The Bidding War (69th St. Bad Boys Book 2) Page 3

  “Sorry, baby, I know you’ll be getting ready for work.”

  I look at my watch and feel the tension in my gut when I see the time. I’m one of those people who’s always running late as it is. I’ve received so many warnings from my boss.

  “It’s fine, Grandpa. What’s up?”

  “I just got my mail.”

  “Oh, no,” I say.

  It’s been my experience that when you’re hardworking and struggling, like my grandpa is, nothing good ever arrives in the mail.

  “I’m not going to lie.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Twenty grand, sweetie.”

  “Twenty grand!”

  “That’s just for the surgery. There’ll be prescription bills and other bills too. I feel like just giving up.”

  “Don’t talk that way, grandpa. You know we’ll get through this.”

  “Get through this? How am I going to rustle up twenty grand out of nowhere?”

  “Can you do anything with the farm? Lease some land out? Increase production?”

  “Don’t even talk to me about the farm. That’s in as bad condition as my health. I swear, if Dairy Technics gets this new product off the ground, me and every other small guy like me will be out of business. For good.”

  “Oh, I had no idea.”

  “Well, you know I don’t like to worry you with those details.”

  “But I want you to tell me, grandpa. I want to help you.”

  “You help me more than enough as it is, sweetie. The last thing a nineteen year old wants to be doing is worrying about her old gramps back on the farm.”

  “I’ll always worry about you, grandpa. It’s my honor.”

  “You’re a sweet girl, Cherri. You always have been.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  He lets out a little laugh but I can tell from the sound of it he’s scared. He really is facing bleak prospects. There’s no way on earth we can afford that surgery, and with the farm under threat, his life’s work might be wiped out before long too.

  “I’ll tell you what, grandpa,” I say, with no idea how on earth I’m going to back this up. “You leave the money worries to me. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

  “You better not have any tricks up your sleeve, young lady. The last thing I want is you doing something that will get you into trouble.”

  “No, really, grandpa. I might be able to arrange something. Something completely legal.”

  “Don’t even think about it, Cherri. I don’t want you taking chances like that. I know how the world works. There are plenty of ways to make big money in this world, and in my experience, not a one of them is worth the cost.”

  “I just mean I could get another job or something, grandpa.”

  “You just stick to your plans, Cherri. You’re doing great in the city. You’ve got your apartment. You’ve got a job. You’ll have saved up the admission fee for that art school in no time.”

  I think about that and push it from my mind. I haven’t even started to save up the eight thousand dollar admission fee. I lied about it to my grandfather so that he’d be happy about me, but I don’t see art school happening any time soon. Not with the cost of rent here in Manhattan.

  “Well, have you thought about going to the bank?” I say.

  “The bank’s been sending me threatening letters all month, sweetie. They’re the ones threatening the farm if I can’t turn things around.”

  “I’m sorry, grandpa. We’ll just have to have faith on this one, I guess.”

  My grandfather sighs and I can picture him sitting back into his easy chair by the phone. Having faith is the one thing that always calms him down. No matter how bleak things get, if I tell him it’s time for faith, it just works. He gives up his worries and literally remembers that faith is the only way through the hardships of life.

  “You’re a good girl, Cherri. Don’t you ever forget that.”

  “I won’t, grandpa.”

  “Well, I better let you get going. You’ll be late for work.”

  “I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

  “I’ll be looking forward to it, sweetie.”

  I hang up and let out a deep breath. There’s a mirror in front of me and I catch a glance of my face. I’ve never seen myself look so scared. From nowhere, I let out a sob, and seconds later I’m full on crying. I can’t stop myself. He needs that surgery. He needs that farm. What kind of world do we live in where those things can be taken away from a man because of something so meaningless as money?

  I hurry into the bathroom and wipe my eyes. I have to reapply some makeup and when I look again at my watch, I’m well and truly late.

  I grab a coat and my purse and rush down to the street. For a brief second I consider grabbing a cab. Work’s not too far. Probably a ten dollar fare, including tip, but I can’t do that. It won’t make me magically on time, and what if that ten dollars ends up being the difference between us making the cost of the surgery and missing it?

  I run in my heels down the street, thankful that it isn’t raining. I get to the subway station and hurry down the stairs. I have a token in my pocket and hurry through the turn-style. And then, right as I’m hurrying to catch a train that’s about to speed off, I trip and fall to the ground.

  “Ugh,” I grunt as I hit the ground.

  People are everywhere, rushing past me, stepping over me. Not one of them even slows down to see if I’m all right. They don’t even look at me. I pull myself up to my feet and look down at my knees. There’s a big rip in tights and my knee is bleeding.

  Great! I should have spent the ten bucks on the cab. That’s what these tights cost anyway.

  I get in the next train and tidy myself up as best I can.

  All too often, this is what my mornings feel like. This is what my life feels like.

  Like I’m permanently playing catch up. Like if I slow down for a single second, everything will fall apart. It’s exhausting.

