Page 1 of Lucky Girl

ChapterOne

Eamon Keegan

My flight from Chattanooga was uneventful, as expected. Tennessee is where I call home despite owning many properties all over the country. I was born and raised within five minutes of where I currently reside. The only time I ever lived outside Chattanooga was when I lived in California for college. In fact, my entire family has lived in Chattanooga since my grandparents emigrated to America in 1949. Chattanooga was the perfect place to settle down for them. It has a city vibe while still being nestled in the mountains, which is perfect for me. We have since modernized the business, changing with the times. It is also the base of operations for my own company, Keegan Technologies. I still sit on the board of my family's company, which primarily deals with textiles. Located downtown, my building is among the tallest, situated on the corner of Market Street and MLK, directly across from the electric company's compound of buildings. Because of my success, the empire I've amassed attracts the wrong kind of attention. Exactly the type of attention I don’t want from my wife. As one of the richest men in America, I can no longer tolerate the games. Women throw themselves at me on a daily basis, ones I have absolutely no interest in. I am looking for a woman who knows the score from the very first. This wouldn't be about love. I don't think it exists. At worst, this would be a business arrangement and a tolerable companionship at best. I will remain faithful to my wife and expect the same in return. All in all, I don't think that I am asking too much.

Knowing exactly why I am here, Reno, Nevada isn’t exactly a hotspot on my list of places to visit, but a wife auction is just about the only thing that would get me to this desert tourist trap. My friend Kiernan from Atlanta met his wife Helena through this auction several Christmases ago. Last month, I went down to Atlanta for a meeting and met up with him for drinks. I was surprised when he had a wife in tow. I hadn’t seen him for a while, but it was still shocking. They were eager to tell me all about where they met. Then he suggested that he use his influence to get me in. What is it with married couples always trying to pair people off? At the time, I declined. Then I thought more and more about it, eventually thinking it would solve all my problems. I called him last week and asked him to do it, and now here I am.

A verifiable parade of women strut across the stage, all in various stages of dress. None of them capture my attention other than a passing glance, just as I suspected, but their biographies are being read out by a man dressed as a circus performer. It makes me want to laugh. The auctioneer is not giving this a level of credibility that I am comfortable with. How can I be expected to choose a wife from a place like this? I am about to throw in the towel as an audible hush comes over the crowd. I bring my now warm whiskey to my lips; another woman comes out and promptly almost choke on the amber liquid. The woman is straight out of my dreams.

At first, all I can see is her shiny, possibly glittery green heels. Then I look up. A mistake to be sure. Her long, thick legs are mouth-watering. She is just wearing a black bra and panty set, with a sheer black cover-up. Her body language completely conveys her discomfort. I can tell she's never been this exposed before, and that excites me like nothing ever has. Her tits are huge, and she has a soft belly. I have a fierce need to run my fingers over the smooth expanse and grip her hips while I fuck her hard and fast. I’ve never been with a woman, but I know what to do. For the first time, I have a primal need to wed, bed, and breed her. All from a look. A single fucking look, and I am hooked on 317. I chance a quick glance down at the, I don’t know, dossier or menu of those on the auction block. 317 is gorgeous, young, and about to be all mine. I’d feel like a dirty old man, but I want her so fucking bad, I don’t care.

I drop the packet onto the floor and scan her body, starting with those crazy Saint Patrick’s Day shoes. When I get to her face, I gasp. The picture in the packet doesn’t do her any justice. Her chocolate-colored eyes are expressive, and they are staring right at me. I watch as she takes a deep, calming type of breath, and I mirror her action. Her long brown hair is a riot of curls. I can imagine the ends of those curls tickling my thighs as she rides my cock. Speaking of, I shift in my seat to adjust my erection. Today is my thirty-fourth birthday. A thirty-four-year-old man shouldn't get erections just from looking at a gorgeous girl, but here I am with my dick uncomfortably hard and getting harder.

