Page 9 of Jesse

“This is good PR,” Zach says, sensing my deteriorating mood. “Trust me. It’s gonna be good. You’ll see. Monday morning everyone will be talking about you again.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Because I’ve basically turned into Johnny over the last four years and just disappeared. I can see the headlines now. ‘Bad boy turns good.’”

“That’s not a bad headline.”

“It is if the article highlights all your past mistakes and not the one good thing you did over the weekend.”

“So you’ll just do more good things. Just relax. Have some fun. Look at all the pretty ladies here who will bid on you.”

But I have since learned that I will go on last.

Last.

Always last. That’s me. The last of the Boston Brothers.

“No one’s even gonna be paying attention to me by the time I get on stage. I’m gonna get one of the leftover ladies. Like that hundred-year-old grandma over there making eyes at me. What the hell is Old Bat Knottingham doing here anyway?”

“Her great-great grandson is up first.”

“First?” I say. “That little puke? He’s not even old enough to drink.”

“His company just went public. He’s the youngest billionaire on record now.”

“Fucker. I hope he gets bought by Mean Trish Sellers.”

“You know, it doesn’t help that you have nasty nicknames for everyone.”

“I can’t help it that the Old Bat is old and Trish Sellers is mean.”

Zach sighs. He’s tired of me tonight, I can tell. And I’m being unusually tiresome, I know this. But I really do not want to go up on that auction block.

It’s gonna be bad. I can tell. Something really bad is gonna happen. I have such a horrible feeling deep down in the pit of my stomach right now. “Oh, hey. Who’s that?” I say, jabbing Zach in the ribs.

The woman is quite stunning. And young. My age. She’s wearing a sexy red dress with not one, but two slits up the side. Her long legs peek out with every step and her bosom is practically bursting out of her strapless bodice.

“That’s Emma Dumas. Part owner of Bright Berry Beach Cosmetics. Those three woman with her are her partners.”

“Emma Dumas. Why does that name ring a bell?”

“Probably because she’s on that car commercial they run constantly during the stock reports.”

“Hmmm… maybe. But I don’t watch stock reports.”

“I think she hawks tennis rackets too. So maybe you saw her on one of those ads.”

“Possibly,” I say, and just when I’m about to disqualify that one too, she locks eyes with me.

I hold her gaze, unable to look away. Her dark hair and red dress are breathtaking. And her face is so… well, I was gonna say, beautiful, because it is. But then I switch to familiar. She is so fucking familiar.

My hand comes up of its own accord and waves to her, but she either misses it, or started turning away before I could finish, because the moment breaks and the crowd surges around her and she disappears.

I groan. “No one is even coming up to me for small talk.”

“Uh, so? Just go insert yourself. You’re Jesse Boston. Believe me, everyone here wants to talk to you.”

I don’t think so. Well, maybe Old Bat Knottingham. But I know for a fact she’s deaf now and I can’t bring myself to go over there and shout in her ear just to convince everyone else I have people to small-talk with.

Eventually the lights dim and brighten, signaling that everyone should take their seats and those of us being sold as meat should go backstage.