by Cassie Mae
“More information, please,” I say.
“One of my bachelors got disqualified. Turns out he’s still married. I need an available, sexy, and looks-good-in-a-tux James Bond type, and—”
“Jace is taken?” I say with a grin, finally getting a taxi to stop for me. Theresa’s been coordinating this Valentine’s Day charity auction since the first of the year, and told me herself that Jace probably would’ve been the top-dollar bachelor if he hadn’t gone and fallen in love with his film agent.
“I meant you,” she huffs, and I envision her loose brown locks blowing around her face, how the sun angling through her apartment window is probably highlighting the little bit of red in her hair. She’s most likely pacing, toying with the bottom of her shirt—which is probably black, sleeveless, and flowy. That particular shirt feels good against bare skin, something both she and I have attested to.
Ah, damn it. I blink, shaking my head, and remember I’m supposed to give an address to the cabbie. I stop my thoughts before they go too far, and say, “Train station.”
“No, wait, don’t get on the train,” Theresa says in the phone. “I need you to be the replacement bachelor. Will you, could you, pretty please? I’ll cook you anything you want.”
I snort into the phone. “Can you guarantee it’ll be edible?”
She hesitates. “I will order you anything you want.”
A laugh rocks my body, and I watch the fare tick up on the cab’s meter. I guess I could; it’s not like I have anything going on tonight. Single on Valentine’s Day doesn’t mean I have a lot of plans, even with Landon back in town. He and Lizzie flew in from their new house in L.A. to pick up some extra stuff they couldn’t get during the first move. It’s been nice, since Landon has been here to balance out the XY-to-XX ratio. While Theresa and Lizzie have been stressing over just about everything having to do with this auction, Landon was able to convince a high-profile actor to participate. It was a much calmer week after that.
“Wait a second,” I say, sitting upright. “Aren’t the bachelors supposed to be, you know, successful and shit? What’s my bio going to say?”
“Six-pack abs?” she offers.
“More like a four-pack.”
“Knows how to have a good time.”
“Oh yeah…spending every waking hour managing a Bed Bath & Beyond and auditioning for off-off Broadway plays is sure to get the bid up.”
“Has a sense of humor.”
“I don’t even have a witty comeback for that.”
“Alec…,” she growls in her half-amused voice, and I refuse to let my mind wander back to her hair or what shirt she’s most likely wearing. “You’re a damn catch. Please say you will?”
The cab turns a corner, nearing the train station. There’s probably not much Theresa would ask of me that I wouldn’t do for her. But still, I’m not sure I’d exactly help bring in money for the charity. Maybe a buck or two. And I’m gonna need a sweeter deal for that humiliation.
“You’re going to need to bribe me with a lot more than takeout.”
“Name it,” she says without hesitation, and I know I shouldn’t—it’s counterproductive in my attempt to move on, but the words come out anyway.
“Play for me?”
The line goes quiet, and I’m ready to let out a laugh and pretend I was kidding. Maybe we’ve gotten to the point when we can joke about what we could’ve had, what I thought we did have for a moment.
But I can’t laugh. We haven’t gotten there yet.
Theresa clucks her tongue twice, something else that is so damn small but ties my gut into a thousand different knots.
“I can do that.”
My eyebrows lift. “Really?”
“You do this for me, I will totally do that for you.”
The cab stops at the station. I look up at the giant billboards and keep my ass firmly planted in the backseat.
“Can you bring me a tux?”
She breathes a sigh of relief, and I can sense her smile, which makes me smile, then it makes me frown. Getting over someone is a real bitch, pardon my French, especially if you gotta be friends with this person.
“Not that kind of auction, but yes, I can take care of wardrobe. Jace has a guy over on 33rd Street.” Of course he does. “I’ll text you the exact address and you can meet up with him there. Thank you…you are a lifesaver.”
“I know.” And a sucker. I slump back against the taxi seat. “See you tonight.”
—
“Dude, what the hell kind of auction is this?”
