Chapter 6
Poor girl, she has no idea she’s stepped on a landmine. She’s not the first; I’ve seen it many times. Maybe it would have been kinder to approach her first and warn her about Orson, but would it have helped? I doubt it. Better to let him try to play his little trick so that she knows Orson is as bad as I say he is.
But damn, this girl is far more innocent than most. No wonder Orson couldn’t play it cool and wait for me to make the first move. His cock must be ready to blow; it’s a miracle he’s not sporting a full hard-on right here at The Meet. He wouldn’t be the first.
“Sorry, what do you mean? What does it matter to you who bids on me?” she asks. She may be innocent, but she isn’t dumb. I can hear in her voice, she’s not just curious — she’s suspicious.
“It’s complicated,” I reply. “And there are a few reasons. I’ll explain further, but I can’t do so here — I’ll be disqualified. It’s actually against the rules to badmouth another buyer at The Meet. Otherwise, my work would be a lot easier.”
“Your work?”
Oh, don’t get me started, sweetheart.
“Like I said, I’ll explain it to you. Can I take you to dinner tonight? We can talk. I’m sure you’re used to hearing this, but it would be my pleasure to get to know you better.”
She blushes and averts her eyes. Maybe she doesn’t hear it often, though that seems impossible. Despite the plain way she’s dressed tonight, she’s clearly a beautiful woman. Lovely features, lithe figure — now if only I could get her to smile.
“I… I could go to dinner,” she mumbles, still too timid to look at me. Instead, she scans the room as if worried she might get in trouble. “Is that allowed?”
“It is, Wendy. Participants in The Exchange are encouraged to meet with the potential buyers before the auction as much as they wish, just as long as they don’t have sex.”
“That would defeat the point,” Wendy adds, nodding in understanding.
“Exactly. So, what do you say?”
Finally, she lifts her gaze to see me. I don a neutral expression, not wanting her to know just how badly I need her to agree. Waiting on her response makes me realize something I hadn’t expected: my interest isn’t just about keeping her away from Orson. She’s smarter than most, yet also adorable. It might be early to say for sure, but it feels like she’s waking in me a real desire.
It can’t be true… Can it?
I’ve only just met Wendy Hart, but I trust my instincts. If there’s an animal or spirit or whatever inside of me, and it recognizes its mate in this woman, then I will listen.
“Okay,” says Wendy. “I guess that’s fine.”
A weight lifts off my shoulders, and I grin. “Good. But, Wendy?”
“What?” she asks, a sudden panic in her eyes.
“You’re more attractive than I think you realize. Don’t be afraid to show off.”
—
When I pick her up that evening, I see she’s taken my advice to heart. When I get out of my limo to let her in, the Wendy Hart I met this afternoon is nowhere to be seen.
And she knows it.
Her little, black dress ends less than half way down her thighs, hugging her shapely hips and squeezing her pleasantly proportioned cleavage. Her hair is done up in a cute bun, while her black heels add inches to her height and do wonders for her posture. She looks gorgeous and carries herself with a confidence absent earlier.
I’d like to think this is the effect I had on her, but who knows? I look forward to finding out.
“You look stunning,” I say.
She looks so good, in fact, that if I were a weaker man, I’d tell my driver to take us back to my place instead of the restaurant. I want nothing more than to take her by those hips and sling her over my shoulder, clutching her by that cute ass until we’re at my bed. She’d laugh and scream as I drop her onto the soft mattress, then pull up her dress and find out what kind of panties she wears. She’d moan as my fingers find their way between her legs, not stopping until they find her wetness begging to be touched…
But not yet. Patience, Cash.
“Thanks,” she replies, pink spreading through her cheeks. “You look very handsome.”
“Thank you.” I’ve put on a dark, bespoke suit with my favorite tie, navy blue with razor thin, gold diagonal stripes. Then I added a splash of cologne — subtle, masculine, and musky — and black, leather dress shoes shined to mirror perfection.
Helping her into the car, she thanks me again, her nerves starting to show once more. For a while, we ride in silence, and soon I realize she’s checking out the limo. I take it she’s never been inside one before.
“Do you like the car?” I ask.
She nods quickly. “It’s really cool.”
You have no idea.
“Do you know how they make most limousines?” I ask.
“I don’t,” she says, perking up. “How?”
