That’s going well. I fidget with my hair then tap his name on my phone screen.
His break up glares at me: “This no sex thing is too vanilla for me. I need more. We’re over.”
My heart catches a pain reading it, even though I don’t want him back. I just can’t believe he ended it with a text message.
Scarlette slides my phone away from me. Then Amorette, her sister, reaches over and pours a tiny bottle of tequila into my club soda. I catch her eye, and she winks.
I say, “We’re not supposed to have alcohol in the high school. Don’t get me in trouble. I haven’t officially graduated.”
“Then you better get rid of the evidence.”
Famously terrible advice, but I lift the cup and let the liquid courage slide down my throat.
In a way, I have graduated because I’ve taken finals and I know I passed, but I haven’t gotten my final grades. I’m one of those odd December graduates.
I saw no point in riding out the spring semester when I had enough credits to get the hell out. Not because I’m a stellar student, but because there’s a bare minimum and I met it.
The auctioneer, Jefferson, draws our attention back to the stage as his deep voice booms over the PA system.
“Next up is a big change from the lovely ladies who raised three times the amount needed. Let’s see if the guys can do the same. Winger is the first of the firefighters to auction himself.”
Winger struts on like he owns the place, which I happen to know he doesn’t own the high school. But he can own any room he walks into.
He freaking owns my heart right now, and he owns my virginity if he’ll take it. And that’s where this gets complicated. My sex is far too tingly.
I’m only nineteen and Wingers’ got to be around forty. I’m sure he has no interest in someone like me. With his lean athletic build, overt sense of confidence, and steeled features, I’m sure he has women clamoring for his attention.
But he’s auctioning four hours of his time, and I can use that for a little fix up on my grandma’s house so it will sell for a lot more. That’s why I’m bidding on all of the guys.
To fix the house, not my virginity status. I’ll keep reminding myself of that.
Women start waving their paddles in the air, and their catcalls make them far more vocal than the men were about misconstruing the obligations of those being auctioned. I have no room to judge.
Poor firefighters, don’t they do enough by running into burning buildings? They have to put up with ogling too? I tuck my fantasy back in its place and take another sip of the doctored drink.
Jefferson is talking up Winger and his physical prowess and how he’s a former military pilot, has been a firefighter ever since then, and sows his wild oats in the local biker gang.
Apparently I can ovulate on command.
I’ve always been a lightweight when it comes to alcohol, and the buzz takes hold. Amorette’s fingers wrap around mine and she raises her eyebrows. I can’t believe I’m going through with this.
It would help if I wasn’t so turned on by the firefighters. They’re all older by at least ten years, and I’m sure people are going to have suspicions.
If I still had a boyfriend, it would be less obvious. But fresh out of my relationship, it’ll look like I’m ready to sow some wild rebound oats.
The saving grace for me is that when John moved on, he didn’t badmouth me. As far as I can tell, there’s nothing on the SmorgasSmut social media page. Those people love rumors. So the fact that I’m a virgin appears safe even though there are rumors about my intentions at this auction.
I give a slight nod to Amorette and she helps me lift my hand because I can’t do it myself despite the alcohol.
When I start to lower my number and Jefferson immediately acknowledges another woman’s bid, a streak of boldness hits me. I lift my paddle higher, not needing Amorette’s assistance anymore. These guys are mine.
And it’s safe to say the tequila has arrived for the assist.
The auctioneer speaks too fast for me to keep up, so I listen for the intermittent clear numbers he announces. It’s a frenzy, I’m having a blast, and I’m going to win.
Suddenly Amorette’s pulling my hand down. I grumble at her.
“You won, silly.”