Page 11 of Bidding War

I used to think of myself as the luckiest bastard on the planet. Born into wealth and great genetics, there was no pretending to be anything but who I am. A rich, handsome man who is in a position to end up with a lot of power. Women liked me, and men wanted to be my friend. All of that got turned on its axis the day I met June Devlin.

High school feels like a thousand years ago. But I still remember her shy smile. The tentative look in her eyes. The way she walked into the room—confident, but she knew she was out of her element. Appleton Academy is one of the most prestigious prep schools in Boston. She was there on scholarship. And I was the little dickhead who pointed out that she didn’t belong there.

I don’t excuse who I was then. Sure, I was just a kid, but so was she. She didn’t deserve to be talked to the way I talked to her. She deserved kindness and empathy, all the things someone should show a new person. But I didn’t hold back. I held court, encouraging my friends to give her a hard time, too. They did until she gave us shit right back.

And that was our four years of high school. Me, attacking. Her, counterpunching. Back then, she didn’t know the reason I went after her was I confused name-calling for tenderness. She didn’t know my father never showed me anything but his disappointment and mockery. She only knew I was terrible to her.

I deserved her vitriol back then. Every bit of it. But now? We made up over all of that. She said she forgave me. As things progressed between us, it became more than how it started—the auction got things going, but we kept them going.

Until now.

Pacing a hole in my carpet is not going to solve this, but I don’t know what else to do. She won’t talk to me. She wishes I had never come into her life. June is all I have ever wanted in life, and I can’t have her because of my father.

And my couple of screw-ups, but mostly because of him.

My phone rings, and I scramble for it, hoping for good news. I answer without even looking at the caller ID. “June?—"

“Not June,” a familiar voice says.

I check the ID and it’s an unknown number. “Who?—"

“It is Moss, your father’s?—"

“I know who you are,” I growl. Moss is my father’s pet enforcer. The one who dragged me on that ride-along. The one who shot and killed three men in front of me. “What do you want?”

His Italian-tainted Bostonian accent always throws me for a loop, and the longer he speaks, the thicker it is. “You will come with me to another job. Your father wishes I educate you on the details of the business. Be ready by?—"

“No.” I hang up.

But he calls again. “We were cut off?—"

And I hang up again. That was why I answered this time. I want him to get the message that I am not doing this. I am not my father’s fucking errand boy. Especially not today.

Yet, he calls again.

This time, I answer, “Moss, I will not be doing that with you. Never. If Dad wants another errand boy, he can hire one. I am not for sale. My morals are not for sale. If you think I will be handled into submission, you have another think coming.”

“But Anderson, he thinks this is a perfect job for you. Nothing like the last one, I promise.”

“It will be nothing like the last one because I won’t be there. I’m not fucking stupid, Moss. I know why he wants me there. Do not call me again.” I hang up and turn my phone off. I hadn’t wanted to turn it off in case June reached out, but this is bigger than our fight. Involvement in a criminal situation will end badly for me, and Dad will make sure of it. Last time, he made sure to have footage of the murders. This time, who knows how far he would go to keep me in line?

That’s the whole point of all this. He doesn’t like it when we aren’t under his control. The bastard froze my assets when he thought I was spending too frivolously. I’m thirty years old. He had no fucking right except that my accounts are under the business’ purview. We keep everything tied to the business, so in case something were to go wrong legally, then our assets are not available for scrutiny. Or so the theory went.

A mistake I intend to rectify.

But first, I need to get June back. To do that, I have to see Dad. Even if she never wants to see me again, I still owe her four hundred thousand dollars. And I will pay her. The question is, what will it cost me?

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7

JUNE

My place isn’t extravagant, but I have savings, which gives me a sense of predictability in a chaotic world. It’s comfy, too. Buttery yellows, white, and a few pops of grass green to make everything feel lively without being loud. It’s not much, but it’s home.

After a long hot shower full of crying, I slip my pajamas on and root around for the bottle of cheap vodka I bought a long time ago. It has to be in the back of my cabinet. I just know it. Feeling around back there turns up an old cake plate I thought I got rid of years ago and a candleholder I bought in college, but no vodka. So, I try the next cabinet and sure enough, there it is. My security vodka.

I love this brand because, for whatever reason, it works like liquid Xanax. I just have to drink enough of it, and soon, I won’t give a shit about anything. Vanilla ice cream takes the sharp edge off the cheapness of the vodka, so I grab the quart I keep in the freezer for emergencies. But when I peel the lid back, it’s almost gone.

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