16. The Bachelor Auction
THE BACHELOR AUCTION
Kayleigh
The first thing you notice about the North Side Country Club is that it never lets you forget where you are: even the valets, even the air, even the thick old carpet seem to whisper “You do not belong.” This thought, or some cousin of it, is in my head before I’m even through the doors.
I’m twenty-one years old, three months out of college and a veteran of the county jail, but standing here in one of Stella’s sexy black dresses, I feel like a twelve-year-old playing adult—awkward, overdressed, and wrong in a way no tailor can fix.
The grand ballroom is a mirrored box, all gold molding and marble, every surface blinding with crystal refractions.
The club must have spent a fortune on the flowers: every table ringed with white orchids and glass peonies, every inch of air shivering with gardenia and some other note so sharp it actually makes my teeth ache.
Above the tables, three chandeliers the size of compact cars throw their prisms across the room; the effect is like being inside a cut diamond, all sparkle and no substance.
I catch my own reflection in the wall of mirrors, then instantly look away.
I do not want to see myself.
But Stella’s here, and Stella won’t let me hide. She tugs me forward by the elbow, heels biting into the rug as if she owns every inch. “Come on,” she hisses. “You’re not even late. The main event doesn’t start for fifteen. Plenty of time to get our table buzz going.”
We make our way through the bar area, which is already humming with the usual Friday night fauna: a few fifty-year-old men with tan lines and Patek Phillipes, dashing in their black tuxes; and then the younger guys also in black tuxes, all of them carrying the scent of single malt and the faint, unmistakable nervousness of men about to be appraised by a roomful of women.
The female energy, though, is the real threat.
It pulses. It circles. The wives, the daughters, the spangled throngs of divorcees—each one sharper and more predatory than the last, eyes like lasers picking off weaknesses at a hundred yards.
None of them are interesting to me though.
I keep my head down and focus on the click of my own heels on marble.
Stella got me ready tonight, and she was not gentle about it: hair blown out in loose, pageant-perfect waves, smoky eyes that look too large for my face, and a black silk dress that grips my hips so tightly it feels like a third hand.
It isn’t my color, and it isn’t my vibe, but Stella said it was “the move” and when Stella says things in that tone, I obey.
The ballroom is already half full. I spot our assigned table—#7, near the stage, too close to the action for comfort.
A few women are already there: one in a metallic gold dress, her hair in a strict topknot; another in a powder blue sheath, her nails so long and white they look like little tusks.
There is a third, late-twenties, in a bandage dress and diamonds, laughing softly at something on her phone.
None of them look up as we approach. All three are deep in some kind of ritual pre-auction psychological warfare.
Stella sits first, flashes her signature everything-is-fine smile, and then turns to the woman in gold. “Sorry! We’re Kayleigh and Stella, Table 7. The list got so complicated this year, I wasn’t sure who was going to sit where. You guys look amazing, by the way. I love your shoes.”
They do the necessary volley of compliments.
I manage to say “Thank you” and “You look so elegant” at the right moments, and only have to fake-laugh once.
The paddle is already at my place setting, crisp white with a black block 7.
There is a tiny bottle of Moet, unopened, and a single gardenia tucked into the fold of the napkin.
I pretend to care about the flower. The scent is so thick it makes my eyes sting.
I try not to think about last week. Jail.
The bench. The cold, sour taste of my own sweat, and the guard’s eyes as he looked at me—amused, bored, as if I were some weird bug in a jar he couldn’t quite decide to kill.
I try not to think about how I stripped, slow, performing, only for him to turn and laugh to the other guards: Look at her, like she thinks this is a movie.
I try not to think about how I wrapped up after, all empty and hollow, or about how Trevor looked at me when he picked me up the next morning.
Like I’d broken something in both of us.
Instead, I sit up straight, cross my legs, and focus on the bubbles in my glass of cava.
Gold Dress leans in, voice pitched for privacy. “Who are you here for?” she asks, a quick glance at the stage where the bachelors will soon be paraded like prime livestock.
Stella is ready: “Definitely Trevor Cahill,” she says, with a breathy giggle. “I mean, look at the lineup? He’s the only one worth bidding on. I hear he’s going to be a trillionaire soon too.”
