The Queen & the Homo Jock King (At First Sight 2)

And as a queen, I didn’t let anyone get to me.

So I smirked for that audience, pulling myself out of a hunch. I stood tall in front of them, in front of him, and when I spoke again, I Meryl Streeped the shit out of it. And everything was good. There’d been a momentary slip of the mask, but that was behind me. I had a job to do, after all.

And who knew? Maybe one day, far off into the future, I’d look back on this and laugh.

“Thirty thousand dollars,” I repeated, sounding far more jubilant. “Now that’s what I call a bid! Do I even need to ask if there’s anyone that can beat that?” I didn’t, but it still felt like it should be said. It was all part of the show, after all. Like the homo jocks in drag. Like the reason we were here.

Like Darren and me.

All for show.

No one said a word, not even Nana. Paul was looking between Darren and me, eyes calculating. And I should have remembered that out of everyone in this room, he knew me the best. He knew when I was acting and when I was being real. He knew the tones and cadences to my voice, the fake cheer that I could pour out in waves, the biting snark that came with being a queen.

But he also knew the opposite of that. Which meant he’d seen that slipup. That crack that I’d rushed to fill back in. I didn’t know if he could even remotely understand what had just happened, but knowing Paul Auster like I did, he was probably already spinning theories in that scary brain of his.

This was not good.

“Thirty thousand going once,” I said.

Darren took a step toward me. “Sandy,” he said quietly.

I ignored him. “Going twice!”

Caleb winked at me.

“Sold!”

Streamers and balloons fell from above.

The crowd roared and advanced on the stage.

In the chaos, I managed to avoid everyone I knew.

Especially when I saw Caleb grab Darren by the hand and pull him close. He whispered something in Darren’s ear and Darren laughed and shook his head.

The music blared to life and everything was fine.

I slipped away.

Chapter 20: Good Cop, Bad Cop, Corrupt Cop

THE PERSON that was pounding on my front door at seven thirty on a Sunday morning deserved to face my fiery wrath and stand there while I peeled the skin from their bones. I pulled myself from where I’d been cocooned in the covers on my bed and scowled as I stalked down the hall toward the door.

Corey was sitting in the kitchen wearing a pair of ratty sweats and a Dartmouth T-shirt, typing something on his laptop, sipping a cup of coffee.

“You couldn’t answer the door?” I asked.

He didn’t even look up at me. “You know I don’t do things for anyone other than myself before eight. And besides, I don’t think they’re here for me. Especially since I wasn’t the one that sent out a mass text canceling brunch for today.”

“Who?”

Corey just hummed and took another sip of his coffee.

“Sandy! I know you’re in there! Open the damn door!”

I groaned. “It is far too fucking early for this.”

“Right?” Corey said. “Why do you think I’m ignoring it? I’m trying to be Zen before the shit hits the fan.”