Bought By Two_MMF Bisexual Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Bought By Two

  MMF Bisexual Romance

  Elle Everton

  Copyright © 2017 by Elle Everton

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Bought By Two

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Also by Elle Everton

  About the Author

  Bought By Two

  MMF Bisexual Romance

  Rivals in everything, until they're forced to share the most precious thing of all … her.

  Business. Money. Women. Bennett McCardiff and Sam Baines compete over anything and everything. At The Orchid Room, an exclusive pleasure club where they’re both members, their rivalry is well known and little tolerated. When they nearly come to blows over the same redhead up on the auction block, the proprietors issue them an ultimatum:

  Share her for a month, or lose their club privileges forever.

  Lila Emery is drowning in family medical bills and the auction at The Orchid Room seems too good to be true. A month with a wealthy patron, and the chance to walk away with a stack of cash? Bring it on.

  That is, until she comes up against Sam and Bennett. Two men who can’t seem to agree on anything … except how much they want her.

  But when the three of them are together, something sparks. Something none of them saw coming. Something wrong … yet oh so right.

  It can't last though ... because Lila has a secret. The real reason she was at Orchid that night. And once Bennett and Sam uncover the truth, things may never be the same.

  Bought By Two is a high heat MMF bisexual romance with scenes of MF, MM, MFM and MMF. No cheating and a happily ever after, of course!

  Chapter 1

  Lila

  I slam the door of my ancient Chevy Malibu and pray it doesn’t come right off the hinges. Because that would just be the cherry on today’s shit sundae, wouldn’t it? I’m already late for my lower-than-minimum wage diner job, it’s pissing rain out, and even though I don’t want to admit it, Dad’s cough is really starting to worry me. Let’s just add expensive car repairs to the list, shall we?

  Thankfully, though, the door stays put.

  The parking lot is more lake than asphalt, and I try my best to dodge the worst of the puddles as I dart towards the restaurant. If I was a little kid, or if I at least had a pair of rain boots on, this might actually be kind of fun. Right now though — right now, it just fucking sucks.

  “Dammit!” I shout as my foot hits a surprisingly deep puddle in the parking lot. Water fills my sneaker. My poor white Keds.

  I finally make it to the door of the diner and pull it open with a bang.

  “It’s pouring out there,” I announce as I try to shake the rain off my jeans. My white t-shirt is clinging to my body in a borderline obscene fashion, and I curse myself for not bringing a back-up. You’d think after five straight days of rain, I would have learned a thing or two, but apparently not.

  “You’re late, Red.”

  My jaw tightens. I look up to see Heath Connelly standing right in front of me. Heath who recently got promoted to Shift Supervisor and now thinks it’s his God-given right to patronize every woman here. His eyes travel the length of my body, before coming to a stop over my drenched chest.

  “I’m sorry, okay?” I say, folding my arms over my chest. I turn and head towards the employee bathroom so I can at least wring out my drenched hair.

  But Heath doesn’t seem ready to let it go. He follows me down the hallway. It’s a tight squeeze because the walls are lined with shelves holding bulk boxes of napkins, packets of sugar, and huge bottles of generic ketchup that we have to pour into Heinz bottles.

  “This is the third time this week, Red.”

  “Don’t call me Red,” I say through gritted teeth. “My name’s Lila.”

  I close the bathroom door behind me and then lean against it, breathing deeply. I know Heath has every right to be pissed — I have been late three times this week. If it wasn’t for the fact that he liked staring at my chest so much, he probably would have fired me by now.

  I haven’t told anyone here about Dad, and I don’t intend to. But I seriously have to get my shit together — I can’t afford to lose this job.

  I cross the room to stand in front of the mirror and stare at my reflection for a second. My long red hair is soaked and starting to frizz, and the mascara I’d put on before I dashed out of the house is now streaking down my cheeks.

  Hot.

  I exhale dramatically. “You can do this, Lila.” I say to my reflection. I strip off my sodden t-shirt and then grab a brown paper towel from the metal container on the wall. I use the towel to wipe my chest, arms, and neck, and then I reach into my bag and pull out my uniform. It’s a red and white dress, with short sleeves and a shorter skirt, and I feel like a total dope in it, but tonight I’m actually glad to have something dry to change into.

  Once I’m changed, I grab some more paper towels, wet them under the sink, and dab at my mascara streaks. Then I pull my long hair back into a high ponytail. I hang my soggy t-shirt over the hook on the back of the door and pray it’ll be dry before my shift is over.

