“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us tonight for the annual Christmas Bachelor Auction in support of our veterans. Up next, a man who gives his all to a worthy cause.” He pauses dramatically. “Please show us your generosity as you bid on a date with Harrison.”
Fantastic. Let the humiliation begin.
I step out like I’m auditioning to be a Vegas bottle service boy. The second the spotlight hits me, my brain shuts off.
Deer.
Headlights.
Full system failure.
Along with an unnerving amount of silence.
You could hear a pin drop.
I’m greeted by a sea of wide eyes and raised phones, all locked in that capture-the-car-wreck position.
Then I notice the cameras. So many fucking cameras. Telephoto lenses everywhere.
Not one.
Not two.
Three full rows of press badges.
I did not sign up for this.
I take a few tentative steps forward, clinging to the hope that Pix’s fifty bucks is my Hail Mary pass out of here.
I give a small wave, the universal signal for polite applause and let’s all pretend this never happened.
I scan the crowd for Pix.
She’s nowhere near the front.
Not the middle either.
I tilt my head, squinting past the glare, searching the shadowed pockets in the back rows.
Finally, I spot her.
Barely.
She’s wedged between two women in the nosebleed section, tucked so far back she might as well be hiding behind a potted plant. Shoulders hunched. Chin lowered. Hair strategically shielding half her face.
While the other half is buried in her phone.
Can she even hear from that far back? I mean, she’s practically outside the building.
That’s when the flashbulbs explode like fireworks.
And the room loses its damn mind.
Cheers. Wolf whistles. Applause crashes through the room like a tidal wave.
“Five thousand!” a woman near the front shouts.
Brian’s voice wobbles as he asks, “Do I hear six?”
