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I loved it all, but when I slowed down for a day like today, it caught up with me and I could feel the wear and tear of the long hours and hundred miles an hour lifestyle I’d thrown myself into.
It was nice to have an afternoon off and no obligations for the rest of the day. I’d driven almost four hours down to L.A. and was booked in a fancy hotel so I didn’t have to crank out another four hours on the road after I’d bought the plane.
Which got me thinking about what I would do to celebrate my victory when—not if—I won the F-4.
I spotted a brunette across the room and watched as she sipped the edge of a martini glass. She had a bored look on her face, and her body was posed in a way that told me she was looking for a distraction. Her long, tanned legs led to the hem of an insanely tight, short black dress that wrapped around her ass like a second skin. One elbow was propped back on the bar, thrusting her big tits up and out, an impressive amount of flesh spilling out the top of the equally tight top. Her long, dark hair fell halfway down her back in a sleek, shiny curtain, and I grinned, knowing just what I’d do with her. Even from across the room, my fingers itched to weave through her hair, tugging on it as she worked my cock between her hooker-red lips.
I was ninety percent sure she was the one I wanted to take back to my hotel room when her friend joined her, and my jaw damn near hit the floor. She was almost a carbon copy of the brunette, same curved body, perky tits, but had blonde hair that was shorter and curlier. The two women appeared to know each other and began chatting as they scoped out the room together. My entire body pulsed in time with my heartbeat as I conjured up images of taking them both back to my hotel room.
The images that danced in my head were enough to make me lose all track of time.
The words “McDonnell Douglas F-4 Phantom II” snapped me back like an overstretched rubber band. The announcer was back on stage, and a giant, nearly true size, version of the plane was projected onto the wall behind him. My heart rate jacked up at the sight of it, even though I had just seen it less than an hour before. All thoughts, plans, and distractions involving the leggy pair of women at the bar were immediately pushed from my mind and I locked in on my prey.
The announcer stepped aside so the auctioneer could take his place to begin the bidding. He opened with a starting bid of $100,000 and I smiled, the taste of victory already on my lips.
I waited, in an attempt to get a feel for the other buyers in the room. Four paddles immediately shot into the air, and my smile deepened. I knew it was going to be a tense battle.
And it was.
2
Within minutes, the paddles and big numbers were flying faster than most people could keep up with. The auctioneer was spitting out numbers and bidders, the price skyrocketing higher and higher. I raised my own paddle over and over, not backing down, even as the number climbed well into six figures. A dozen bids in and the field had cleared, leaving the battle down to one other buyer and me.
From my seat, I had an easy vantage point of my competition. He was a well-dressed, arrogant looking son of a bitch in the second row. I didn’t recognize him from any of the other auctions I’d attended, which surprised me.
I didn’t know—or care—why he wanted the F-4. As far as I knew, the seats in the first few rows had been reserved for only the most elite of the upper crust gathering. So, whoever he was, he obviously had the funds to keep the game going.
I glared in his direction after my last bid and watched as he raised his paddle half a heartbeat later. When the auctioneer acknowledged his bid, the man turned in his seat and flashed a daring smile in my direction.
His message was clear—don't fuck with me.
His expression only added more kindling to my fire. With an equally nasty smile, I held his gaze for one full beat before waving my paddle high and proud. A murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd, like it was some big drama, and I grinned all the more.
The hunt was on, and I was closing in on the kill.
The auctioneer spat out the next absurd number and only then did I see a hint of a falter before Mr. Douche in the Second Row raised his paddle. All eyes shifted to me, everyone in the crowd eagerly awaiting my response. In a move that was half frustration and halfcocked asshole, I stood from my seat, planted my legs wide, and shouted above the roar of whispers, "Nine seventy-five."