  I get to work and Jimmy, my boss, is standing in the doorway shaking his head. Behind him is the Italian restaurant I work at as a waitress. His restaurant. Inside I can see my coworkers, my customers, but I can’t get to them without passing Jimmy. Gross, sweaty, creepy, pervy Jimmy.

  “What time do you call this?” he says, pointing his stubby finger at his wrist.

  There’s no watch on his wrist but I get the point.

  “Sorry, Jimmy, it’s been the morning from hell,” I say, still catching my breath from my run.

  I stop in front of the door and wait for him to get out of the way. He raises his eyebrows questioningly, as if to ask what I’m waiting for.

  I sigh and squeeze in past him. When I’m in the doorway, he purposefully presses his sweaty, lumpy body against me, squeezing me against the opposite side of the door. I feel a hand on my ass and another on my chest, fondling my breast.

  I push past him, shocked that in this day and age, a woman still has to put up with this sort of treatment. Whatever happened to equality in the workplace?

  “Get your filthy hand off me,” I say, pushing my way through the doorway and into the restaurant.

  The restaurant is full of people, it’s permanently busy, but no one is paying us any attention.

  “You’re going to meet me after work,” Jimmy says.

  I roll my eyes.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, if you want to keep this job, and judging from your ripped tights I’m guessing you’re not exactly swimming in money, you’re going to have to be a lot friendlier to me than you’ve been so far.”

  “Friendlier?” I say skeptically.

  “That’s right. You’re going to be real friendly, Cherri.”

  “Oh, am I?” I say, holding back my anger.

  I swear, it’s everything I can do not to swing my purse right into his stupid face.

  “Yeah, friendly. You’re going to meet me round back after close. You’re going to get on your knees. You’re going to open yo
ur mouth, suck my cock, and swallow every last drop I give you.”

  I don’t even know what I’m thinking in that moment. My mind just goes white with rage. I swing my purse and it smacks him clear across the face. He falls backwards and the entire restaurant turns to look.

  I look around at them, at the diners, at my coworkers, I can already feel the tears welling up inside me.

  “You fucking bitch,” Jimmy snarls. “Get the fuck out of here before I have you thrown out.”

  I don’t wait to see if anyone will come to my aid. I just run. I run and never look back.

  Chapter 5

  Clint

  I’m so fucking bored I could shoot myself. If I have to go on one more date with a money-hungry, gold-digger, I swear, I’ll end it all. Women are fun. Sure. They have what I like. Pussy, tits, lips, I like all that as much as the next guy. More, in fact. I live for it.

  But spending night after night with some girl from a bar who’s only there because she knows you’re a billionaire, that shit gets old, know what I mean?

  I need to shake things up. I need to make a change. I’m not exactly sure what I want, but I’ll know it when I see it.

  At least, I hope I will.

  I sit down at my desk and open an escort site. Beautiful woman after beautiful woman. All with the same perfect legs, same perfect hair, same fake smile.

  What’s a guy got to do to get something new? Something fresh? Something real?

  There’s a knock on my door and I close the browser window.

  “Mr. Anderson?”

  It’s my assistant, Jeb. He’s gay, and I’ve seen the way he looks at me, but I’ve never been bored enough to go that far, if you know what I mean. I want something new but not that new.

  “What is it, Jeb?”

  “It’s this Dairy Technics deal. Looks like the team’s come up with a few bidding strategies.”

  He struts over and hands me the strategy document. I scan through it. It’s the same old shit. Bid high, force his hand. Bid low, get him to let his guard down. I know none of it will work.

  Wes Eastwood is no fool. He didn’t get to be the youngest billionaire on the street by falling for shit like this. I crumple up the document and take aim for the basketball hoop hanging over my trash can. Swish! The document hits the trash can and Jeb gets the message loud and clear.

  “We need something different for this one, Jeb. Did I fail to make that clear in the meeting?”

  “Eh, no sir, you made it perfectly clear.”

  “Then why are the sending me this shit? You know we won’t beat Wes with crap like this. He wants this deal. I can smell it.”

  Jeb scurries off back to the team and I pour myself a neat bourbon and take a sip.

  Wes has been my biggest rival since forever. I fucking hate that people refer to him as the youngest billionaire on Wall Street, because technically, it’s misleading. The truth is, Wes and I are exactly the same age. Yup. One more thing we have in fucking common. We have the same birthday, the same year. We’re both thirty-nine. We’re the same age to the exact day. And we’re both billionaires. So how can he be the youngest billionaire? Because he hit the magic number first, that’s how.

  He was a billionaire before me. I thought I had him beat, but he pulled a fast one on me. He’s always pulling shit like that. Which is why I’m determined to beat him this time. He comes from dairy farmers. He cares about dairy farmers. And I’m going to own the company that outsources dairy farming to Asia, or Mexico, or wherever’s fucking cheapest.

  I can’t wait to look him in the eye and say, “Too fucking bad, Wes. That’s business.”

  Not that I hate him. I’m his kid’s godfather. I’m just a competitive prick. Hey, at least I’m honest.

  I sip my bourbon and there’s another knock on the door.

  “What now?” I growl.

  It’s Jeb again, this time with my head of legal and head of strategy. All three enter the room timidly.

