“Six!”
“Seven!”
A bidding war. Really?
“Ten thousand!” a different woman shrieks.
The auctioneer raises his voice. “Ten thousand dollars! Do I hear eleven?”
Ten. Thousand. Dollars. For a date? Apparently, when women lose their minds, this is where they come.
“Eleven!”
“Twelve!”
Phones tilt higher.
From the wings, Zac mouths, “Flex for the crowd.”
I mouth back, “No.”
He motions for me to smile.
Not on your fucking life.
Then, without warning, he flicks his tongue and tweaks his nipple.
I laugh out loud. Moron.
“Fourteen thousand!”
“Fifteen!”
What exactly do these women think they’re getting for that kind of money?
I shake my head. I don’t want to know.
“Sixteen thousand dollars,” one of the attendants calls out. Those must be for the anonymous bidders currently licking their screens.
I’ve had enough. I give Pix the cue. A slight tilt of my head. The one we agreed on.
Nothing.
No reaction at all.
I do it again.
She shifts, and just when I think she’s about to bid, she?—
Did she yawn?
My jaw clenches so tight I’d hear a molar crack if the catcalls weren’t so damn loud.
I try the cue again. Harder. Sharper.
Her head dips lower.
What is she doing? Checking her email? Ordering groceries? Filing her taxes?
