Chapter 2
The charity auction venue is a gentlemen’s club owned by the Italian mob boss who operates out of New York.
Rumor has it, New York got too heated for him and the family, and they moved to Chicago to cool off and, undoubtedly, find partnerships with the locals, namely Nikola and Mikhail, the other two bosses I happened to know.
A club is an odd choice for a charity venue unless the articles are stolen. Have they stolen hymens? My fingertips tingle. I’d love owning something stolen or forbidden. A stolen hymen is definitely forbidden.
A short, stocky man with a receding hairline opens the door, cigar hanging from his mouth. He scans the street behind me and speaks between the puffs. “Name.”
“Blake Colbert.” It’s not my real last name. It’s the one I use at these types of events.
He shakes his head.
“My brother Hudson Colbert was on the list.”
“Yeah, but you’re not.”
I pull out a wad of cash.
He snatches the money with a smirk and opens the door. Fucking families. He would have let me in anyway. It’s just that I hate wasting time. I’d rather waste money I can make in the time given to me.
The second I enter and the door closes behind me, I clear my throat because the cigar smoke enveloping the room is threatening to choke me. A sea of outdated and plain ugly suits almost blinds me, and I’m thrilled with the potential clientele base around here. These guys need my new fashion line.
Most of the men I recognize, and most of the women I don’t, even if they’re much better dressed than the men.
The ladies in cute baby-doll outfits are passing out drinks.
A few ladies are already taken by the guys on the couches, and I’m starting to wonder if I’ll find an intact hymen within ten thousand miles of the Mafia bad boys.
I do find the small bar and take a seat on a stool, surprised to see one of the Serbs there serving drinks.
“Neven,” I greet the young mobster with dimples in his cheeks. “Surprised to see you here.”
He fixes his tie. It’s the same as mine. I nod in acknowledgment. He’s buying from my new clothing line, no doubt because a model I used to work with still pimps my stuff to all her associates. She’s a Russian mobster’s wife now and the Serbs and Russians are tight.
“Boss needs an ear in this place,” Neven says.
I nod again, understanding what he means. “I’m surprised Vinnie agreed.”
“Not much of a choice, I’m afraid.”
“New in town and trying to make friends, is he?” I fix my cuffs as I fish for information. Neven knows I’m fishing.
“Something like that. What’s your flavor?”
“Sex on the beach, please.”
He stares.
“Yes?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. Why?”
“That’s a frat-boy-on-spring-break drink.”
“I’m feeling nostalgic.”
Neven sighs and makes me the drink. The sweet-and-sour taste coats my tongue. Looking around, I’m wondering what exactly my brother got himself into and, by default, got me into. Five minutes at the bar, and I’m checking my watch.
Time is flying while I passively order another drink.
Patience is not a virtue no matter what they say.
It’s a waste of time, and I’ve never been to an event that’s not mine where things start on time or even close to the agreed-upon time.
Scanning the walls, I search for interesting art and find black-and-white pictures of men, a row of them stacked up the staircase.
Something pretty disrupts my view. Women dressed in pink baby-doll outfits start their descent from the top of the stairs.
The ladies on the floor ascend, and the men quiet down and start fidgeting in that I’m-not-fidgeting-way alpha males do.
Fixing the collar, unbuttoning the suit jacket, shifting on the couch, chair, near the wall as if to present themselves in the best possible position. I resist the urge.
“Is this trafficked merchandise?” I ask Neven, because I have hard limits.
Neven taps the bar as if he has to think about it. “No.”
I rephrase. “Are the ladies here by choice?”
He’s thinking again. “Yes.”
“The pause before you answer is disturbing,” I say, but I recognize the charity for what it is. Lovely young women I’m gonna treat well. Perhaps I’ll even find my everlasting love. What can I say? I’m a romantic at heart and at cock. My cock loves romancing the pussy.
The full hips and thighs of the last woman on the stairs catch my eye. Locks of brown hair curtain a sweet round face and drape over her big tits. She’s about five three with heels on and has baby-blue eyes and rosy cheeks. A fucking doll. I love baby dolls. I fix my cuff links. There, I fidgeted.
Now, for all intents and purposes, I’m a harmless well-groomed billionaire playboy. The rest of the men are murdering lunatics. They each pack a 9mm. I pack a nine inch. Clearly, I’m the choice that carries least amount of risk and a guaranteed good time.
The women linger on the stairs for a bit, each one looking around, and then the girl next to my girl walks down and straight up to the man I recognize as Gavril, head of marketing and design for Tobos, a massive grocery chain.
Other ladies follow and hand the men they’ve picked an envelope.
Each man opens their envelope and either nods or returns it to the woman.
Reluctant, my girl still stands on the steps, biting her bottom lip.
I still have no fucking clue what’s going on here, but I’m rolling with the event.
When our eyes lock, I smile a wide one. She returns the smile.
“Come here,” I say and motion her over, because if I don’t tell her what to do, I think she might flee up the stairs, in which case I’d make an ass of myself chasing after her.
She licks her bottom lip, and I think of how her mouth’s gonna stretch around my cock later this evening. Is she selling her hymen with her heart, I wonder. I would certainly buy both. She descends (finally), heading straight for me.
A blush spreads all over her face, and patches of it show on her neck. Poor thing. I wouldn’t put it past the Italians to have forced this girl into whatever this is. One never knows with these guys, and therefore, I must ask.
“Hi,” I say to break the ice and also so she doesn’t faint. Nobody wants to call the ambulance to this place.
“H-hi,” she stammers.
