Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
I already do.
But I straighten my lapels, smooth my jacket, and walk toward the stage.
It’s auction time.
16
THE BACHELOR AUCTION
Kayleigh
The first thing you notice about the North Side Country Club is that it never lets you forget where you are: even the valets, even the air, even the thick old carpet seem to whisper “You do not belong.” This thought, or some cousin of it, is in my head before I’m even through the doors. I’m twenty-one years old, three months out of college and a veteran of the county jail, but standing here in one of Stella’s sexy black dresses, I feel like a twelve-year-old playing adult—awkward, overdressed, and wrong in a way no tailor can fix.
The grand ballroom is a mirrored box, all gold molding and marble, every surface blinding with crystal refractions. The club must have spent a fortune on the flowers: every table ringed with white orchids and glass peonies, every inch of air shivering with gardenia and some other note so sharp it actually makes my teeth ache. Above the tables, three chandeliers the size of compact cars throw their prisms across the room; the effect is like being inside a cut diamond, all sparkle and no substance. I catch my own reflection in the wall of mirrors, then instantly look away.
I do not want to see myself.
But Stella’s here, and Stella won’t let me hide. She tugs me forward by the elbow, heels biting into the rug as if she owns every inch. “Come on,” she hisses. “You’re not even late. The main event doesn’t start for fifteen. Plenty of time to get our table buzz going.”
We make our way through the bar area, which is already humming with the usual Friday night fauna: a few fifty-year-old men with tan lines and Patek Phillipes, dashing in their black tuxes; and then the younger guys also in black tuxes, all of them carrying the scent of single malt and the faint, unmistakable nervousness of men about to be appraised by a roomful of women. The female energy, though, is the real threat. It pulses. It circles. The wives, the daughters, the spangled throngs of divorcees—each one sharper and more predatory than the last, eyes like lasers picking off weaknesses at a hundred yards.
None of them are interesting to me though. I keep my head down and focus on the click of my own heels on marble. Stella got me ready tonight, and she was not gentle about it: hair blown out in loose, pageant-perfect waves, smoky eyes that look too large for my face, and a black silk dress that grips my hips so tightly it feels like a third hand. It isn’t my color, and it isn’t my vibe, but Stella said it was “the move” and when Stella says things in that tone, I obey.
The ballroom is already half full. I spot our assigned table—#7, near the stage, too close to the action for comfort. A few women are already there: one in a metallic gold dress, her hair in a strict topknot; another in a powder blue sheath, her nails so long and white they look like little tusks. There is a third, late-twenties, in a bandage dress and diamonds, laughing softly at something on her phone. None of them look up as we approach. All three are deep in some kind of ritual pre-auction psychological warfare.
Stella sits first, flashes her signature everything-is-fine smile, and then turns to the woman in gold. “Sorry! We’re Kayleigh and Stella, Table 7. The list got so complicated this year, I wasn’t sure who was going to sit where. You guys look amazing, by the way. I love your shoes.”
They do the necessary volley of compliments. I manage to say “Thank you” and “You look so elegant” at the right moments, and only have to fake-laugh once. The paddle is already at my place setting, crisp white with a black block 7. There is a tiny bottle of Moët, unopened, and a single gardenia tucked into the fold of the napkin.
I pretend to care about the flower. The scent is so thick it makes my eyes sting.
I try not to think about last week. Jail. The bench. The cold, sour taste of my own sweat, and the guard’s eyes as he looked at me—amused, bored, as if I were some weird bug in a jar he couldn’t quite decide to kill. I try not to think about how I stripped, slow, performing, only for him to turn and laugh to the other guards: Look at her, like she thinks this is a movie. I try not to think about how I wrapped up after, all empty and hollow, or about how Trevor looked at me when he picked me up the next morning. Like I’d broken something in both of us.