Auctioned to Him 4: His Addiction Page 3

  “Fuck you, Blake,” I whisper. I feel my blood boiling below the surface as it courses through my veins. The anger that I have toward him acts on many different levels at once and I have a hard time differentiating one from the other. First and foremost, I’m angry at him for assaulting Ellie. I’m angry that he dared to scare her. I’m angry that he took it so far and that it required me physically overpowering him to stop. I’m also angry at myself for not knowing this about him. I mean, I’ve been working with this guy for years. How the hell did I not know that he was the type who was capable of raping a woman, or attempting to rape her? He was toying with her. He was getting off on scaring her. I clench my fist and jaw at the thought of that.

  And then, of course, my anger exists simultaneously on other levels as well. I’m angry at letting him get so involved in my company that he could have so much power over me now. I’m also angry at myself for not building my own relationships with our investors and just relying on him to do all the hard work. Relationships have never been my strong suit, but I’m the fucking founder and CEO of one of the biggest tech companies in the world. How could I let everything that I’ve worked for be compromised like this? What the hell was I thinking?

  I look down at my phone. My lawyers and business managers, and a million other people, have been calling me non-stop. Most just call with questions, offering very little in the way of answers in return. I don't know what to do about any of this. One of the lawyers actually suggested that I apologize to Blake and invite him back to the negotiation table. Me? Apologize? He had to be kidding, right? I did nothing wrong. And Blake is, frankly, lucky that Ellie is refusing to press charges against him. It’s really against my own counsel and better judgment, but I know that she’s doing it for me.

  I clench my fists again and watch how the blood drains from my hands, turning my knuckles white. There’s that anger again. I want Ellie to tell the cops what happened, but I also don't want that. If she goes to the police, then she will have to tell them about my yacht party and the auction. If investors are running from me now, they will definitely flee when they hear that I’m auctioning women off to the highest bidder on my yacht. Even if they are giving their consent. No, Ellie is right not to go to the police, but I hate myself for it because I know that she’s doing it to protect me. And I both hate and love her for it.

  I take a deep breath. I listen to the way that my heartbeat starts to hurry without my control or consent. My head starts to feel cloudy. And then…there’s me feeling powerless again, even though I’m one of the richest people in the world. Well, not anymore, but at least according to the last issue of Fortune Magazine. Ha, isn’t that funny? I laugh out loud. I don't know exactly how much money I’ve lost, but it’s somewhere over a billion dollars.

  That’s a lot of money. I know that. Of course, I know that. But you shouldn’t feel bad for me. Haven’t you ever heard that saying, don’t ever feel bad for a man with his own plane? Well, I stand by it. I’ve been poor and I’ve been rich. Being rich is definitely better, but at least I had a billion dollars to lose, right? Besides, this is America. Families are always rising and falling in America. A big part of me thinks that you’re not doing it right if you’re not. It’s just money after all. It’s nice to have, but it’s the journey that’s important, not the destination.

  Chapter 1 - Ellie

  When I wake up with a hangover…

  Caroline bursts into my room, waking me as if from the dead. I don't know what time it is, but the sun is shining through the windows and New York is full of bustle and activity below.

  “I can’t find my striped, crew neck, long sleeve shirt,” Caroline says, helping herself through my closet. “Taylor and I are going to the zoo.”

  It takes me a good minute to remember who the hell Taylor is. Through the thick fog of the huge hangover, which makes my blood feel like molasses coursing through my veins, it finally hits me. Taylor is the guy she met on Aiden’s yacht. He’s the one who bought her at the auction.

  “What is he doing here?” I ask. My mouth is parched and I cough in the middle of the question. When I sit up in bed, my body feels broken. Every inch of it aches and I wince in pain. My body is in full regretful mode from my drinking last night.