“Blake.” I extend a hand, and when she clasps it, I bring the top of it to my lips, making sure I lock eyes with her as I brush my lips over her soft skin.
“Vanessa,” she says with a smile. She’s pleased with my greeting. Of course she is. Women love a gentleman, especially a man who treats them well in public. They love a gentleman who fucks them like they’re sluts and buys them nice things even more. I’m it.
Meanwhile, I love shy blushing baby dolls, and so we’re a match. I don’t release her hand. Instead, I swipe her palm with my thumb. “Would you like a drink? It gives courage, I’m told.”
She chuckles and nods, pretty locks bouncing over her shoulders. I catch one, and she freezes as if I’m gonna yank it. I’m what the wonderfully kinky folk call a Daddy. Violence isn’t my thing. I thread the lock between my fingertips, noting the lack of hair spray. “Your hair is naturally curly?”
She nods again. “With a bit of an upgrade from the curler tonight.”
An honest girl. Mentally, I hit “like” on what she said, wondering if this is my lady. A lady needs seven likes in the first half an hour of our time together for me to consider spending more time with her. That’s my scoring system, and I stick with it. It works, which is why I’m still single.
That and also because my obsession with time makes me a control freak, and I can tell when a woman won’t enjoy as much control as I would assert over her life. “Lovely. Have a seat.”
She sits at the bar and goes to cross her legs. I catch under her knee. “I’d rather enjoy the view.”
She swallows and turns to Neven, whose dimples and good looks annoy me now.
Does he look better in the same tie than I do?
Inwardly, I snort. Who cares? Apparently, I care, and want to hit a like on another control item.
Will she spread her legs for me? I asked politely, didn’t order, giving her a choice.
“I’m gonna need a shot of Jack and maybe a coke chaser,” she says.
“Now that’s a drink.” Neven gives me a pointed look.
I sip my sex on the beach, not giving a rat’s ass what some Mafia boy thinks of my choices.
Hitting another like, I enjoy my view, wishing I were a bit shorter than six one so I could see up her little skirt.
The spread thighs lead up to a sweet little place between her legs, and I wonder if she’s wearing panties.
I glance over at the couch. The girl on Gavril’s lap flashes me a bare bottom.
No panties for my lady either, I presume.
She throws back the Jack and scrunches up her nose then chases it with coke. I reach over and lift the hem of the little skirt. Pretty, hairless mound. Cute lips. Frozen Vanessa. I lean back and smile. “What do you do for a living, Vanessa?”
“I’m a kindergarten teacher.” She folds and unfolds the edge of a white envelope, and I recognize it as a nervous gesture. Looking around, I see a man in the corner by the door opening one. More envelopes lie around, most of them opened. Only two women still walk around with theirs.
“Actually, I’d like to work with babies. Being a nanny for a family would be a dream job for me.” She chuckles. “I’m oversharing.” She fans herself. “It’s getting hot in here.” More fidgeting with the envelope. “What do you do?”
Two likes for babies. I want kids, so a woman worthy of my time, and I hers by the same token, must like babies. Four likes total. Vanessa is on a roll. “I’m an entrepreneur. Little bit of everything. My specialty is playing Papi to pretty women.”
She gives me a side-eye.
This was the hard hit, and one that makes or breaks the time continuum.
Leaning in, I await clues, knowing full well how I sound to a vanilla ear, and if she’s vanilla or plain disgusted, I’ll be sorely disappointed, though happy not to waste either of our times. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
In my younger days, maybe I’d have one or two nights with someone who isn’t into what I’m into, but I’m looking for a keeper, and a keeper must share a desire for adventurous bedroom activities that make her feel a little uncomfortable, and all the more horny for it.
I touch the glass’s rim with two fingers and circle it. She watches my movement. I stroke the side of the glass.
My lady swallows.
Again, I look around the room. It seems to me the girls choose a man and give him the envelope, and this one is gonna choose me or heads will roll.
Maybe violence is my thing after all. What do I gotta do to get the envelope?
What’s inside the envelope? An invitation?
Fuck, I’m gonna pass out here from curiosity.
Kudos to the asshole who planned this auction.
For once, I’m not bored at a charity event, and the lady has only three more likes to go.
Since she didn’t react to my Daddy statement, I gotta speed up the convo here.
“Bravo!” I clap. “What a lovely event.”
The men clap, as do the girls. I think I’ve wasted enough time here.
I want her fucking envelope and I want seven likes, but I gotta play better or she’ll bolt.
Sure, I could order her to give it to me, but there’s a gentler way to do this.
Smiling, I lean into the lady, making sure I don’t touch her when I invade her space.
I whisper at her ear. “I have no idea what I’m doing here.
” I lean back and take a sip of my drink.
“Are you serious?” she whispers back and moves her chair closer.
There we go.
“Dead serious. No idea. My brother made me come in his stead.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widen. “I came to help my sister. She got into some trouble with the…locals.”
“Ah, blackmail, then. I wondered how this works or what it is.”
Neven clears his throat. “You might wanna mince your words, Playboy.”
“A customer full of money is always right, Dimples, and ladies jerk off to playboys, so fuck off and smile elsewhere.” I lost my shit there a bit. Clearing my throat, I fidget with the glass and roll the ice.
Neven shakes his head and leaves the bar.
The lights dim, people start departing, some men alone, others with baby dolls.
No art or artifacts were sold in this auction.
But a bleeding pussy with the potential of hitting seven likes is on sale here, and I’m gonna acquire it.
Nicely, if I can. Not so nicely if I have to, because I am not leaving this place without this baby doll.