Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(2)

Dashing forward, I cut through the crowd and manage to get shoved and cursed at, proof these people take their auctions really darn seriously. Or that they’re rude. Or both. I try to inch forward again and end up several steps in the wrong direction. My gaze collides with my crazy cowboy, and we have a silent communication. He is going to help me—that understanding comes a second before he turns and becomes my personal linebacker. In a blink, I’m at the front of the group, and Ella’s nowhere to be seen. As I quickly try to determine what’s in the unit before the bidding begins, in a flash my cowboy goes one step beyond what he’s already done, placing himself in front of the auctioneer to talk up a storm, buying me time to decide if I want to buy this final unit. I lean left and right, seeing stacked boxes, hating the way we’re only allowed to glance inside before making our decision to spend money.

Remembering my online auction-hunting class, I notice the boxes are neatly stacked and sealed, which means care was taken in packing and the contents are not likely broken. The person who owned the items seemed to care about them, and since they are sealed, the owner hasn’t come back and taken out the good stuff before the auction. It’s not a bad unit, but I feel really sad for this person losing their belongings, and I remind myself that if I don’t take the unit someone else will; this person’s life’s possessions are lost, no matter what.

The bidding starts and it quickly goes up to $300. Ella appears in the front row and raises her hand for $350. Bidding for me, I know, and I’m not letting that happen. My heart is racing, but I raise my hand and end up making it $400. From there, the bid moves to my ceiling of $500 so fast, I have whiplash. Ella raises her hand and bids again. I grab her arm. “No,” I warn. “No higher.”

“Six hundred dollars!” she shouts out, and before I can stop her, she’s gone to $700. The deal’s done. She’s bought the unit and I’m going to have to pay. She’s gotten lost in the high of bidding, in a way I can’t and won’t.

The crowd begins to dissolve and I let my face drop to my hands, dreading my return to the ramen noodles of my college days that I’d left behind last year. Ella grabs my arm and pulls it down. “Stop fretting. It’s going to be an amazing buy.” She glances at her watch. “It’s only four o’clock. We have plenty of daylight left to dig through our units after we pay.” She smiles at me. “Don’t worry. I have some cash set aside for the sole purpose of turning this into a success.”

“So is this your career?” I frown, a comment she once made coming back to me. “I’ve never asked, but I think I remember you making some comment about teaching?”

Her gaze cuts upward and back. “I have an endgame, and this is the means to that end.” It’s not really an answer, and as she motions me forward, I get the idea that she’s not eager to go where this conversation was headed. Like I’d hit a nerve. “Let’s go pay and get our keys,” she says.

Pay. Yes. We have to pay and I’m not letting her fund my unit, which means I’m going to be here all night digging through boxes to find a way to make back the money. My rent is due in two weeks and I need that extra $200 she just spent for me to write the check, without dipping into my savings, which I have a rule not to touch. And I learned the hard way that once you break your rules, you end up in trouble. And the last thing I need is more trouble when trouble is what I’ve left behind.

? ? ?

TWO HOURS LATER, I’m on my hands and knees, digging through boxes, and considering all the dirt and dust on me I’m thankful I wore my old jeans and a dark T-shirt. Unfortunately, I’ve found nothing worth $700. Frustrated, I surmise that I’m in good garage sale territory only, and by good garage sale, I’m thinking $300. Frustrated, I stand up and brush dust off my jeans. This unit is only a few months old. I can’t imagine the filth that would be built up in a unit that’s years old.

“You have got to hear this,” Ella says, walking into the unit and holding up a red leather book. “It’s a journal. And let me tell you, what a journal it is!” She sits down on an ice chest.

“That’s someone’s private thoughts,” I tell her.

She glances down at an open box. “And you have someone’s underwear.”

I sigh and claim a crate as my seat. “That’s about all I have in this unit.”

“You have tons of boxes you haven’t opened,” she says. “Once you get them to your house you’ll feel better. I can help you tomorrow if you like.”

This means renting a U-Haul I no longer have the money for. “Actually, thank you,” I say, “but I did that one-dollar one-month rental deal, so I have time. I want to go through everything I can here.”

“Are you sure?” she presses. “I mean, it’s easier to sell from your place. You can list things on eBay and Craigslist, or even have a garage sale.”

“I don’t have a garage.”

“Well, a front yard sale.”

“I live in a town house and this is San Francisco. I have grass patches.”

“No one here expects the word yard to mean grass. It’s concrete. Good is enough.” Her eyes twinkle and she holds up the leather-bound book again. “Back to the journal.” She opens the book and starts to read:

“I will remember tonight forever. Only my hands were bound and I stood in the middle of the room. He was naked and commanding, and it was in those moments that I would have done anything to please that man.”