  “Ah, of course, here it is!” Caroline yells. Her peppiness and natural zest for life is particularly annoying to me at this moment. The other thing that really aggravates me is the fact that she can party all night, drink way more than she should, and subsist on only a few hours of sleep without much effort. I, on the other hand, need a full eight hours or more just to not feel like a zombie most of the day.

  “Honestly, I don't know how you sleep so much,” Caroline comments, as if she’s able to hear my thoughts.

  She stands in front of my floor-length mirror and places the shirt against her shoulders. She’s dressed in an elegant silk bathrobe with faux fur trim, which makes her look like a movie star from the 1950s. I’m not sure what she’s wearing underneath, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it were one of her elegant, lacy nightgowns. Following her lead, I got myself one of those when we first moved in together so that I could feel like more of a grown up, but it never felt right. I never could sleep in it straight through the night because of its tiny spaghetti straps and the lace that made me itch as I tossed and turned. So, I reverted to wearing old t-shirts and mismatched pajama pants.

  “I’ve been looking for this shirt forever,” she says, taking off her bathrobe and nightgown and pulling it over her bare breasts. Caroline isn’t exactly the type of girl to burn her bra, but she’s also not one who’s shy about going out with her nipples hanging out. And why should she be? She has large breasts with perky little nipples that always stand up straight on their own and seem impervious to gravity.

  “I’m sorry about that,” I mumble. “I honestly can’t remember the last time I even wore it.”

  “Oh, man, you are hungover,” Caroline announces the most obvious thing in the world. I nod. If I had any more energy, I would ask her to pull the curtains closed and leave me to suffer alone in my dark room. Unfortunately, I don't even have the strength to do that.

  Caroline walks over to my desk and picks up the empty bottle of wine.

  “Wow, you had yourself a little party last night, didn’t you?” she asks. I nod. My laptop is still open on the table and the pages of notes are laying around all over the place.

  “Is this your new book?”

  I nod. She knows that I’m working on a romance novel, but not really much else about it.

  “I actually finished it last night,” I say. “And got the cover done. And sent it to a proofreader.”

  “Oh, wow, that’s awesome. This is the fastest you’ve ever written anything, right?”

  Caroline is well aware of the fact that it used to take me weeks to squeeze out a 2,000 word short story.

  “Yeah, I actually managed to write fifty five thousand words in about fifteen days,” I say proudly. “I don't really know how, but they just came out of me. It was like I was possessed and someone else was doing all the hard work for me.”

  “Is that what they call a muse?” Caroline asks. “History is full of stories about writers and their muses and the great lengths they go to just to hold onto their muses. I mean, the Greeks were practically obsessed with them.”

  I never really thought of it that way before, but she’s right. Of course, I know about muses. I even did a paper on them my sophomore year. The muses are inspirational goddesses of literature, science, and arts in Greek mythology. They are considered the main source of knowledge that comes from poetry, songs, and myths and they were later adopted by Roman culture from the Greeks. Ancient authors would invoke a muse when writing epic histories and poetry and ask for inspiration and help from the muses. Ancient texts are famous for how much credit they are given by their creators and they are attributed in Homer’s The Odyssey, Virgil’s the Aeneid, and Dante’s Inferno. They even come into play in later literature includin
g those by Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Milton. In modern times, the concept of the muse typically refers to a real person who inspires the writer, musician, or artist to create her work.

  “So, what’s this book about?” Caroline asks, sitting down at my desk and turning on my laptop. She doesn’t hide the fact that she’s a big snoop and I don't really mind it.

  “Wow, I love the cover,” she says, looking at the image in Photoshop that I created last night. “Auctioned Off. An alpha billionaire romance by Ella Montgomery.”

  Hearing the title of my book being read out loud sends shivers through my body. I watch her click over to the Pages document and read the blurb at the top.

  “Oh my God, Ellie!” Caroline screeches. “This is about the yacht. And Aiden.”

  “Yes, I know.” I shrug.

  “Is it like, exactly what happened?”