  “I hope you’ve come up with something more than just, ‘try to win,’ this time.”

  “I think we have, sir,” Jeb says.

  I look at him and then at the two advisers standing slightly behind him. Between the three of them they probably earn more than ten million dollars a year. Let’s see if all that brain power has paid off.

  “Well,” I say, impatiently, “what is it?”

  The head of legal takes over. He’s a slick, heartless lawyer who made a name for himself tearing down factories and putting the workers out of the job. Just the kind of ruthless prick I like to have on my side.

  “We’ve come up with a strategy, sir.”

  “No kidding,” I say, throwing my hands up. “Are you going to tell me what it fucking is?”

  “Well, sir, it’s a little unusual.”

  “Are you going to make me fucking guess, or are you going to say it?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s … well. It’s just …”.

  “Just what?”

  “I’m not sure you’ll like it.”

  I look at the lawyer. I know he’s done some pretty heartless things in his career, so if this one’s giving him pause it really must be bad. I take a long sip of my bourbon and slam down the glass.

  “Will it make us win this Dairy Technics deal?”

  “We, I mean, I, I think so, sir.”

  “Then I like it.”

  He steps forward and hands me a legal brief.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s the strategy, sir.”

  “This is a child custody document.”

  “It’s a child protection complaint, sir.”

  “A what?”

  “A child protection complaint. Sir, Wes Eastwood is a single father.”

  “I know he’s a single father. I’m his kid’s godfather.”

  “That makes him vulnerable, sir.”

  “Vulnerable, how?”

  “We can say he’s failing as a parent.”

  I let out a hollow laugh. “Wes is the best father I’ve ever seen in my life. Even without a mother that kid knows one hundred percent he’s loved.”

  “Yes, sir. You know that, but a judge won’t.”

  “What judge?”

  “A family court judge.”

  “And why would a family court judge be looking into Wes Eastwood’s parenting.”

  The lawyer clears his throat. Here it comes.

  “Because we have a child welfare officer on our payroll, sir. We tell her to issue the court order saying Wes is a bad father. He’ll be forced to show up in court or risk losing his kid.”

  I look at the lawyer and have to resist flinging my glass at him. I’ve seen some pretty underhanded bidding strategies in my day, but this is fucking low.

  “And how would that help us with the bidding war?”

  “Well, sir, we can fix it so the hearing is on the day Dairy Technics closes. Wes will be distracted by the court hearing. He’ll be worried about losing his kid. He won’t care about a business deal.”

  “So that’s how we win? By cheating?”

  The three men in front of me nod their heads.

  I think about all the times I’ve been with Wes and Brady. Wes really is the best father I ever knew. He’d die for that kid, and there’s a very deep part of me that respects the fuck out of Wes for being that way. It’s more than my father ever did for me. I know it’s more than Wes’s father ever did too.

  “It’s low,” I say. “Attacking his family like that. It’s below the belt.”

  “Well, sir. He wouldn’t actually lose the case. Any judge would immediately see that Wes Eastwood is a good father. He’d be in and out of that courtroom without ever being at risk of actually losing.”

  “How could we be sure he wouldn’t lose?”

  “Unless he suddenly becomes a really shitty father, he wouldn’t lose.”

  “So he’ll get to leave with his kid?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course. We just want to distract him while the auction is closing
. We don’t actually want to harm his family.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Do you have any idea what Wes would do if he ever found out about this?”

  “He won’t find out, sir. The child protection officer, she’s under our thumb. We have photos of her cheating on her husband.”

  “Oh, we do? And how did we get those?”

  The lawyer looks at me, then at Jeb and the head of strategy.

  “Because I’m the one who fucked her. I knew we’d be going up against Wes, and I knew he’s a single dad.”

  “So you took it on yourself to fuck a married child welfare officer so that you’d have this on her?”

  He clears his throat.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I pick up the bottle of bourbon and pour another glass. I hand it to the lawyer.

  “Fucking genius,” I say.

  Chapter 6

  Clint

  I put on my jacket and head out of the office.

  “Jeb, I’m calling it a night.”

  “Good night, boss.”

  I get in the elevator and ride down to the lobby. At this hour, the place is deserted apart from a few security guards. One of them opens the front doors and I see my driver isn’t where he’s supposed to be.

  “Where’s my car?” I say to the guard.

  It’s their job to call my car when they see me getting out of the elevator.

  “Your car, sir?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re new.”

  “First night on the job.”

  I sigh. “Well let me give you a little tip. When you see me get out of that elevator over there, the one marked Executive, press the button on your radio with the picture of the car on it.”

  “Oh!” he says, suddenly remembering pretty much the only detail of his job that doesn’t involve sitting on his ass.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  He’s pressing it now but I shake my head. “Don’t bother. I’ll walk. When my driver gets here you can send him home.”

  The guard apologizes while I walk away. It’s a nice night and I don’t mind getting a little air. Wall Street is pretty deserted at this time of night but there are a few clubs and bars I know of. They’re private places, only open to members, and you’re not going to find any of the riffraff you find in other neighborhoods.