Jock Auction

JOCK AUCTION

Alex Pendragon

www.loose-id.com

Jock Auction

Copyright © January 2015 by Alex Pendragon

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eISBN 9781623008376

Editor: Maryam Salim

Cover Artist: Ginny Glass

Published in the United States of America

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This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Author’s Note

Thanks to Shawn, for the push. To Fil, for the pointer. To the readers and early editors,
Nifty and otherwise, who asked for more. And to C.

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Chapter One

It was for charity. That was why I was up on the stage with my shirt off and I

guess why there were people screaming at me. There’d been cuts at school, and so it was someone’s bright idea to do a “slave auction”—teaching staff and some of the

students all selling off their time to the highest bidder, agreeing to do goofy stuff like washing cars or cleaning pools or whatever. And, because our coach was big on getting involved with shit like this, the whole football team was told that—optional or not—if we weren’t on that damn stage, then we’d be on the bench for the rest of the season.

So it was all about putting on a good show, even I knew that, and after our

quarterback Jeff took his shirt off and started flexing, it became pretty obvious that was the best way to get big bucks. Jeff was bought by his girl on the cheerleading squad—no surprise there—for, like, twice what the teachers were going for.

I didn’t whip my top off as soon as they called my name, though. I waited until I

was all the way to the middle of the stage, and then I gave this kinda bashful grin to everyone wolf-whistling in the audience before I slowly pulled it off. I’m not crazy muscled like Jeff is, but I look pretty good, and while I might not have some blonde cheerleader to whip up the crowd, there were still plenty of catcalls.

I kinda lost track of who “bought” me in the end. I think it was, like, a couple

hundred bucks or something, and I just remember thinking that Coach couldn’t

complain about that. He’d have to put me on the squad every game for the rest of the season, even though, to be honest, I get picked more times than not.

So it was a bit of a surprise when I stood in the entrance hall at the end of the night with all the “slaves” and “owners” meeting up and arranging for when they’d be

putting in their service and this guy came up to me looking hella embarrassed. I

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suppose I recognized him from some of my classes—my year but not my crowd. He

had these geeky black plastic glasses and was rail thin, wearing a faded band T-shirt, skinny jeans, and sneakers.

“I, um…” He seemed to be having trouble, and it took a second to click for me that he’d been the one to buy me. That seemed a bit weird, but I didn’t want to say anything to question it because, well, pissing him off and having him ask for a refund would not look good—or do my season much good either.

“Oh, hey, ‘Master,’” I joked. He blushed and looked down at his feet where he

was scuffing up the linoleum with the tip of his shoe. The color on his face looked weird; just two scratchy strips of red across each cheek, stark against his pale skin.

“Yeah, so…” I wasn’t sure what I was going to say, but I’d already realized that if we waited for him to take the lead in the conversation, we’d both be there until

graduation. “Where do you want me?”

He looked up, and if I hadn’t been leaning against a pillar, I might’ve rocked back on my heels some. He had this intense look in his eyes, and it made his blushing look more like he was furious somehow, like he was this totally different, angry guy instead of the super-shy geek who had walked up to me.

“Saturday?” he asked, and I just nodded. I’d have to miss practice, but Coach

couldn’t really argue, and with any luck, I’d get to sleep in some too. “What’s your number? I’ll text you the address.”

I told him, and my phone buzzed in my pocket. When I thumbed the message

open, it just said
10am
and the address of a neighborhood near to mine. When I looked back up he’d gone quiet again, that crazy anger evaporating just as fast as it had appeared in the first place, and he wouldn’t meet my gaze.

“Should I, like, bring anything?” I asked him, thinking maybe I’d need a bucket to wash cars or something. He just shook his head and wouldn’t speak. “What’s your

name?”

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He looked at me then with sort of a half squint, as if I’d shown how stupid I was

for not knowing, and I wondered if I’d made a dumb mistake because this guy was in all my classes or something. But I totally couldn’t remember him.