  “Yep, pretty much. I think that’s why I was able to write it so quickly. Because it was pretty much true. I just wrote down everything that happened the first time I was there.”

  “Oh my God! Can I read it? Of course, I can read it, right? You’re going to post it on Amazon,” she says. Without even waiting for me to reply, she sends the document to her email.

  “Yes, it’s fine,” I agree, even though my permission is clearly not needed.

  But in truth, I do want her to read it. She would be my first real reader. And, given what I know about Caroline, I know that she won't be a very harsh critic. Even though she has an Ivy League education, she isn’t one to put her nose up at popular culture. She loves Supernatural, Vampire Diaries, and Pretty Little Liars, and has a somewhat unhealthy relationship with teen melodramas. Plus, she actually reads romance novels. She read Fifty Shades of Grey even before it was published by the big name publisher and became mommy porn across America. And she will definitely not be turned off by the explicit nature of my book either. Her philosophy is that the more hot sex that a book has, the better it is.

  Suddenly, an unfamiliar, sickening feeling throws my body into a cold sweat. My hands start to shake and my stomach starts to rumble. Before I even know what’s going on, I run to the bathroom. I barely have enough time to open the lid before an avalanche of vomit comes pouring out of my mouth.

  I continue to throw up and shake until I empty every last bit of my stomach contents. It takes me a few moments to realize that Caroline is standing next to me on the tile floor, holding my hair out of my face. I’ve been in this position with her a number of times and it makes me feel good that she’s here for me now.

  “Okay, I’m really excited that you finished your book and all,” Caroline says, “and the fact that Aiden Black is your muse, but don’t you think it’s funny that you’re starting off your new career with your head in the toilet?”

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and force a smile. She helps me onto my feet and I brush my teeth harder and with more toothpaste than I ever have before.

  “You think Aiden is my muse?” I ask.

  “Of course!” Caroline says. “How else would you be able to get all that writing done so quickly?”

  I mull that over for a moment. Yes, I guess she’s right. He is my inspiration for all of this. Without him and my experience on the yacht, I wouldn’t have much to write about at all. Plus, to tell the truth, I’m kind of a prude. I don't like talking about sex, let alone sharing my sex life with the world. And yet, Auctioned Off is practically all sex. Unapologetic, hot, explicit, and dirty. But also loving. Because that’s what Aiden and I have.

  ***

  I get out of bed slowly, trying rather unsuccessfully to steady myself on my feet. The whole room spins all around me.

  “I swear to God. I will never drink again,” I mumble, leaning against a chair to make sure that I don't fall down.

  “Oh, c’mon.” Caroline laughs. “There’s no need to be so rash. Besides, as a writer, you’ll be in great company as a drunk.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know, all of these great men writers everyone always talks about from history. They were major drunks!”

  My mind wanders back to my English major courses, but not a single name pops into my head.

  Caroline helps me out. “Hemingway? Faulkner? Jack London?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Famous drunks.”

  “Almost as famous for drinking as they were for writing,” she says.

  “Oh, yeah,” I add. “Wasn’t it Hemingway who said that you should always write drunk and edit sober?”

  “Sounds about right.” Caroline laughs. “Well, listen, I'm going to leave you here to recover a bit. Because I have a breakfast date with Taylor.”

  “You do?”

  “Yep!”

  “Did he sleep over here?” I ask.

  She nods and jumps up a little bit with excitement.

  “Talk about burying the lead. So, what was it like?”

  “Really fun,” she says. “Really great. I like him, Ellie. A lot.”

  By the expression on her face, I can immediately tell that there’s isn’t an ounce of a lie in that statement.

  “Well, say hi to him for me,” I say.

  “You don't want to come out and do the honors yourself?”

  I shrug. “I feel like crap,” I sigh. “Maybe another time.”

  Chapter 2 - Ellie

  When I get good and bad news…

  I’m not a particularly vain person, but I don’t like to make a habit of talking to attractive, hot men without taking a shower first and at least changing out of my pajamas.