“They take a regular-sized car and cut it in half. Then they make it longer and put it back together.”
“That’s neat.”
I shake my head. “Actually, it’s not. It makes the car much less safe than a regular car. That’s why my limo is different: custom-built, structurally sound, and safer than the inside of a tank.”
“Oh,” she murmurs, turning back to look out the window.
She’s losing interest, and I’m not surprised. But I do have a point to make. “Do you know why I’m telling you this, Wendy?”
“Not really, actually.”
I slide across the leather, padded seats so that we’re sitting next to each other. “It’s because I need you to understand that you’re here because I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Now I’ve got her attention. “Get hurt? What are you talking about?”
Sighing, I take her hand in mine and hold it gently. “Did you think The Virgin Exchange was going to be like a trip to the mall? Did you think you’d show up, shop around, find something you like and then have a quick and easy transaction?”
Her palm starts to sweat in mine, but I don’t let go.
“I thought it sounded fun,” she whispers. “And I need the money.”
I nod slowly, masking my anger. Of course she needs the money — so does everyone. And women have the same expectation of fun — I just didn’t think Wendy Hart would be one of them. “If you were an eighteen-year-old with better looks than brains, you would have been right. You’d get bid on by some nice men like me, you’d get paid tens of thousands for your innocence, and you’d have a night you’d never forget,” I say. “But you’re different, Wendy. You’ve got a different appeal, one that makes you a target for Orson Bishop.”
I give her a minute to take this all in. It’s not fair, and I feel for her, but she needs to know. Otherwise, I’m wasting my time.
“But let’s get to all that later. I don’t want to scare you off — just steer you in the right direction,” I conclude. “Let’s have a nice dinner and worry about everything else later.”
“Okay,” she mumbles, unconvinced.
Good for her. She’s still concerned, as well she should be. That means she’s smart, and cautious — maybe I’m worried about her for nothing.
We arrive at Jean-Georges, one of the finest restaurants in the city. The normally bright, white interior has been dimmed for the evening, casting a café au lait tan across the restaurant. The waiters recognize me with subtle nods, and the maître d’ shows us to a table.
Wendy’s blue eyes sparkle, open wide and taking in every detail. “Have you ever been to a place like this before?” I ask, though I know the answer.
“Never,” she replies. “Not even close.”
“Good.”
I wave off the wine list from an impeccably dressed waiter and order a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. It probably costs more than her monthly rent, but I don’t tell her — I’m not trying to show off.
“Just relax,” I say. “I read in your profile that you’re graduating from college in a few months. What are you studying?”
“Psychology,” she replies. “I’m thinking of becoming a doctor, or maybe a therapist.”
“Interesting,” I say as the waiter returns. He pours me a taste and waits for me to sip. “Very nice,” I tell him, prompting him to fill our glasses.
Wendy doesn’t wait for an invitation; she has a taste, but not before taking in the aroma. “It’s wonderful,” she says at last.
“Glad you like it.”
The waiter returns to take our order — Parmesan chicken confit for her and spiced lamb chops for me. I thought about getting the oysters but didn’t want to send the wrong message.
“So, does that mean more schooling for you? Masters degree? Medical school?”
She nods. “Probably. I might just want to get a job first, though — I’m sick of not having any extra money.”
I give her a sympathetic look, fully aware of my inability to relate in this regard. “Is that why you’re in the auction? For tuition?”
Her face falls as if I’ve slapped her. “No,” she says, suddenly looking ashamed. “It’s for a vacation. I didn’t even think about putting it toward school.”
Reaching out to take her hand, I say, “You can do with it whatever you want, Wendy. It sounds like you could use a nice vacation.”
She takes my hand, and a faint smile breaks across her lovely face. “You have no idea.”
“Where would you be looking to go?”
“Europe,” she says immediately, and I can feel her excitement like a vibration in her hand. “France, Italy, Spain… wherever we want to go.”
“We?”
“Oh! My best friend, Radha. We’ve been talking about going since we were freshmen.”
I grin, swept up in her enthusiasm. “If you’ve never been outside the country, traveling is a great way to expand your horizons. It would be a fine use of the money, and don’t let anyone tell you differently.”
“Thanks,” she says. She tells me about her friend, who has offered to pay for their trip entirely — apparently her family is well-off and wouldn’t mind the expense. “But I can’t do that,” she says. “It wouldn’t be right.”