I yank at the very thin and tight red T-shirt I’m sure only went on so easily because my torso is covered in oil. Jace told me it’s what Theresa wants me to wear, and because she could literally tell me, “Dance, monkey, dance!” and I would, I squeezed myself into it.
“You gotta wear something that tears easy,” Jace says, waving a piece of black fabric at me. He fists each side, and it rips like paper. “More you rip off, the higher the bid.”
I stare down at my stomach and wish I’d at least had a six-week warning to prepare. “I thought this was for charity.”
“It is.” Jace shrugs and tells his “guy” to find a shirt that isn’t for a “twelve-year-old,” and the guy nods in exaggerated agreement. I look down again and the tight shirt has rolled up to show off my belly button. I’m a belly-dancing monkey.
I grab the back of the neck and slide it off, chucking the now oiled-up shirt at Jace’s face. He tosses the shirt away as though it were on fire, and it gets wedged between a pair of blue-and-red Nikes. We’re in a walk-in-type man closet, the likes of which I’ve only seen in the movies. Lots of suits and blazers and ties and shoes, et cetera, et cetera, but there are other clothes in here for metro guys. I assume dressing rooms for big-time theaters look like this.
“Don’t you have any jeans?” I pull at the crotch of the flimsy-ass pants I’m wearing. Pretty sure they’re trying to castrate me.
Jace shakes his shaggy head and opens up a drawer on his right. “You’re wearing about a thousand dollars there. Enjoy it.”
“These are a thousand dollars?” I ask, pulling the material away from my thighs. I look like I belong in Arabian Knights.
“I said enjoy it.”
“This coming from the man in average-Joe clothing.” I wave at him. “I’m not a woman.”
He laughs and crouches down to get blindingly white and red shoes that I most likely will scuff before I leave the premises. “Why’d you agree to do this thing if you didn’t want to get out of your red vest?”
He’s talking about my Bed Bath & Beyond uniform. At least that thing doesn’t cut my scrotum in half.
“Theresa asked me.”
He nods. “That’s all it took, didn’t it?”
“She’s a friend.”
“Bull. If I asked you to oil up and get bid on by a bunch of strangers, would you?”
“Hell yeah. I love you, man.”
“See?” He straightens, holding the winning pair of shoes. “It’s not about friendship. It’s about love.”
I rip the shoes from his hand. Ever since Jace fell in love he thinks he’s all insightful and knowledgeable and shit.
He’s not wrong. But it’s still annoying.
“I can’t help it,” I say. “It’s been years, and I still can’t help it.”
“Well, have you even tried?”
“Tried what?”
“To get over it. Over her.”
Good question. It’s not like I’ve been swearing off women altogether. I go out, kiss, make out a bit, but when it gets to that part when things should probably go further, I can’t seem to, um, rise to the occasion unless I’m thinking of Theresa. And, well, that just ruins it for the both of us.
“Sort of.”
Jace puts his hand on my shoulder. “Other women, man. You need another woman.”
I shrug him off because I’m still not wearing a shirt and I’m not evolved enough to let another man touch my oily should
er. “There is no other woman. I can’t see anyone else.”
“I know. I used to be the same way.” That gets a gut laugh out of me. Before Shay, Jace had eyes for practically every woman.
Jace puts his hands up in his defense. “What I mean is that sometimes the best things you find are in unexpected places. Take a look at Shay and me. I was after another woman when I fell for her.”
“No offense, but you weren’t exactly in love with another woman.”
“Not the point.” He looks at his “guy,” who’s finally come back with a larger shirt, then back at me. “I mean this with all the sincerity of a bro, Alec. Theresa and you? It’s not happening. So find something worthwhile somewhere else. Might be where you least expect.”
The definitive statement should gut me, but maybe I’ve already been gutted to the point where there’s nothing left. Fact is, I’ve been thinking the same thing. I do need to find someone else. Put myself out there. Stop thinking about the one I’ll never have. I could find her where I least expect.
“Like at an auction?” I ask him.
He smirks. “Yeah. Like at an auction.”
