“And what am I bid for this finest example of USDA grade A African American beefcake? And see how he’s so perfectly packaged in his football uniform?” the auctioneer asked, wrists flapping and bangles clattering.
Brad gritted his teeth. The guy—pink, glittery T-shirt, clamshell necklace, rhinestone-studded ripped jeans, and high-heeled boots—couldn’t be any more femme if he tried.
As soon as he’d stepped on stage, Brad had insisted the auction be delayed, or maybe he could be bid on later on, like the guy had wanted in the first place. Anything to delay things until Nick showed up. But the auctioneer had batted away all of Brad’s objections, insisting the show had to go on.
“And what’s more, ladies, gentlemen, and those who haven’t yet decided, Brad’s uniform is genuine.”
“Show us what