  I take one more deep steadying breath before I head back out into the shark tank.

  I find Colleen, one of the other waitresses, out at the bar, cracking open a box of baking soda and shoving it into the bar fridge, which always seems to smell strangely of fish.

  “Which section is mine?” I ask, as I wrap my apron around my waist.

  Colleen turns to face me, blinking a couple of times as if she’s trying to place me. She’s worked here at Earl’s longer than anyone and I think she’s given up on trying to remember the name of every new waitress. I’ve been here six months now, and she still calls me “Kid,” “You,” or “Hey.”<
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  She turns away and punches some numbers into the register beside the bar. Her high blonde pony tail exposes her dark roots.

  “Over there,” she waves a thin arm in the direction of the back of the diner.

  Fuck. Not the back again. “Any chance I can work the front this time? Or help out here at the counter?” I ask hopefully.

  The back of the diner hardly ever gets any customers. It’s dark back there and basically an afterthought. No chance of getting good tips in that section.

  “Sorry, kid, I can’t help ya today. The girls who got here on time got the good tables.” She gives me a look over her glasses. “Better luck next time.”

  “Got it,” I say under my breath. I grab a notepad from behind the counter and head off to the back.

  “What can I get you today?” I say as I approach an elderly couple that’s sitting at one of the tables, barely visible from the front of the restaurant.

  “We’ve been waiting here five minutes,” the man says with a glare aimed directly at my soul. His wife looks just as sour.

  “I’m so sorry about the wait.” I lick my lips and pray that they’ll just order and not put up too much of a fuss.

  “We come here for the fast service, you know.”

  Then maybe you should try sitting somewhere that’s actually visible to the servers?

  “I’m so sorry,” I say again. I don’t bother making an excuse because he doesn’t look like he’s particularly interested in hearing them.

  “I’ll have the bacon and eggs,” he finally says with a grump. “And my wife here will have a cup of coffee and the stack of pancakes.”

  I look at her to see if that’s really what she wants — I’ve never understood women who let men order for them — but she just gives me an even more sour look.

  Okey dokey. I jot everything down in my trusty little notebook and give the couple a nod.

  “Coming right up!” I say cheerfully. I walk away with such a bounce in my step that my damp ponytail swishes against my back.

  It’s all a façade, of course. I just want to get paid.

  After all, working at Earl’s Dine & Dash is hardly my dream. Unlike most people working here, I have a degree and a dream — to work as a journalist. Unfortunately, job opportunities in that field are getting harder and harder to come by, especially as print and magazines are being replaced by online news sources, most of which don’t pay as much as traditional media.

  Maybe if I had more time to job hunt, things might be different — but working at the diner eats up most of my free time. Dad’s medical bills nearly killed us, but drowning in debt seems like a small price to pay for having him still with me. His cancer is in remission now, thank God, even though we’re going to be paying off those bills until we’re both six feet under. He’s still not hearty enough to work so my pay check is all we’re subsiding on right now.

  I keep trying to remind myself that I’m only twenty-four — I still have plenty of time to figure this all out. And I have no problem being patient. I just wish I could get some sign — some sign at all that I’m on the right track. That I’m not going to wake up in twenty years and realize I’ve become Colleen, an Earl’s Diner Lifetime Employee.

  I go to the cash and put in the order for Mr. And Mrs. Grumpy in the back, then bring the wife her coffee. I do a quick scan of my tables, but no one new has come in since I got there. The girls at the front are bustling, but no one — well, except the McGrumpersons over there — ever wants to sit at the back where it’s dark and you can hear the kitchen staff cursing at each other through the thin walls.

  Tomorrow I’ll get here on time — I promise it to myself. I’ll get here on time and tell Heath that I want to work the front, that I can handle it.

  Colleen hustles back in with a load of empty plates and I take the top stack from her.

  “Sure I can’t help out? My section’s pretty quiet.” Now there’s an understatement.

  She blinks at me a couple of times, like she’s already forgotten who I am. Then she dumps the rest of the plates in my arms. “Yeah. You can take these back to the kitchen. Bus boy called in sick again.”

  “Sure thing.” I plaster a smile on my face. Bussing tables won’t exactly get me tips, but if it gets me on Colleen’s good side, I’m willing to do it.

  When the McGrumpersons’ orders are ready, I take their plates to the back. I notice the wife’s coffee cup is empty, so I head back for the pot before she can even ask. I refill her cup and she manages a grudging thank-you.