Guess it’s not a bad idea. If someone bids on me, they get me for the whole night. Jace fell in love in a week. Landon said it took him a day to fall in love with Liz. Maybe all I need is one night.
One thing first…
“Hey, man, can I please get better-fitting pants?”
He laughs, then shoves a pair of jeans at me.
Chapter 2
PRESENT DAY
“Fifteen minutes! I need all the bachelors lined up here. If you don’t have a number, come get it!”
Imagine a meat factory and the cattle have no clue what’s happening, so they don’t give a shit about lining up. Theresa shuffles around the room, trying to get all us yahoos in the right order, but most of the guys are sneaking peeks at the sizable turnout of hot girls in the audience. Theresa runs a hand through her frizzing, freshly cut hair. It used to go all the way past her ass—I remember the reddish, curly strands tickling my knuckles when we danced together at Landon and Liz’s wedding. She said she was thinking of cutting it then, but it took her a year to finally do it. She said she didn’t have the face for short hair, which is bullshit. Her face is perfect for any type of anything, even the frizzed-out mess it is now.
Damn it. My goal of finding a new woman to serve as a palate cleanser seems completely absurd, since just the sight of her new hairdo renders me catatonic.
I shake it off and weave my way through the other greased-up bachelors, trying (and very much failing) to keep my eyes off the neckline of Theresa’s purple party dress.
“You said something about a number?” I ask in her ear. The small sharp intake of breath and cascade of goose bumps that rise on her skin are not lost on me. She turns her head, one of her earrings brushing her bare shoulder. I give her a completely platonic grin—the one I’ve mastered since she told me that was all she wanted from me.
“You’re here!” She breathes a sigh of relief. Then she fully turns, throwing her arms around my neck. She tucks a finger underneath the collar of the jacket I’m wearing, and suddenly I can feel her heart pound against mine through our clothing. Granted, my shirt’s pretty thin, and, well, her dress doesn’t start until halfway down her chest.
My mouth becomes dry as hell. I have to resist the urge to hold her tighter, hold her forever. I place one hand on the small of her back and squeeze before quickly letting go. Another thing I’ve mastered.
She stands back, a bright but frazzled smile on her pink lips. “You are saving my life right now.”
“I don’t know about that,” I say, pulling out the note card I was told to fill out. It’s still empty. “What the hell am I supposed to write?”
“How great a catch you are.”
She’s on something, and I think I want some of it. “If it’s dead quiet during the bidding, start bribing some of the girls, ’kay? Preferably a blonde. Long hair.” Yeah, I purposely pick her opposite so that I won’t be trying to turn the girl into Theresa in my mind all night.
Theresa’s eyes cut to mine, and I feel my brow furrow at her hard expression. It’s not hostile, exactly—I’m familiar with Theresa’s hostile side—but something’s going on behind those dark brown eyes that I can’t quite pinpoint. I feel a niggle of annoyance because I’m normally so good at reading her mind, but I push it away. It’s good that I’m losing touch. Maybe it means I’m starting to move on.
She lets out a soft breath and plucks the note card from my hand. “I’ll take care of it.” She folds it in half and slides it between her boobs. For barely a second I glance at her chest before forcing my eyes up to the colored lights that highlight the runway outside the curtain.
“The bribing part?” I say with a smirk. If it’s nothing but crickets when I’m onstage, I hope she’ll run to the nearest bidder and give her at least $20 for a pity bid.
Her made-up eyes flick up to mine, and again I’m caught off guard. What’s running through that pretty head?
No, no…I don’t care.
“Alec, I guarantee you’ll get at least one bid tonight.” Her eyes then drop from mine, giving me a deep look up and down. I suddenly feel bare-ass naked in this skintight strip-show wardrobe, even with the nice jacket covering most of my upper half.
“At least,” she emphasizes. The corner of her mouth twitches up, and a piece of her frizzed hair falls from its halfway updo. Just like that, I forget that I’m on a mission to fall out of love with her. I want to tuck that piece back behind her ear, lean in, kiss her full on the mouth, tangle my tongue with hers, find a hard surface to press her against, feel her hands slide my jacket off, cradle her face, run my thumbs over the soft skin of her jaw, tell her I love her, that I still love her, that I’ve never stopped, and finally hear her say the words ba—
“Theresa!”
