Admit it. This is one of the best ideas he’s had in years. The sheer publicity alone is priceless.” Bentley tossed back his third drink of the night and slapped Brock on the back then showed him his phone. “Hey look, you’re trending.”
“I will literally break your phone in half with my bare hands if you show me one more tweet with my name and ‘auction’ in the same sentence.” Brock barely managed a polite nod in his grandfather’s direction as he greeted people filling the large downtown nightclub for the annual Wellington party.
He tossed back a gulp of whiskey, watching as his grandfather winced in pain after a particular hearty handshake from a journalist chomping to get in on the story of the century. Brock grimaced. The press had gone wild when they’d caught wind of the auction.
CNN.
The World News.
The New York Times.
God, every damn newspaper in the universe thought the auction was the most newsworthy thing they’d ever heard of.
One of the country’s richest bachelors was allowing women to bid on him.
And allowing his grandfather to pick a winner from the bidders.
A winner that Brock would date—and even potentially marry. That was the worst part about the press: give them a crumb and they’d make a feast.
Brock sure as hell hadn’t agreed to marry anyone.
One of the newspapers had hinted at a future Mrs. Brock Wellington.
And they’d taken it and ran.
Date a stranger? He could do it. For the good of the company. For the press. And most importantly, for his family’s reputation.
His grandfather had informed him that the Board didn’t trust his brothers to do anything right—hell, he agreed with that assessment—but Grandfather had also let it slip that they were starting to doubt Brock’s ability to be a team player.
Because he wasn’t a team player.
He kept to himself.
He made them hundreds of millions.
And they still weren’t happy.
He stared into his empty glass.
“Do it for me and for your reputation in the company.” Grandfather had slapped him on the back. “You’re a stick in the mud. Hell, have you ever even been to any of the company baseball games?”
No, because he hated baseball.
“Fine,” he’d whispered while his hands shook, with rage, with the need to hit something that would break.
The only silver lining was that the money that would be raised was going toward cancer research—one of his passions—so there was that, at least.
It was stupidity at its finest, but Brock had agreed to do it. Maybe because he was just as insane as his grandfather. Or, even worse, maybe because he was convinced he would never find love, nor cared to.
Because what his brothers said was true.
He was getting older.
And he’d yet to find a woman who wanted him for who he truly was.
Then again, did he even know himself anymore?
He’d allowed his protective love for his grandfather decide how he would live his life, his future, his everything.
With a groan, he stole Bentley’s drink straight from his hand and downed the entire thing.
“Cold feet?” Bentley teased.
“Go to hell,” Brock fired back.
Bentley, as if sensing how pissed off Brock really was, quickly grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and shoved it into Brock’s waiting hand. “Look on the bright side. Grandfather said if you married the girl he picked he’d give you the ranch as a wedding present, so there’s that.”
The ranch.
Their home.
Their safe haven after their parents had died, where their grandfather had pushed aside his own grief to give them the best life possible. Shit, he was screwed.
“Hell.” Bentley let out a low whistle. “I’d even sleep with her for the ranch.”
“Who?” Brock was too busy chugging champagne to notice anything except the constant beat of the techno music and bright red and white lights flashing around them. He really was getting old.
“Her.” Bentley glanced at Brock’s empty glass and handed him another from a passing waiter. “Her lipstick’s purple.”
“How…exciting.” Brock actually flinched when the woman waved his way. “She looks like she should be poking her head out of a limousine screaming, ‘What up, bitches?’”
“Oh God, I’d sell my soul to hear you say that exact same phrase in a high-pitched voice while you rip at your shirt. Please, it’s just what this party needs.”
Brock’s lips twitched into an amused smile as he let out a bark of laughter. “What? And steal her moment?” He nodded at the woman, who had just started convulsing on the dance floor with a friend. “I think I’ll let her have the spotlight.”
Bentley grinned. “Imagine how they dance when they’re drunk.”
“Are you under the impression they’re sober?”
“Either way. Bad choices.”
“Oh, shit!” Brock choked on his third drink. “They just saw Grandfather.”
