But before I can relax too much, Vonnie’s voice booms through the speakers, and her gorgeous face appears on all of the TVs scattered around.
It’s in that moment that I decide I have to convince her to do Love the Player. Nobody who looks that good on multiple high-def plasma screens should be hidden in a courtroom. The world should not be deprived of seeing her stunning face in the comfort of their own homes.
“Hello, ladies and gentlemen!” she calls out, already working the stage like the queen she is. “Thank you all for coming out tonight to join us for this wonderful cause. I’m Lavonne Lamar, president of the Lady Mustangs, and on behalf of all the Lady Mustangs who worked so diligently over the last few months to make sure we not only have a wonderful night, but raise a lot—and I mean a lot—of money.” She winks, pointing into the crowd, and I know just by the cloud of smoke (even though there are laws against smoking inside buildings) that she is talking to the Mustangs owner. “Yes, I’m talking to you, Mr. Mahler,” she says, and the crowd bursts into laughter. “We want to thank you for coming.”
“She’s freaking killing it,” Poppy says. Her eyes are glued to the stage because, like the rest of us, she is hypnotized by Vonnie’s charm, beauty, and wit.
“I know, right? How is she not a superstar?”
Vonnie continues her welcome, keeping the audience enraptured. She has everyone laughing when she jokes, draws a heady silence over the loud—and intoxicated—crowd as she discusses Northern Harbor and the crucial work they provide, and then ends her speech to an applause so loud, it rivals what I heard at the stadium yesterday. She walks off the stage, handing her microphone to Jeremy Yepsen, the local radio host who’s emceeing the auction, and in front of me, a man in a boring blue suit with thick-rimmed glasses leans over to a woman with beautiful hair and a professional yet stylish dress, whom I recognize as the news anchor from channel seven, and says, “She’s brilliant. Looks like Denver is going to have a new host for a morning talk show.”
It takes everything in me not to jump up and down and run to Vonnie, proclaiming that she is going to be the next Oprah and I’m calling dibs on being Gayle.
Poppy starts hitting me repeatedly on the arm and pointing to the man in front of us, trying to be discreet but failing miserably.
I know! I mouth, my eyes feeling as though they might pop out of my face.
“She’s going to be Oprah!” she whisper yells, grabbing my hands and bouncing up and down.
“I was going to say the same thing!” I yell, figuring Mr. Blue Suit won’t know what we’re talking about, but also adhering to the friendship rule that you must get overly excited when you and a friend are thinking the same thing at the same time.
It’s how I know Poppy is going to be my friend until I’m old and gray. When you build a friendship on a mutual love of alcohol and Oprah, you have a foundation that can last through anything.
While setting up the auction, Vonnie decided the best lineup would be reminiscent of a music festival, with the lesser-known names acting as a warm-up for the main event. Most guys seemed to check their ego at the door . . . well, not the whole ego, but part of it, and not make a big deal about their placement in the lineup. I’m not sure if it’s because of appreciation and respect for Vonnie and the charity they are supporting, or fear of the wrath of Mr. Mahler if they cause a scene.
The first twenty or so guys fly by. Jeremy moves through the auction like a pro, starting the bids at an impressive one thousand dollars and proving that people came to play tonight. Even the few players that I’ve never heard of go for over three thousand dollars.
Then the bigger names start coming, and shit gets wild.
Justin, Vonnie’s husband, goes for a solid ten thousand dollars. He practically charges off the stage, running straight to the older man who placed the winning bid and then picking him up, spinning in circles.
“You better get that money, baby!” Vonnie yells over the cheers and laughter.
Crosby brings in eight thousand. Poor guy was so nervous, his shoulders damn near hit the floor in relief as he walks off the stage. Cameras inch closer to Aviana’s face as she blows him a kiss before boldly declaring she’d go for at least double.
“And coming to the stage next, you might know this guy. He makes quarterbacks shake in their cleats and wide receivers cry,” Jeremy says, bouncing up and down in anticipation, eyes laser focused to the curtain starting to part behind the stage. “Seven-time all-pro cornerback, Maxwell Lewis!”
The crowd roars to life as Maxwell runs through the curtain, his game face plastered on. He jogs to center stage, his teeth sparkling beneath the spotlight as he points to the crowd, and bursts into the dance move I always see Ace trying to do.
The cocktail I was making is long forgotten. Trying to focus on anything other than this outgoing version of Maxwell is pointless, something Poppy must notice because she grabs the ice-filled shaker in front of me and picks up where I left off.
“What should I start the bidding at?” Jeremy asks the crowd.
“Hey, you better not do me dirty,” Maxwell says, and I swear I can almost hear bras unsnapping as his deep voice comes through the speakers. “I have to be worth more than Lamar.”
I let out a startled, very unattractive snort. Maxwell is always funny, but in a smart, quiet way. This Maxwell in front of me is different. This is Mustang Maxwell. Competitive and outgoing and not intimidated by the thought of charming a crowd filled with some of Colorado’s most powerful people.
And as much as I try to ignore it, I can’t deny the way my heart stutters in my chest.
“Me?” Jeremy covers his mouth in much astonishment. “I would never.”
“Hey!” Aviana and her camera crew are suddenly in front of me. “Can I have one more of those orange drinks?” she asks, clearly over her not-getting-drunk rule.
“Sure.” I smile, but only for the camera. If I could throttle her right now, I would, but I already signed the papers allowing the producers to put me on the show, and looking like a bitch would probably be the one time they decided not to edit me out.
I grab a shaker, tossing in ice and measuring the vodka, all while trying to ignore the quickly increasing numbers Jeremy is shouting out.
“Eight thousand! Can anybody give me eighty-five hundred? Eighty-five hundred!”
I reach for the orange juice, trying to think happy thoughts.
“Eleven thousand!” I hear. I chance a quick peek at the stage and regret it immediately. Maxwell is jumping up and down, pumping his arms in the air, hyping up the crowd to keep bidding, his biceps straining against his suit jacket with every move he makes.
I turn around and reach into one of the mini fridges tucked into the back of the bar, singing the ABC’s in my head, anything to distract me from the spectacle happening on the stage.