Cassandra is sweet for checking in with me. But there’s honestly nothing that she can do.
I was totally fine with getting up on stage and advertising my services ten minutes ago. Services such as cooking, cleaning, and running errands.
Now, I feel totally self-conscious knowing that Crosby is out there, somewhere, watching this whole auction play out, knowing what he must think of all of these Greek life shenanigans. I hate this.
I want to turn around and run off the stage.
This is ridiculous, and I finally see it.
Shit.
Still, this event is not about him or me. This is about the animals.
Anyway, there is no him and me. Crosby has just gotten under my skin for some reason.
I don’t know if it’s about the way his swagger pisses me off or the way his wicked, boyish smile makes me tremble down deep in my nethers. I just think he’s going to judge me. He’s going to stand there and watch me strut on the stage, and he’s going to be internally mocking me.
But then again, why do I care? I don’t! I’ve never given a fuck about what anybody thinks, not in my entire life.
I didn’t care that Penny Presley in high school thought I was too fat to be considered for homecoming court, and I refused to withdraw my name, and I beat her ass by a hundred votes.
I didn’t care that nobody thought a plus-size-only sorority could ever be a thing, let alone a thing that someone would want to get into.
But here we are. I am Leela Gamble, dammit. And I am a force to be reckoned with.
Crosby Nash already hates Greek life. So, no matter what I do or who I socialize with, he will sit in judgment of it.
Well, fuck him. And fuck all the Crosbys of the world. I summon all of that I Don’t Give A Fuck energy, and I strut out onto that stage.
Zeta Gamma Nu’s vice president, Damon Short, announces my stats as I strut out there, under the spotlight. The cheers and applause buoy me forward.
“Next up is Leela Gamble, the sweetheart of PMU. Oh, I’m sorry. I meant to say the baddest bitch who ever came down out of the Black Mountains.”
Everyone laughs, including me. I don’t have a problem being called a bad bitch. Or that I’m teased about my thick drawl or my old-fashioned manners. Or that my parents attended this school on a low-income-based scholarship before building their legal empires. I own all of it. I made and molded myself into what I am today.
“You can have Leela’s services for the entire weekend with your winning bid. Leela’s our biggest ticket item of the night. The bidding is starting at $1,000 for this beauty.”
Cheers. Whistles. I don’t necessarily need the affirmation but not gonna lie—it feels pretty good.
“One thousand,” shouts a voice I recognize as the spawn of the Earnhardt clan from near the front row.
One of the several Petty progenies in attendance starts the bidding at $1,050.
Gordy Pearson bids $1,300, to many shouts of approval.
Then a voice from the back of the room shouts commandingly, “Two thousand!” That voice sparks both annoyance and strange, dark anticipation. It can only be one person.
Crosby Nash.
A murmur washes over the crowd. Anastasia Rushmore pipes up, “Two thousand one hundred.” I mean, I guess there’s nothing wrong with one of my sisters bidding on me. The rules didn’t state otherwise.
Crosby counters with three thousand. What is he doing?
The auctioneer poses, “Sir? In the back? Bidding customarily only goes up by fifties or hundreds, but if you—“
“Four thousand.”
What the actual fuck is he trying to pull?