Kurt frowns. “Yeah, but what’s to say the whole crowd won’t up and leave once bidding for him ends?”
Nothing like being in the same room with people talking about you in the third person.Like you have no say over your own life.
“Or worse,” Sheriff Christian says, the creases in his forehead deepening. The ice-eyed sheriff in a Stetson is all steel and disapproval, arms crossed over his chest in a wide-legged stance. “We’re on the edge of a riot. I’ve already told Axel to pull back the booze. But damn …”
Hawk peeks between the curtains, shaking his head and laughing. “There’s this woman out there in a red shirt. Shit, is she drunk! About to start dancing on the tables.”
“I can’t imagine she’s alone,” I mutter. I imagine Catalina tucked nervously in a corner, wishing she’d left before it got out of hand. I wish I could, too.
The momentary elation I felt when Roxy confirmed Catalina is here vanishes in a sickening nausea as I realize what she’s about to witness. After this, she may never want to talk to me again. Not sure I’d blame her. It’s a lot of drama for one person.
I shake my head, pacing back and forth. “Maybe I should leave now. Sneak out and head home.”
Deafening silence fills the air for one pregnant moment.
“No,” Hawk, Kurt, and Christian all exclaim in unison.
I let out a long, pained exhale. “You guys could replace me. There won’t be nearly the same amount of drama …” I don’t mean it rudely. They’re decent-looking guys and all. But I can’t think of anyone else who could engender the kind of fervor I hear coming from the auditorium short of one of the Hollywood Chrises.
“Me up for auction?” Hawk asks, far more animated than I usually see him. “Roxy would kill me.”
“Same,” Christian grimaces. “Or, at a bare minimum, I’d be investigating my wife, Cricket, for the bidder’s murder.”
Kurt chuckles. “You’ve got a lady like that, too?”
Suddenly, all three turn their eyes towards me, as though I’m about to be burned at the stake or guillotined in front of a hungry French mob.
Kurt concludes, “Let’s put him out there and get this over with.”
Christian nods decisively. “Crowd dispersal is of utmost priority.”
Hawk nods, his face grim. “Sorry, dude. But you’re doing this for the greater good.”
And with that final proclamation, all three nod toward the stage where the announcer for tonight’s events, Dallas Kincaid,stands in blingy boots and a fringed black rhinestone shirt, teasing the crowd. “Ready for our first bachelor?”
“Avery Ross! Avery Ross!”
God help me. I mean the unspoken prayer sincerely as I take the stage to a chorus of rapacious screams, so deafening I can no longer hear the music blaring.
The blinding heat from the spotlights mixes with the scent of booze and perfume. The vibrations of the gym’s hardwood floor reverberate with the crowd’s stomping demand for a piece or two of my flesh.
I smile brightly into the lights, putting on my best charming actor facade. Maybe that’s what I most fear Catalina seeing—me being hopelessly, pathetically fake.
Flashbulbs. A wall of cameras. Strangers shouting my name like they own me. Red carpets, afterparties, and headlines I never asked for.
Back then, I couldn’t breathe without someone documenting it, twisting it, selling it. I feel like I’m there again. My stomach drops with a sickening thud.
Dallas’s face betrays momentary surprise at my arrival, messing up the order. He’s one of the rodeo announcers for this town. I found this out backstage while trading stories about how we got our belt buckles.
Turns out, we’re both team ropers. In the off-season, he’s also an auctioneer who can talk many, many miles per minute.
“Wow! We’re starting with the main course. Are you ready for this, ladies?”
“Yeeeeeeees!!!” echoes through the auditorium along with high-pitched screams that make me pull my cowboy hat a little lower, wishing somehow I could cover my ears with it.
Dallas laughs, and I shift my weight uneasily, blinded by the bright white spotlight illuminating the stage. The light isso harsh it carves me out of the crowd like I’m something on display,not someone.
I squint into the glow, searching the crowd desperately for one girl, Catalina Dupont. Every time I blink, I see spots, and every time I squint, I imagine Catalina out there, watching me stumble through this circus. The not knowing what she sees, what she thinks burns worse than the glare.