“Can I be honest with you, Wendy?” I ask.
“Sure.”
“I respect your decision to pay your own way. Not being reliant on others is the mark of a strong, successful person. However, if your friend wants to give you a wonderful gift, there’s nothing wrong with accepting. If she’s truly your friend, then she means well.”
“Yeah, I suppose,” says Wendy. “But it just doesn’t sit right with me. And this is sort of the same thing, you know?”
“Actually, no, I’m not sure what you mean.”
The waiter brings our meals and sets them down; both look delicious, as usual. “Would you like to try this?” I ask.
She doesn’t hesitate to pass me her fork so I can cut her a piece of my chops.
“Oh God,” she says as it hits her tongue. “That’s insane.”
I laugh, tickled by her reaction. It’s nice to see someone who truly appreciates high quality cuisine; most people I know take these things for granted.
Finally, she picks up the thread I left hanging. “This auction. I know men want sex and are sometimes willing to pay for it, but I want it too — I don’t want to go to Europe a virgin. I’d like to have some experience, enough to give me confidence. So, to get paid to do something I want to do anyway… in some ways, that feels like a handout just as much as Radha paying for my trip.”
She offers me a taste of her chicken, which I turn down, having had it plenty of times before. Instead, I think about her point. However, she doesn’t see it the way I do. “Wendy, the men who attend these auctions aren’t there just because they want sex. They can attract women, or hire escorts — these men want to claim a woman for the first time. Whether it’s a thrill or a status symbol, they want something that’s difficult to get. You know what I mean?”
“Okay,” she says, nodding.
“So, your virginity is a commodity. You can give it away, as many do, but you can also look at it as something of value that you can trade. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“I suppose,” she says. “I’m still not sure though. Radha was pretty adamant about my not doing this.”
I take another sip of wine. “She’s concerned for you. She sounds like a great friend.”
Wendy moans to herself a little as she takes another bite of chicken. “She really is.”
“I would be happy to meet her,” I offer. “Settle any fears she has about this arrangement.”
Snorting a laugh, Wendy holds her hands up in defense. “No way, that is not a good idea. She would rip you a new one.”
“I’d like to see that,” I chuckle, trying to imagine. It’s not very often people talk back to me. She grins, then polishes off the last of her chicken. I do the same for my lamb.
“Hey,” she says suddenly. “Does this mean you’re going to be bidding on me? I thought you were just trying warn me about Orson.”
Well, shit, I sigh to myself. I was hoping to put this part off as long as possible.
“I’ve already declared my intention to bid on you; so has Orson. I’d like to convince you not to let Orson anywhere near you, but if I have to, I’ll try to outbid him.”
Wendy picks up her wine glass but then sets it back down without drinking. She looks perturbed and in deep thought. “Is this because you really like me?”
The last thing I want to do is lie. It always complicates things in the end. “We’ve just met, Wendy, and I think you’re very sweet. I do like you. But the real reason I’m here is because I hate Orson Bishop. I want you… because he wants you.”
She clutches her purse and holds it tightly. “Are you serious?” She’s trying to sound angry, but I hear more pain in her voice than anything else.
“I told you, I’m here because I don’t want to see you get hurt. That’s what Orson will do, Wendy. He’s vile and sadistic.”
“Oh, so this is for my sake?” she says, incredulous.
She’s so sharp, she doesn’t miss a thing. It kills me to come clean, but anything less and she’ll see through it.
“No, I suppose it’s also for mine. Keeping you away from Orson will make him furious. I’d be untruthful if I said that didn’t matter to me.”
She rises from her seat slowly, and tears well up in her eyes until they start to slip down her cheeks. “This is a game to you,” she states.
That’s not how I like to think of it; game makes it sound fun.
“I think of it more as a mission,” I reply.
“Oh, excuse me!” she snarls. “You’re unbelievable, you know that? A freaking billionaire! What was I thinking?”
Now I get up, wanting to tell her it’s not true — she has the wrong idea — but she isn’t wrong. Not in any way that matters from her perspective.
“I’m sorry, Wendy,” I say.
“I doubt that,” she replies, pushing past me to leave. I turn to watch her go but don’t chase after her. It wouldn’t help. I know what has to happen next, as much as I wish it didn’t.
Okay, Orson. Your move.