  I head back to the main part of the restaurant and bus a few more tables for Colleen, then grab a box of napkins from the back and start refilling the dispensers at the bar. From here I can see out the window, and I lose myself in the monotony of stuffing napkin holders while I watch the rain streak down outside.

  Earl’s red and blue neon sign lights up the dark parking lot, and with the rain, the effect is strangely beautiful. The colors light up the wet pavement so that it almost sparkles.

  I stifle a yawn. The rain is so mesmerizing it’s putting me to sleep.

  But just then, a group of guys burst into the restaurant. They’re so loud that every head in the place turns around to face them. They’re probably my age, but they’re exactly the kind of guys I’ve spent my life trying to avoid — douche-y entitled types who drink too much, talk too loud, and think they’re God’s gift to women.

  Please don’t sit in my section. Please don’t sit in my section. Please don’t sit in my section.

  They scan the room, but all the tables in the front are occupied.

  “Plenty of room in the back, boys,” Colleen says as she brushes past them. I groan.

  I wait until they’re seated, and then smooth down my skirt, plaster on a smile, and head back there.

  “Hey guys, can I start you off with some drinks?”

  “Hey, sexy.” A dark-haired guy wearing a Clippers jersey flashes a smile at me. “You’ve got some pretty red hair.”

  Oh, great. Here we go.

  “Thank you,” I mumble. “Can I get you some drinks?”

  “It would look real nice wrapped around my dick.”

  The rest of this douchebag’s followers at the table cackle and laugh as they high five each other. The dark-haired guy makes a lewd gesture that I try to ignore.

  “How about I just bring you some waters.” I don’t pose it as a question. Instead, I turn on my heel and head back to the bar. I take my time getting those four glasses of water and lining them up on one of our circular trays. I remind myself that drunk guys are often the best tippers though, so I put on another smile and take their waters back to them.

  They’ve calmed slightly, and manage to put in their orders without incident. They eye my short dress a little too much for my liking, but if my legs can get me tips, I’ll take it.

  The drunk guys eventually finish their meals, sober up, and head out. I go to bus the table, hoping to find a nice tip, but instead find a handful of loose change, barely more than a couple of bucks. I sigh and dump the coins into the pocket of my apron.

  After working here six months, I’ve come to the conclusion that tip size is roughly commensurate to dick size — the smaller the tip, the smaller the prick.

  I think about all the books I’ve read and movies I’ve seen where a plain diner waitress is swept off her feet by a smoking hot billionaire, and almost snort with laughter. Apparently the writers of those stories have never been to Earl’s. Here we get grumpy old people, drunk college kids, parents with seven kids who proceed to ignore their brood the entire time they’re here, and business men in cheap suits. Not a smoking hot billionaire in sight, sadly.

  When midnight finally rolls around, there’s still no sign of my Prince Charming, and I’m ready to hang up my apron and call it a night. I can’t wait to go home and crawl into bed.

  Just as I start to head to the back to change, Heath calls out to me.

  “Lila, get over here,” he yells, as if I’m a dog.<
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  “What is it?” I drone, exhaustion really settling in now. I rub my aching calf muscles.

  “You’ve got one more table to help before you can end your shift.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I throw my hands up in exasperation. But I stop when I see who’s at the table.

  She’s sitting by herself, reading a book and looking surprisingly elegant and peaceful for someone hanging out in a diner at midnight.

  “I know that girl,” I say to Heath, my brow furrowing.

  He sighs. “I don’t care. Just go serve her. She’s in your section.”

  I grab my apron and throw it back on and then head over to her table.

  “Caroline?” I approach with a tentative smile, not sure if she’ll remember me.

  It takes her a second, but then I see recognition dawn in her eyes. Caroline and I were in journalism school together a few years ago.

  “Oh my goodness! Lila? Lila Emery?”

  “Yes, that’s me!” I sing and press a hand to my chest.

  “Wow, it’s been a while. How are you?”

  “I’m great,” I lie. I mean, great except for the working-at-a-diner thing. And the Dad-with-cancer thing. “How are you?”

  “Great! Super busy. So, you work here?” She looks around. There’s no judgement in her voice but I squirm anyway. Caroline, as always, looks chic and sophisticated in a black turtleneck and her signature black-rimmed glasses. I, on the other hand, look like something from a politically incorrect 1960s comic strip in my stupidly short waitressing uniform.

  “Yep. Just a temporary thing. You know how it is,” I say. I force myself to breathe out. “Still looking for something more in our field.”