I jerk back, blinking out of my daze, and glance over Theresa’s shoulder at a woman in a green tank and tight jeans parting the sea of testosterone.
“Two minutes,” she says, playing with her chunky necklace. Her eyes dance between me and Theresa. “Get ’em in line.”
Theresa takes a pen from her hair that I never would’ve seen if she hadn’t pulled it out in front of me. “You’re second to last, Alec. Thank you so much again.” She squeezes my hand before slithering through the crowded backstage. I turn around to try to find my spot, only to feel a soft hand on my shoulder turn me back around.
“You look good,” she says, slowly drawing her hand back. “I forgot how much I love seeing you in red.” Then, with a fresh blush on her cheeks, she spins around and disappears behind the curtain before I can even tell her thanks.
I stare pretty stupidly at where she disappeared for probably much longer than I should, only vaguely aware of some of the conversation going on around me. When one of the other bachelors accidentally knocks into me and apologizes, I finally shake myself out of it and find my spot in the lineup. The two guys in front of me are talking about some business transaction—bachelor number eighteen just sold his boating company to someone in bachelor number seventeen’s family, and apparently they’re both making enough money to afford long days of doing absolute shit and will probably take on a hobby like tennis or something to fill up their time. Oh, to be on the A-list. I pulled an eighteen-hour shift yesterday and then, in my “spare time,” had to practice for my audition today.
It seems everyone in New York but me has found some sort of monetary success. Even my best friends are raking it in now. Landon’s Hollywood bound, and Jace lives on the road (in his massive RV) with his soon-to-be fiancée.
The thud of a microphone quiets the backstage conversations.
“Hi, ladies! Who’s ready to start this auction?”
The screams from the women on the other side of the curtain shake the backstage area so much I start to fear for my life.
“Okay, girls. You’ll have your bachelor until your midnight kiss, unle
ss he’s willing to give you more time—or extra activities—for free.” More cheers erupt. “All sales are final. Let’s get this started!”
The beat of some song I’ve never heard of starts thrumming through the room, vibrating the floor under my feet. The other men chuckle, and some adjust their easy-to-strip attire and fix their hair. Bachelor number one is waved through the curtain, and I can’t see anything, but I can sure hear what’s happening.
“Bachelor number one is a computer analyst and has a beautiful penthouse on the Upper West Side, where he hosts a number of charity events. He’s currently working on his Ph.D., and would love someone to quiz him on anatomy. Bidding is open now….Oh, we already have five hundred. Do I hear a thousand?”
The sound of tearing fabric followed by high-pitched squeals reaches where I’m standing, and I choke on my tongue. The bidding starts at five hundred? I was just hoping to earn this place a couple of bucks, best-case scenario. I guess I should’ve known from Theresa’s knockout dress that it was going to be higher than that.
She did look like a knockout. I may have mastered the art of looking platonic, but feeling platonic is a vastly different story.
All right, then, I’m going to have to do some internal convincing. Theresa didn’t look that great. I mean, her hair was falling out of its updo, and she was a little sweat-glossed from running around. Her neck was very flushed and splotchy, and she kept giving me that look that I don’t recognize. She had some makeup residue under her eyes. But that really doesn’t bother me. Makes me want to reach up and help her out with it, a very lame excuse for touching her. She’d tell me to be careful not to smudge anything else, but even if I did, she doesn’t exactly need makeup. There’s a natural red to her cheeks and lips, and when she wakes up in the morning, her sleepy eyes are wide and open, like she wants to take in the entire world from dawn till dusk.
Damn it. I’d make a terrible lawyer.
A tap on my shoulder makes me turn around, and bachelor number twenty nods to the line in front of me, which is moving up. I close the large gap I’ve let happen during my unsuccessful attempt at making the most gorgeous woman in the world sound unappealing.