Brock prayed to God that his grandfather wouldn’t send the girls his way. Time slowed as Grandfather turned, made a face, and dismissed them.
Both Brock and Bentley exhaled loudly.
“Drink,” Bentley encouraged. “Maybe the caterpillars will turn into butterflies. Whiskey encourages these things.”
“I’m only taking this drink.” He gripped it between his hands. How many had he just downed, anyway? Four? Five? “Because I see no other option. And believe me, I’ve done nothing but try to think of a way out of this.”
Bentley crossed his arms. “What about no?”
“No.” Brock shook his head vehemently.
“You have no problem saying it to me or Brant on a daily basis, yet the minute Grandfather turns his furry eyebrows in your direction you turn into this…robot.”
Brock stiffened. “Robot? Hardly.” He’d been called worse. But that was beside the point.
His brothers didn’t get it; they didn’t understand the power behind a simple word, and how it was Brock’s fault that their parents were dead in the first place.
Because the first time he’d said that word had been after an argument with his father.
No, he’d said. No. No. No.
The next day both of his parents were dead.
His hands shook with the memory, as if re-living it all over again.
“All right, then. So you said yes because you want to settle down? With a woman of Grandfather’s choosing?” Bentley chuckled. “The last woman he sent your way had the longest fingernails I’d ever seen.” He shuddered. “I had at least three nightmares, all of them including her nails impaling my…well, let’s just say I woke up in a cold sweat.”
Brock shrugged, and his stomach warmed as the whiskey finally began to take effect. “She wasn’t so bad.”
“Her name was Pearl.”
Brock shifted uncomfortably on his feet while Bentley gave him a pointed stare. “Just march up to him and say ‘thanks for the concern, but I nominate Brant as tribute.’”
Smirking, Brock glanced across the room just in time to see Brant press some random woman against the wall and kiss down her neck. “He seems occupied.”
“When is he not occupied? Though the night is a bit young for him to start his sexual prowl.”
“True.”
The music got louder, seeming to rise along with Brock’s discomfort. “Maybe, one more drink, and then…”
Bentley tried to hand him yet another drink, this time, champagne. Brock refused it. “And then, you and grandfather talk.”
“Yes.” Brock frowned. “I mean no.”
“Grow a pair of balls, brother. Your choice is either man up…” He pointed to the two girls dancing with mindless abandon on the floor. The girl in the black dress bent over, giving them a hellish view of her thong. Both Brock and Bentley shuddered and looked away. “Or it’s possible that the vision before you could be your future.”
“I’ll talk to him,” he lied.
“Good man.” Bentley sighed. “Now that my single good deed of the year is done, I’m off to find the first woman to catch my eye, one who possesses all her teeth and is of sound mind. I’m not picky; I just need sex.”
“Shocking that you get so much ass with that attitude.”
“That hurts.” Bentley tapped his chest. “Right here.” And then he smirked. “But not as much as right here.” He grabbed his crotch with a jerk, then laughed and walked off.
Watching Bentley strut across the room like a rooster, Brock tightened his hold on his glass. Both of his brothers were free.
While he lived in a prison of his own making. With gold bars. And a mirror where his grandfather stared back at him.
He returned his attention to his grandfather and the group of people who had crowded around him. His vision was starting to blur, but only because of the lights. He could easily hold more alcohol than most.
Then, in a sudden flurry of screaming, a woman was pushed onto the dance floor right into the two crazy women with even crazier lipstick.
A catfight broke out as one of the women ripped at the newcomer’s dress almost hard enough to pull the entire thing off and leave her flashing half the club. The girl pressed her hands to her chest while the woman standing on her other side tugged at the girl’s hair.
The hell?
How drunk were they?
He started toward the dance floor to pull them apart when suddenly the crowd parted.
The girl glanced up at him with wide eyes.
He stopped walking.
Breathing.
It wasn’t her face…her lips… It wasn’t the way her body looked poured into her tight black dress.
No, it was her eyes.
As if she was begging for someone to save her.
Protectiveness slammed into him and he shoved his body through the remaining people watching the scene, and picked the girl up into his arms.