Chapter 1
Callum
It’s hot.
I’m sure that’s a Captain Obvious statement considering I am in Las Vegas in July.
But I’m not just talking about the heat on the strip.
I’m talking about the heat under the stage lights as a sea of women from 21 to 71 scream at me to “Take it off!”
How the hell did I get here?
How did I go from a business meeting at Hardin Records to a reverse auction for charity?
Yep, you heard that right.
A reverse auction.
I am literally standing on the edge of a stage in some incognito speakeasy hidden beneath the Vegas streets somewhere between the New York, New York and the Luxor.
I'm sun tanning in a myriad of lights coming from every which direction while these hungry women anxiously wait for me to undo my Armani button down so they can wave their bidding paddles.
Meanwhile, my colleague and best friend (we are going to label the latter part of that sentence ‘alleged’ considering the current shitshow I am in) is standing at the back of the room,a cocky grin on his pretty boy face as he claps and whoops and pumps his fist into the air.
Remind me to demote him when I get back to my office in Charlotte.
“This is Cal!” an overly theatrical woman comes over the speakers. “He’s a business owner, a musician, and a silver fox. Not to mention, he needs some help loosening that tie…”
Christ.
I mean two out of three are true.
I am in the top triad of owners of Hardin Records, and I can play the guitar.
I also played the clarinet in the seventh grade, but I didn’t put that on there.
The other two details?
They improv-ed that and I’m seriously going to pop Noah in the face when we get out of here.
If…I get out of here.
Also, my name is not Cal. It’s Callum. But I figured if I want what happens in Vegas to stay in Vegas I probably need to make sure no one makes the correlation.
Pony comes over the speakers and the women are on their feet, miming the loosening of ties and the undoing of shirts.
Some of them are dancing, as if that’s supposed to encourage me.
I square my chest and let out a persecuted sigh.
The only way out of this is to play along, I suppose.
I’m sure there’s a timer or something.
If I don’t get any bids– I mean who would want to pay to go on a date with a guy who would rather go pop a melatonin back at the hotel than spend another minute on the Vegas strip?
Tell me you’re forty-five without telling me you’re forty-five– maybe they’ll just let me leave.
