Fakers (Licking Thicket 1)

Angela Nutter, Amos’s wife, who’d been unable or unwilling to bid thirty-seven forty-four for her own husband, didn’t seem too upset by this development.

“Well, darn it all! Competition was just fierce this year, hmm? But no sore feelings, Lurleen. Amos’ll love having someone new to chat to about his theories on cow insemination!” she trilled.

Lurleen, who’d looked a little smug a minute before, now seemed taken aback as she walked up to the front of the gym to claim her prize.

“I do have lotsa theories!” Amos agreed excitedly.

“Alrighty!” I said into the microphone as Lurleen reluctantly led Amos away. “Well, this has been another amazing year for the bachelor auction! Twenty-four bachelors makes this the biggest auction in history. In just a second, I’ll tell you how much we’ve raised in total for charity, um—”

I broke off as my mother lifted a hand to get my attention and ran over, waving another bachelor bio card in the air. She leaned into my space.

“One more entry!” she told the crowd with a wide grin.

I frowned. Who the heck was left?

She handed me the card, and I read it with dawning horror, seeing all my careful plans for the evening go up in smoke.

“Are you sure?” I demanded, searching the crowd. “Because I don’t really think…”

“Positive!” she said gleefully.

I took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Okay, then. One more entry. Uh, Malachi Forrester, come on down.”

Mal pushed through the crowd, his wavy hair tamed for once and his lean muscles so perfectly encased by the lines of the tuxedo I had to grip the edges of the podium to keep myself from throwing him over my shoulder and carrying him out into the cool night air.

“Hey,” he said softly. His blue eyes were warm and as full of mischief as I’d ever seen them. “So… this is possibly the weirdest experience of my entire life.”

I tipped the microphone away. “Did Ava coerce you into this? Is Mr. Ivey holding one of your sculptures hostage? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

Mal laughed, sounding a little drunk, and blinked repeatedly. “In this week, I have milked a cow for sport. I ran through the woods carrying a bucket of milk while dozens of otherwise reasonable adults mooed at me so I could win a race—”

“Win? Oh good Lord, you’re delusional. You’re not of sound mind to consent—”

“Let it go, Elsa,” Mal laughed. “I won. That’s how history’s going to remember it. And it’s bad sportsmanship for you to remember the details.”

I shook my head. “But I thought you and I—”

Mal shrugged. “Ava said she has a plan. She said to trust her.”

“Shake a leg, Brooks!” Angela Nutter yelled, both hands cupped around her mouth. “Sell the man!”

I blinked, feeling the same urge I’d felt the first time I met Mal, the urge to push him behind me and growl, “Mine!”

“Uh. Okay, then,” I said, waiting for Mal to reconsider. But he didn’t.

I sighed.

“So, our last bachelor of the night is Malachi Forrester.” I glanced down at the card. “Mal is twenty-seven years old. He’s a metal sculptor from Los Angeles. He enjoys…” I glanced up at Mal, who smiled innocently. “He enjoys cows and cow art, spending time in barns, drinking moonshine, and working other men’s junk. I mean, working with junk,” I corrected, though I knew I’d read it right the first time. “His greatest accomplishments include…” I shook my head. “Being a finalist for the Bucksbaum Art Prize in 2017 and, more recently, being named Second Licker in the Licking Thicket Centennial Lickin’ celebration. What am I offered as the starting bid?”

Ava stepped forward, looking lovely in a long, pink dress. She held up her paddle. “Fifty dollars!”

“Whoa.” I nodded approvingly. She wasn’t playing around. That was higher than any bid had gone all evening. If Mal had to be sold to anyone—and seriously, this whole fiasco was the low point of my week—I was glad it would be to Ava. “Once, twice—”

“Wait!” Diesel fucking Church yelled. “Aren’t you supposed to say, ‘Who’ll give me fifty-five?’ or something?”

Like I needed the man to tell me how to do this job? Like Head Licking wasn’t in my blood?

“Yeah, fine,” I agreed reluctantly. “Fifty-five? No one? Okay, then—”

“Seventy-five!” Diesel yelled, raising his paddle and earning himself a permanent place on my shit list.

Mal sucked in a breath. “Damn,” he muttered.

“Eighty!” Angela Nutter screamed, and my jaw dropped.

Mal and I exchanged a look. His said he regretted his life choices. Mine said I regretted his choices too.

“One hundred,” my own deceitful brother, who fucking knew better, said.

“One fifty!” my mother called, waving her paddle.

I glared at her. “This has gone far enough,” I began.

“One sixty!” Ava said.

“Two hundred!” Diesel the tattooed asshole yelled.

“Holy shit,” Mal breathed.

Meanwhile, for the first time in my life, I looked Diesel up and down and decided I could take him in a fight. Sure, he was way taller and more built than I was, but I was motivated.