Page 6 of Driven (Driven 1)
I am sitting backstage in the chaotic aftermath of the auction, but my mind is still reeling from its events. The last hour and a half has been a blur. A successful blur in fact, but one that has come at a very high cost—primarily my dignity.
At the last minute, one of our “date” auction participants had become ill. With no one else willing to partake and programs pre-printed with a set number of participants, I begged, bribed, and pleaded with every member of my staff to step in and fill the role. Of all of the available people who were not physically needed for the facilitation of the auction, those left were either married or seriously attached to someone.
Everyone that was, except for me.
I whined, cajoled, pleaded even, but in an ironic twist that many of the staff took pleasure in, I became auction block item number twenty-two. So I had to suck it up and take one for the team, all the while ignoring a notion screaming in my subconscious that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
And believe me, I hated every fucking minute of it! From the beauty-pageant-style introduction, to the parading around on a stage like a trophy, to the whistling catcalls of the audience, to the vapid calling of bidder’s dollar amounts by the announcer. The lights were so blinding I couldn’t see the audience, just a vague outline of figures. My time in the spotlight was a haze of embarrassment, the sound of my heartbeat rushing in my ears, and the fear that my sweating from the heat of the stage lights would leave dark marks on the underarms of my dress.
I’m sure if I’d been on the other side of the stage, I would have found the auctioneer’s comments entertaining, the participation of the audience endearing, and the silly antics of some of the women on stage trying to increase their bids amusing. I would’ve watched the contribution total rise and would have been proud of my staff for the successful ou
tcome.
Instead, I’m sitting in the backstage area, taking a deep breath, and wrapping my head around what the hell just happened.
“Way to go, Ry!” I hear the humor at my predicament in Dane’s voice as he makes his way backstage toward me through the twenty-four other women who were willing participants in the auction. They’re all exiting off the stage, gathering their bags of swag items we provided as a token to thank them for their participation.
I glare at him, my annoyance from my first-hand involvement evident. He gives me a wide, toothy grin, as he grabs me in an unreciprocated hug. I’m beyond grumpy. I’m downright bitchy. I mean, what a fucking night! First locked in the closet, then playing unknown sloppy seconds on the conquest list of Mr. Arrogant, and then enduring the humiliation of being purchased like prime beef at a meat market.
I cannot believe the giddiness of the women around me. They are chatting animatedly about their moment in the spotlight and bragging at how much they went for. I’m grateful for their participation, ecstatic at the outcome, but just simply bewildered at their enthusiasm.
The evening’s earlier accusation of being prim comes back to my mind, and I shake it off.
“That was fucking horrible!” I whine, shaking my head in incredulity as he laughs sympathetically at me. “All I want is a large glass—no screw that, a bottle of wine, some form of chocolate, and to get this damn dress and heels off, in no particular order.”
“If that’s all it takes to get you naked, I’d have brought you wine and chocolate a long time ago.”
I glare at him, finding no amusement in his comment. “Too bad I don’t have the right equipment to keep you satisfied.”
“Meow!” he responds biting his lip to suppress his laugh. “Oh, sweetie, that had to have been horrible for you, Ms. Keep-me-out-of-the-spotlight-at-all-costs! Look at you, ” he sits in the chair next to me, putting his arm around my shoulder and pulling me to him. I rest my head on his shoulder, enjoying the comforting feeling of friendship. “At least you sold for above the asking price.”
“You asshole!” I pull away from him, as he laughs childishly at me, rubbing in what he knows is a sore spot. To be honest, I still have no idea what amount my ‘winning bid’ was because I was too busy listening to the frantic pounding of my heartbeat fill my head while on stage.
To say that my ego doesn’t care how much I was auctioned for is a mild understatement. Even though I detested the process, what female wouldn’t want to know that someone thinks she is worthy enough to be bid money on for a date? Especially after my experience earlier in the evening.
“What are friends for? I mean between the bidding war and the ensuing brawl over your potential suitor,” he blows out a large breath, humor in his eyes, “and the all-out melee that ensued … ”
“Oh, be quiet will you!” I laugh, relaxing for the first time at his ribbing. “No really, how much did I raise?”
“Listen to you! Most women would first say ‘How much did I go for?’” he mocks in a high-pitch, pretentious voice, making me giggle, “and then the next question would be ‘How hot is my date?’”
I turn to him and arch my eyebrows in the manner that always has the boys at The House answering quickly—or taking cover. “Well?” When he doesn’t respond, but rather stares at me in mock horror for wondering, I allow myself to become one of the whiney voice women around me. “Dane, give me the details!”
“Well, my dear, you sold,” I shiver in mock horror at his words. He continues, “Excuse me, your future date spent twenty-five thousand dollars for an evening with you.”
What? Holy shit! I’m dumbfounded. I know the starting bid was fifteen thousand for all entrants, but someone actually paid ten thousand more than that? Pride and a feeling of worth soars within me, repairing part of the damage Donavan inflicted earlier on my ego.
I try to rationalize someone I don’t know spending that kind of money on a date with me, and I can’t. It had to have been one of the chair people who worked closely on the board with me. This was the only plausible explanation. Most of the other women on the stage had been part of the elite Hollywood charity circle—they had friends and family in the audience to bid on them. I didn’t.
I can only deduce that it’s someone I’d worked with in making this benefit happen. It’s the only logical explanation for the amount of money spent. I’m flattered that one of the people on either the Board or the organization committee had thought highly enough of me to bid that kind of money. I sigh and relax a bit with the knowledge that I will probably have to go on a date with a widowed elderly gentleman or possibly none at all. Maybe the person just wants to donate to us and will let me off the hook. What a relief! I was worried about the date part. Some loser expecting something in return for his generous donation—ugh!
“So did you see who won the auction?”
“Sorry, sweetie,” he says as he pats my knee. “The guy was off to the side. I was in the back. I couldn’t see him.”
“Oh—okay,” disappointment fills my voice as I begin to worry again.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure it is one of the old guys from the board—” he stops, realizing he’s just implied that those are the only men willing to bid on me. He continues cautiously, knowing full well that I’m in bitch-mode right now. “You know what I meant, Ry. They all love you! They’ll do anything to support you.” He eyes me carefully and realizes he should stop while he is ahead.
