Page 1 of Auctioned to the Biker

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MORRISON

“Now this…thisis a fucking motorcycle right here,” Charles Lewellen says before letting out a low whistle.

He walks around his new chrome-plated chopper, inspecting every custom detail he requested. I’m pleased when he nods in approval, the gleam in his glassy eyes letting me know I completed the job to his satisfaction.

“I take it everything is to your liking?” I ask, uncrossing and recrossing my arms over my chest.

I've never liked doing business here in this damn auction house. Still, most of my clientele are filthy rich CEOs and hedge fund bros who love throwing parties and flaunting their wealth. The Naughty List Auction is one of the biggest events of the season for those in the upper echelons of society.

“Incredible work, Morrison. Truly. She’s a beauty, that’s for sure.” Charles takes another swig of his whisky on the rocks and then calls out for one of his friends to show off his shiny new toy. “Derek! Derek, come here and look at my new motorcycle.” His voice is a bit too loud for the space we’re in, which likely means this isn’t the first drink Charles has had tonight.

I take a step back and observe the flock of millionaires gathering around the expensive and ultimately useless bike I just dropped off. It’s gorgeous, yes. Sourcing the parts was a headache but the work itself is solid. Unfortunately, like many of my custom pieces, this chopper will sit in a garage for most of its life, only toted out for special occasions. One ride around the block and then back to the garage. It’s a shame, really.

Not so much of a shame that I won’t do it for a shit ton of money, however. Truthfully, I sneer at these millionaires but their business has made me a millionaire as well. I don’t choose to flaunt my money or spend it on ridiculous things, but then again, I know what it’s like to have nothing.

Looking at my opulent surroundings, I know for a fact these men haven’t clawed their way up from the streets and earned their wealth like I have. Most of them were born with a silver spoon in their mouths and then decided to go on to purchase the entire silver cutlery set as well as a golden one and a crystal one, for good measure.

“Damn, where did you get it?” someone asks Charles.

“You can’t justbuya machine like this,” he answers as if he has any idea what he’s talking about. “I had it custom-made by Morrison over there.” He tips his head in my direction and I give him a nod. This is the real reason I showed up at the auction house tonight. To get more contacts.

Ensuring the safe delivery of a custom bike is important, but I trust the company I work with to handle everything on their end. What I’m really after is more clients. If I’ve learned anything these past several years of working with the hyper-elite, it’s that everything is a pissing contest. Mike got a chopper a few months ago so Charles got a chrome chopper. Maybe Derek will ask for a diamond-crusted chopper and I can charge him two million for it.

Is it shitty of me to profit from their stupid egos and insecurities? I don’t think so. Someone is going to get their cash, it might as well be me. At least, that’s my logic.

Derek downs the last of his drink and places it on a nearby tray before beelining toward me. I already have my business card out, ready to snag another sale.

“Morrison?” he asks, holding out his hand. I shake it firmly, possibly a little too firmly. It’s all part of selling the badass biker persona. Derek retracts his hand and subtly massages his palm where I gripped him rather tightly.

“That’s me. Maverick Motors has a wide variety of motorcycles, each one customized to the buyer’s wishes.” I hand him the card and he examines the fine print.

“Legit, man, this is great. Instead of chrome, could you do a pure gold bike?”

It takes a lot of effort, but I resist the urge to roll my eyes into the back of my head. These men are unbelievably predictable. Plus, a pure gold bike? He clearly knows even less about motorcycles than Charles, which is saying something.

“We can talk specifics once I get you in our system,” I tell him. “Though, a pure gold motorcycle would be… rather difficult. We can discuss gold-plated options or possibly a gold frame with metal alloy parts to withstand more wear and tear than a soft metal like gold.” I can tell from the blank look in his eyes that I’ve already gone way over his head with the details, so I back off a bit. “Send me an email Monday morning,” I say, watching the recognition come back into his features.

“Yeah. Email. Monday. I can do that.”

He's eager to find a way to outdo his supposed friend, and I'm eager to take his money. It's a win-win.

As soon as Derek peels off, another man heads toward me as if he was just waiting for an opening. Yes, I have a feelingit’s going to be a good night for business. Knowing thatalmostmakes up for the venue of the auction house.

I’ve known about the Naughty List Auction, as well as the other events hosted here, for years now. It’s invite-only, super secret, and operates in a gray area of the law. Then again, the transactions that take place here are probably more honest than any business these men do in their ivory towers and corner offices.

Thirty minutes later, I’m down to my last two business cards. I have no doubt my calendar will be full for the next year with all the clients I’ve scooped up tonight. That means it’s time to head home and wash the filth of this place from my skin. Besides, the auction is starting and I want to be long gone before I witness any of the debauchery.

“You’re not sticking around, Morrison?” Charles asks. I didn’t realize he was right behind me. “You know you have an open invite to any of the events. Hell, you’re probably richer than half the people here.” He’s not wrong, but that doesn’t mean I want to live like they do.

“Not my scene,” I tell him, hoping that’s enough of an answer.

“Not your scene? How is this not your scene? You’re among peers, the food is amazing, the drinks are flowing, and we’re about to watch some sexy-as-fuck women get up on stage and beg us to purchase their affections for the night. What else would you rather be doing with your evening?”

I’m about to answer when the lights dim and the emcee for the night directs everyone on how to enter the auction and what the rules are. That’s my cue to leave.

“Maybe next time,” I lie, already making my way to the exit.

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