Page 203 of On a Fault Line

I’m going to throw up.

Yup. I am.

Not even the thick curtains can shield me from the crowd that is buzzing with excitement, as I stand waiting my turn from the sidelines.

This isn’t me.

Sure, I enjoy a little male attention just like most girls, but doing it this way seems so unnatural.

The announcer hypes up the crowd with his voice inflections, getting the girl being showcased now to be “sold” for three times more than the starting bid—and all in the name of charity.

I’m up next.

The stagehand guides me through the curtain’s opening and gestures to where I should go stand.

“Stepping out onto the stage is the daughter of our main man and the soon-to-beofficiallyretired, Germain Hoffman.” The announcer takes a step back to give me more space to pass by. “Give a round of applause to the beautiful, the radiant, and the single, Penny Hoffman.”

I wave my hand and try to perfect my best fake smile, especially after the words “the single” hit me like a slap to the face.

The overhead lights are blinding, preventing me from seeing anything past a couple of yards in front of me, and for that, I am thankful. I drown out the crowd and just anchor myself to the stage, so I don’t pass out.

My entire family is in the audience, and none of them truly understand how torturous this is for me to be up here, selling my soul off for the night, when I’m falling apart inside.

But that’s what life is like now. I still feel indebted to my family, and coming here is my reparation for all that they have done for me.

I’ll always owe them.

And that is a sucky feeling, knowing that no matter how hard I try, I’ll still feel like they’ve done more for me than I have for them.

It’s probably the reason I can’t be too mad at my brothers. They’re doing what they think is best, even if they are preventing me from being with the one person who makes me feel alive.

Collins should be the one fighting for me, not anyone else. And the fact he isn’t speaks volumes to my belief that he means more to me than I ever did to him.

“Let’s start the bidding at one thousand,” the announcer says, using his hand to try to energize the crowd.

When several people in the room call out, he whistles.

I’m on display, but at least someone is raising the minimum. It volleys back and forth between about three men—none of whom I can actually see from this distance with the glare from the overhead lights.

If it wasn’t for a worthy charity, I’d feel like a bigger loser than I already am. Instead, I just try to take deep breaths and calm my mind.

My family is here.

I’m doing this for my dad.

Everything is fine.

“Okay,” he says in awe, “anyone want five thousand?”

There’s a buzz circulating in the crowd—an energy—and I’d be naive to think it’s not over me. I’m sure a few men here would love to take out the boss’s daughter if just to say they did.

I just hope he’s not gross. Oh, and that the food is good at the restaurant that gets selected.

There’s more back-and-forth between the men, as the amount to go on a date with me increases gradually.

This really should be a confidence booster, but it’s not.

Deep down, I wish Collins would bust through the back doors and wave his paddle into the air, blurting out some obscene amount of money to shut this whole operation down for good.

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