"Item 317 is from Howth, County Dublin, Ireland. She is eighteen years old, with dual citizenship. She is determined to be the wife you need. I am also told she's been certified a virgin. Damn. The second one in years, gents. Very rare in this day and age. Shall we start the bidding at ten thousand dollars?" I raise my paddle, as do several other men.

Fuck that. She's mine. I could kill all these motherfuckers and take her for myself, but then I’d be in prison and unable to enjoy the spoils of victory. Better to just bid on her until I possess her unique beauty.

Back and forth we go until it's six million and the same number of people are still bidding. Fuck this. I stand, paddle still raised.

"Yes, sir?" The ringmaster asks.

"Ten million dollars." My girl gasps loudly. Our eyes meet again and what I thought I wanted is out the fucking window. She'll be mine, heart and fucking soul.

"Ten point five," another man says, also standing. The other bidders drop their paddles. I grin.

"Eleven," I counter.

"Eleven point five,"

"Fifteen million dollars," I say to a now silent room.

"Sir?" The ringmaster asks the other man, who shakes his head and sits down.

"Going once, going twice, sold to paddle number 69 for fifteen million dollars. Our highest bride price to date." He bangs his gavel on the podium, sealing my fate. A drop in the bucket, I would have given my very last dime if it meant she was mine.

An older woman wearing an austere black dress comes up to me, different than the butler-type who brought me my drink when I first arrived.

"Congratulations on your prize. Come this way, sir," she says, leading me from the stage area to a private room. "You will have some time to go over the contract, and as soon as you initiate the money transfer, you will be brought to your bride."

"Very well. Thank you," I say as she hands me a folder. She leaves, and I take a seat in the leather chair in the room. Opening the folder, I find two identical pieces of paper. As a man who reads numerous contracts a day, this seems pretty standard, except for the addendum written in swirling cursive and hot pink ink. Fiadh Mulligan, as I learned her name from the contract, would like her immediately available percentage sent to a specific bank account that does not belong to her, taking nothing for herself. I can’t help but wonder how her name is pronounced; despite my Irish heritage, I’ve never heard it before, but I set that aside for now. I am sure that I will learn it shortly. Continuing down the contract, the rest of the money is available to her once we've been married for five years, minus the auction house's fee. All pretty standard for something that I think might be illegal. I am not even sure this contract would hold up in a court of law, but I digress. I’m here now, committed to this. I sign both copies, right next to Fiadh’s name. I will make sure she wants for nothing. I transfer the money into the two accounts listed on the folder and wait impatiently. A short while later, there is a soft knock on the door, and the woman sticks her head into the room.

"Ready? She's waiting." Standing, I nod, handing her the folder. "We'll have it all notarized before you leave."

"As it should be," I am getting anxious, and I can't contain my asshole tone of voice.

“Are you ready to meet your betrothed?” she asks, smiling, which lights up her face, changing her face from austere to youthful in an instant.

“Yes,” I say, my voice uncharacteristically shaky.

As soon as the door opens, I see her sitting in a similar chair to the one I just left. She is dressed now, thank God. I hated those other men could see what I already think of as mine, but that was before me. I can’t be too upset about it, at least not to her. She has a knee-length black dress on that appears to be tied closed at the waist. That will be easy to open. My cock is hard and heavy, seeking her like a fucking missile.

"Hello. I'm Fiadh Finola Mulligan. It's nice to meet you …" She pronounces her name as FEE-ah, and I love the lilting accent she has. It’s sexy as fuck. She looks at me impatiently, waiting for me to supply my name. Right, it’s my turn to speak now.

"Eamon Willard Keegan," I say, shaking her outstretched hand. The second our skin touches, electricity shoots through my veins. My voice is harsh and full of need. I barely recognize it.

"You’re Irish too?” she asks, and I nod.

“Third-generation in America,” I tell her proudly. She smiles and nods.

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