Page 1 of Mr. July

Jake

“It’s justthis one small favor for the Women’s Auxiliary. It’s a piece of cake.” She snapped her fingers.

My grandma usually meant well, but she had that gleam in her eyes that gave me pause.

“Why can’t you be more specific? All I have to do is go into the first tent, and the guys will know what I’m there for?”

She got that glint again. “Ask for Tessa. She’ll know exactly what to do with you. Listen, I have to run, hon. The Pie Makers need my help. We’re set to have our best Fourth of July yet and outsell last year’s record-breaking number of four hundred thirty-three pies.”

My grandma patted me on my arm and hurried off. For seventy-six, she could sure hustle when she needed to. But an uneasy feeling pooled in my gut at her request. Something smelled fishy.

I inhaled and made my way to the striped tent. The Fourth of July Festival was Rocky Mount’s biggest event every year. Hundreds of people flocked to our small town for the busy weekend—campgrounds were full, hotels were packed, and the park was filled with people and hundreds of booths and lots of carnival rides.

I opened the small part at the back of the tent.

A woman rushed at me, holding a clipboard and rummaging through her papers. “Finally, you’re here. You’re up. Come on. We have to go, go, go.”

“I—”

“Explain as we move.” The woman pushed me into a small waiting area that had clothes strewn everywhere. Beyond the flaps of the tent, the sound of an auction was taking place, confirmed by the simple thrum of the auctioneer.

“We have thirty-five. Do I hear forty-five? Forty-five? Forty-five? Forty and a quarter? I see forty. All right, forty.”

“What is this?” I asked, entirely confused on what my grandma needed help with.

“The auction. Take your shirt off. And throw these on. Whoever wins, you’ll be busy tonight.”

I snatched a pair of swimming trunks from the air. They were blue on one leg and had the American flag going down the other side. “What?”

“Barb sent you, yeah?”

“She did. But she wasn’t clear on what you needed me to do.” I pulled my shirt off and stepped out of my shorts. My eyes met the woman’s open mouth. I grinned and pulled up the flag shorts. “How do I look?”

“Like a million bucks. You’re going to rack up the highest bid, I bet. Let’s roll.”

“Wait. I’m going to rack up the highest bid? Am I one of those models? You know, the ones you see on The Price Is Right?” I made hand movements like I was showing off a new car.

The woman was shaking her head. She didn’t even crack a smile at my lame attempt at being a model. Had she never seen The Price Is Right?

“You’re it. The eligible bachelor. Now, go! Walk. Strut your stuff. Lord knows you got it.”

I tilted my head. “You’re saying eligible bachelor, but this is an auction.”

The woman literally pushed me through the flap, and I stumbled on the bottom step. My eyes scanned the room. Hundreds of people, maybe thousands—no, just a few hundred—had their eyes glued to me and the stage. I glanced back at the woman, who about broke my leg pushing me up the steps, and decided I could totally mow her down. Because that was when it dawned on me—I was the auction item.

“Hell no,” I said.

“Nope. You promised Barbra. But you need a stage name. ‘Jake’ won’t do.”

There was another attendant holding a microphone, and she was eagerly awaiting my stage name. I liked “Jake.”

The looks on both women’s faces were priceless, frustrated beyond all get out. For once, I was speechless. Granny dearest, you’re going down for this stunt. So going down.

“Stage name… Mr. July.” The woman scribbled something on her clipboard and tore it off. She handed it to the woman with the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen—but mostly ladies—this year’s prized auction item is a lovely, all-inclusive evening out with Mr. July.”

She pushed me down the catwalk, and for the first time in my life, my confidence and cocky attitude exited my body. Shit. This is what stripping and modeling was like up here? I regretted the three times I’d gone to a strip joint with my friends. There wasn’t a pair of eyes that wasn’t on me in the tent—a tent that seemed to go on for miles.

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