Bandage Dress rolls her eyes. “Please. Everyone’s going to bid on him. Plus, he looks like he’d throttle you if you said the wrong thing.”
“He probably would,” Stella purrs, “but isn’t that the point?”
They all laugh. Even I have to smile.
But my face feels hot.
I catch my reflection in the water glass, and I do not recognize the girl staring back at me: perfect hair, big lashes, lips done in the kind of red you see in liquor ads and horror movies.
Is this what I look like to Trevor, I wonder?
Is this what he saw when I showed up in his apartment, trembling and desperate and ready to do anything he said?
A clatter of silverware, then a lull. The club’s lights dim a few watts, and suddenly everyone is quieter, more aware.
I glance at my phone. 7:53.
The show’s about to start.
Women around me lean in, fix their lipstick, check their teeth in compacts. There is a low, continuous hum of anticipation. I hear the first clink of paddles being tapped by manicured nails, the soft whistle of ice in highballs, the clatter of the servers bringing more bottles to the tables.
I do my best to look present.
But every thirty seconds, my eyes do a circuit: the entrance, the bar, the door to the greenroom where the bachelors are probably lined up like dogs at a dog show. I even catch a glimpse of my mom and Henry, at one of the tables near the front, his silver head leaning towards my mom’s blonde one.
Everything looks normal, but my heart’s thumping a mile a minute.
I don’t want to see him.
But I can’t help myself.
And then he appears.
I see Trevor from across the room, over the heads of a pack of thirty-something women who are already jockeying for seats near the runway.
He’s in a black tux—no surprise—but it’s the way he wears it that makes the difference.
He’s taller than almost everyone else in the room.
His hair is slicked back, sophisticated, and his face is clean-shaven and sharp as a razor.
The blue in his eyes is visible from here, even with the haze of lights and perfume and noise.
He walks as if the party has been waiting for him, as if the night only starts now that he has arrived.
He is instantly surrounded.
A small herd of women in cocktail dresses intercepts him by the bar.
They close ranks, all smiles and hair flips and subtle, proprietary touches—one on his shoulder, one on his forearm, one actually reaching out to adjust his bow tie.
He doesn’t seem to mind. He flashes them that slow, destructive grin, the one that says: Yes, I know, and yes, you are right to want me.
It makes me want to vomit.
Or maybe it just makes me want him more.
I feel my jaw clench, and I look down at my hands, which are perfectly still.
Next to me, Stella leans over. “Oh my god, he’s even hotter in person. Kay, look at him!”
“I see,” I say, but I do not look again.
Instead, I drain the rest of my glass in a single, burning swallow.
I set it down, pick up my paddle, and run a finger along the sharp black line of the number 7.
The rest of the room, the flowers, the chandeliers, the laughter—everything else vanishes, until there’s just the stage and the man across the room who’s about to be sold to the highest bidder.
And for the first time in a week, I feel alive.
To my surprise, the auction doesn’t start immediately. Instead, the crowd hums a bit more, and a tall man materializes at my elbow when I get up to grab a drink from the bar.
He’s unexpectedly handsome, with hair so blonde it almost glows against the black of his tux.
He appears at my left, sliding against the wood bar and nodding his head toward me in a way that suggests both athletic grace and the practiced ease of a man who has never once encountered resistance.
His skin is tanned a kind of perpetual summer, and his teeth are the white of fresh business cards.
“Don’t worry,” he says, low enough that only I can hear. “I’m only here to keep your friend’s claws out of my boss’s wife.”
I glance and sure enough, Stella is leaning across Gold Dress’s lap to talk to a handsome older man, laughing at something while Gold Dress stews. The woman has her lips pursed, her expression tense.
“Is it working?” I say, mostly to give my mouth something to do.
He smiles, that easy, melting smile. “If I’m being honest, no.”
I laugh.
“Well, that’s Stella,” I say in a rueful tone. “You can’t control her, so don’t blame yourself.”
He chuckles and offers his hand. “I won’t. I’m Evan Fine, by the way. Yes, rhymes with wine.”
The handshake is warm, his grip dry and direct. His palm is callused, a little rough in a way that surprises me. “Kayleigh McEnroe,” I say, and instantly regret how stiff my own voice sounds. “No relation to the tennis player.”