“Craig,” he said, and then he turned around and left, sliding through the crowds

of people as if he didn’t want to get caught up in any of the little cliques around the room.

I got home that night to an inbox full of bullshit; turns out, the other guys on the team thought it was “fuckin’ hilarious” that I’d been bought by a guy. Jeff was already bragging about how his girlfriend had bought him for a weekend of heavy-duty

screwing—not that that would be much different from how he described his regular

weekends, at least going by locker-room talk—but he still found time to tell me how

“some emo fag” now owned me, and how I’d better “watch my ass” if I didn’t want to get “gay raped.”

I’d pretty much expected the teasing, to be honest, even if the idea seemed more

than a little unlikely. Even if Craig wanted me like that—and if I couldn’t even properly recognize the guy, I wasn’t going to have heard whether he was gay or not—then the idea of him being able to force me into doing something I didn’t want to do was pretty laughable. We were about the same height, sure, but that was where the similarities ended. I had broad shoulders and muscles—the sort of body that could take getting

slammed on the football field. In contrast, Craig looked like he’d snap if he changed direction too quickly.

Saturday came around. Coach had grumbled about my missing practice, but he

gave permission after I pointed out he’d been the one to push the team to take part in the auction in the first place. I got up at nine—first Saturday I’d slept in since the summer vacation ended—and threw on some old jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers. I

figured I’d be cleaning out an attic by lunchtime, or maybe a basement; either way, I’d get dirty, and I didn’t want to wreck a decent pair of jeans.

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My dad said I could borrow “my” car—his old junker, really, but it was going to

end up mine by the time I saved up enough to pay for the insurance myself. I managed to make it to Craig’s house without losing pieces from it. That was what counted as a good journey these days; did I mention it was a piece of crap? I kept pushing my

parents to trade the heap in and get me something—anything—newer, but they

wouldn’t, even after I rolled out the “what about the snowed-in Michigan winters?”

excuse.

With an uncharacteristic wit, my dad had pointed out that if we were snowed in,

then no car, new or old, would do me any good.

Craig’s place was sort of nondescript, even though it was in an area that you could tell was trying to be better than it was. His neighbors had this dumb concrete sundial in their front yard, totally in the shade of a tree, so you’d never get to actually see where the shadow fell.

I rang the bell and waited for someone to come to the door. Through the screen

door I heard the thump of music shut off, somewhere upstairs, and then the clatter of feet.

He looked at me for a minute, just through the mesh, before he opened the door

and let me in. I decided that this wasn’t going to be a day of nonstop conversation; Craig didn’t seem any more talkative in his own home than he had been the other day.

“I thought you might not come,” he said finally, still not meeting my eyes. I

shrugged.

“Hey, you pay, I turn up.” I grinned at him, though I wasn’t sure if he saw, his

eyes fixed on the ground between us. “Can’t have you demanding your money back,

right?”

I’d meant to be funny, but he seemed to take me seriously. He looked at me for the first time that day and shook his head. “No,” he finally said, “I guess it’s done, right?

Yeah, done.”

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I wasn’t sure what to say to that, and I didn’t want to give him an opening to say

“Hey, y’know what, let’s just call it off,” so I tried to change the subject.

“I didn’t know what you wanted me doing, so I just wore old stuff…”

He looked down at my outfit, though he didn’t say anything more than “You’d

better come up.”

His room was…well, I guess what I might’ve expected had I thought to even

consider it: full of posters of bands I’d never heard of, more black clothes spilling out of drawers and the closet and generally stacked up in unruly piles. I had visions of him ordering me to tidy up and smiled at the thought of how easy it would be to color-code everything, like how my mom kept telling me I should be doing.

“Dude, if you’re gonna ask me to clean up this pigsty, you’re gonna need to pay

for a whole week,” I joked over my shoulder. I turned round to grin and show I was just kidding around, but suddenly he was right up close to me—within, like, inches—and

then his face was up against my face with his lips on mine, and he was kissing me.