  Caroline shrugs and tosses her hair before leaving the room. I hear them talking out in the hallway as I sit down at my desk. I stare out of the window at the foggy, fall New York morning outside. Most of the leaves in the city have fallen, leaving the trees barren and naked. This time of year always makes me very sad. The holidays are still pretty far away and none of the lights and other decorations are up yet. In this moment, the city seems to just sit in wait, in anticipation of something bigger.

  As large, voluptuous rain drops hit the glass, I turn my attention to my laptop and scroll through my emails. Surprisingly, the proofreader came back with an edited manuscript.

  * * *

  Ellie,

  I couldn’t put this book down. I was sick with a cold last night, but decided to open it and just take a look. Two hours later, I was done! It’s awesome. Thank you so much for taking me away from my misery for a few short hours.

  Kora

  * * *

  I don’t quite believe what I’ve just read, so I read it again. And again. Is she for real? Wow, I never knew that my writing could have such an impact. My heart fills with joy. I have to tell someone. I want to reach out to my mom, am about to dial, but then realize that it’s too soon to tell her. No, I don't want this to become some negative experience in case she comes down on me about writing romance novels in the first place.

  I pick up the phone and text Aiden. I send him a screenshot of what the proofreader said. He writes back within a few moments.

  * * *

  Wow, Ellie! That’s great news. I’m so proud of you!

  * * *

  I get up to pace around the room. Glancing at myself in the mirror, I look past the pale skin, the dark circles under my eyes, the messed up hair, and the tattered clothes that are only modestly passing for pajamas. Instead, all I see is the smile that won’t go away.

  After taking a shower and writing back to the proofreader, I accept all the changes that she’s made to the manuscript - mainly fixing typos and little inconsistencies - and try to think of what to do next.

  Self-publishing isn’t like normal publishing. It’s not just submitting a book to an agent or a publisher and letting them do all the heavy lifting. I’m not an expert, but I have been listening to a ton of podcasts and reading a bunch of blogs that talk about the different ways to approach this. One thing that is for sure, I need to start a mailing list. And the best way to get people to subscribe is
to give away the book for free in exchange for an email address.

  I format the Pages file of text into a mobi file for Kindle as well as an ePub file and attach the cover. Then I go to Bookfunnel and Instafreebie, open accounts, and upload my book. I then sign up for Mailerlite, where I get the first one thousand subscribers for free and connect the Bookfunnel and Instafreebie accounts to my Mailerlite account. I lie down on the bed and scroll through the Facebook groups that I recently joined with my new Ella Montgomery account. Many of these deal exclusively with Bookfunnel and Instafreebie giveaways of books for hungry and voracious readers. I fill out the forms and sign up for five in the coming month.

  A few hours later, I’m even prouder of myself than I was when I received the email from the proofreader. I’m not a particularly techie person. Setting up all of these accounts and connecting them all to each other may not seem like a big deal to other people, but it felt insurmountable to me.

  When I’m done, I want to reach out to Aiden again to tell him everything I managed to accomplish despite my horrible hangover, but my stomach growls. No, I need to get something to eat first. I head to the kitchen, hoping that I’ve given Caroline and Taylor enough time to get on with their breakfast plans. I’m pleased to discover that my apartment is completely deserted. I take out some eggs from the fridge and grab a fork. I beat the eggs until they’re all one color. Then I add some coconut milk, my secret ingredient to making my scrambled eggs very fluffy and slightly sweeter than they would be normally.

  While I swirl around the spatula to make sure that the eggs get even fluffier when they cook on the skillet, I flip on the television. An aggressive guy is screaming out of the screen and a scroll of stock news and other numbers that mean nothing to me flash on the bottom of the screen. I’m pretty sure that neither Caroline nor I have ever turned on CNBC, the financial news channel, on our own accord. No, this must be Taylor’s handiwork.