using to create your music since you left home?’

I admit, ‘A keyboard I bought at a resale shop. It’s not perfect, but it works. A few of the keys are damaged, but I manage to make it work for what I need. I’d ask you to get it for me, but I don’t think you should go near my apartment. I’m sure my father’s men are watching it, and if you go in, they’ll see you. So I’m fine with just a notepad.’

Another emotion passes across Riggs’s face, but I’m not sure what it is. I’m about to ask him when he says, ‘No music today, Blakely. Your entire focus is on this contract. Do you understand?’

I give him a tiny salute. ‘You’ve already made it clear, boss.’

His lips twitch. He states, ‘It’s Sir. But you’ll see that in the contract.’ He winks.

I arch my eyebrows. Last night, I didn’t worry about what the thick stack of papers said. Now, I’m getting a bit curious. He’s making it sound detailed, which isn’t something I ever thought people were, regarding sex. In my experience, you just get at it, and within a few minutes, things are over.

Not that I’ve had any mind-blowing encounters. My past boyfriends were okay. I enjoyed them, but even last night showed me Riggs is on a different level, and we haven’t even had sex yet.

Not that I ever doubted he would be different. Even at eighteen, I knew it.

He asserts, ‘Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. I’ll be back soon.’

He’s almost to the door, when I call out, ‘Wait!’

He spins, inquiring, ‘What’s wrong?’

Something about not having access to him panics me. I fret, ‘How do I get ahold of you if I need to?’

He stares at me for a moment.

I add, ‘I also need to call work and the lounge.’

A flash of nervousness appears on his face but quickly disappears, so I think I imagined it. He goes into the bedroom. Several minutes pass, then he comes out with a throw-away phone. He reiterates, ‘Read the contract. If you’re good with the terms, call work and tell them you quit. My number is programmed on this. You’re only allowed to use this to call them to quit or to contact me. That’s it. You don’t call anyone else, Blakely. If your father’s men are looking for you, it’s extra important no one knows you’re here.’

I don’t know who I would call, although I could tell my roommates or a couple of my friends I’m not dead. But Riggs is right. I also don’t want anybody to find out where I am. What if I told them and my father’s men tried to interrogate them?

Yet my stomach flips at the thought of quitting. I argue, ‘It was hard to find work and earn a recurring spot to sing. Can I keep my gig at the lounge? I promise it won’t interfere with whatever you want me to do here.’

Riggs shakes his head. ‘No. You can’t. But I promise you that you’ll be ahead in your career by the time this year is up.’

He makes it sound so easy, but I know how much competition there is in L.A. It’s nearly impossible to make it. I claim, ‘I need exposure. How can you promise me that?’

‘Pet, you need to trust me. If you can’t trust me completely, the deal’s off between us,’ he threatens.

My eyes widen from shock. Riggs is so all in or all out. It’s pretty extreme, and I’m still trying to wrap my head around this entire situation. But then again, Riggs has always been blunt and straightforward. It’s no secret he’s a control freak. It’s a miracle my father and he got along as well as they did for almost two decades, not that I knew the ins and outs of their business.

I start to argue, ‘But—’

He cuts me off. ‘The only way this works is if you fully trust me, Blakely. There’s no room to be wishy-washy. And not just with your body. You need to always trust me to make the right decisions for you. Do you understand?’

I’ve always been independent, which is why my parents and I never saw eye to eye. So giving the power to Riggs to make decisions for me isn’t easy.

He steps closer, lowering his voice. ‘I’m not them, pet. I want what’s best for you and for your career. I promise you.’

I take a deep breath and slowly nod. ‘Okay. I’ll trust you.’

He briefly studies me, then says, ‘Good girl.’

I hesitate, not wanting to sound needy, but ask, ‘Will you be gone long?’

‘You’re going to miss me, aren’t you?’ he teases.

Fire flames on my cheeks. ‘I just want to know.’

He smirks. ‘It’s okay to admit it. But to answer your question, I’ll be back by dinner. I’ll bring something home for us to eat. Read the contract, and write down your questions.’ He gives me a chaste kiss on my forehead, then leaves.

I take a sip of my coffee, move the contract in front of me, and start reading.

Something about that statement hurts, but I take a deep breath. I guess it’s better to know I have an expiration date than not, so I can prepare myself.

I scan more of the contract, bypassing the legal jargon and focusing on the section titled I write on the pad to get clarification.

Memories of Riggs giving me multiple orgasms while restrained to his towel rack flood me.

I reread it, then write on the pad, My mouth turns dry. I stare out the window, having never done anal and unsure how I feel about it. I always thought it was a no-go zone, but since it’s on Riggs’s list, something makes me rethink my hesitation. I watch the waves crash on the sand but barely see them. All I can think about is Riggs’s size. I write, , then stare at the waves some more, wondering if I could do it.

I add to the list I figure Riggs wants to use a vibrator or something on me, which isn’t too crazy. And I didn’t dislike being handcuffed last night.

I add that to the list. I also add, , not sure how I feel about that possibility.

I roll my eyes, not understanding what that rule is all about. I would have thought if he’s as attracted to me as he claims, that he’d want me to touch him.

My chest tightens. I write on the pad, Rule 9:

Thoughts of being burned horrify me. I add to my list, My stomach dives.

I write all of it down, flip through the contract to Appendix A, and review the extensive STD lab work. According to the reports, Riggs is clean as a whistle, and it’s only a week old. I won’t have any issues passing the same tests, and it makes me more comfortable to know Riggs doesn’t have anything I could get. I’ve always been a stickler for condoms after my friend in high school contracted a few STDs. They were curable, but it was horrible for her.

I return to the contract.

My heart pounds harder.

A new fear of rejection takes hold of me.

I read the rest of the contract, which is a lot of legal mumbo jumbo. My stomach growls, and I realize I haven’t eaten since lunch the previous day. I go into the kitchen and make a turkey sandwich, eat half of it, and stare at my list of questions.

For several hours, I reread the contract, adding to my list as new concerns pop up. The legal jargon makes my head spin, but there are a few things I’m not sure what they mean, so I write those down as well.

It’s late afternoon when I finally push the contract away and forbid myself to read it anymore. My stomach is a frenzied mix of anxiety and anticipation. I’ve never been so unsure of what I’m getting myself into.

The rational part of me tells me to run. Yet deep down, I already know that however Riggs answers my questions, there’s no way I won’t agree to what we already signed.

I tell myself it’s for his protection from my father, but it’s another lie.

I’ve wanted Riggs since before I was eighteen. That year, I saw the flames burning in his eyes when he looked at me. It was as if he finally saw me as more than a kid.

Everything about that moment is etched on my mind, just like our encounter on my twenty-first birthday. I’ve never forgotten how it felt when he pinned his seductive gaze on me or tugged my hair, cornering me against the wall.

Back then, my father stood in our way. Now, it’s like the universe wants us together. And I’m not looking to tempt fate. There’s no other person in the world I would do this with and feel safe. If anyone else had bid on me in that auction, I would have left last night. So whatever this is between us must be something meant to be, even if only for a year.

Besides, it’s Riggs. What’s the worst that could happen?