The Auctioned Kiss

Strut or Sink

“It’s been a week… Would Eva even remember me?” Finn wondered, slipping a straw into his mug of beer.

Seven days had passed since that night with Eva Sinclair. Seven days of him trying, and failing, to move on. No matter how many drinks he poured or how many shots he served, her presence lingered like a phantom—soft lips, piercing gaze, and the way her body seemed to dominate any room she entered. He’d convinced himself it was a one-time thing. But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was her.

“Finn! Where the hell are you? Customers are waiting!”

Sasha’s sharp voice snapped him back to the bar. He blinked, finding himself facing the familiar sight of her—tall, edgy, with jet-black hair and dark eyeliner that framed her piercing eyes. She leaned over the counter, a tray of vodka shots balanced on her hip, her arms crossed and an impatient expression on her face.

“Focus, buddy, or you’re gonna get yourself fired,” she warned, sliding the tray in front of two laughing girls.

Finn mumbled a distracted “yeah” and grabbed the next glass to clean. The sounds of the bar—clinking glasses, chatter, the low thrum of music—seemed muffled, distant. Usually, the buzz of activity kept him grounded. But tonight, it felt like he was floating, caught in a haze he couldn’t shake.

“Finn, can I talk to you for a second?”

The voice cut through the fog, and Finn looked up to find Mr. Thompson waiting by the door to his office. The bar owner’s face was tense, more so than usual. The easygoing guy Finn had worked for all these years now seemed smaller, worn down by something.

“Uh, sure, boss,” Finn said, setting down the glass he’d been wiping and running his hands over the rough fabric of his apron.

Mr. Thompson didn’t wait for a response, just turned and headed down the narrow hallway that led to the back office. Finn followed, his stomach tightening as they passed the cramped space. The office was as messy as always—stacks of paperwork cluttering the desk, an old Yankees poster curling at the edges above the filing cabinet. The familiar scent of stale cigars hung in the air.

The door clicked shut behind them with a finality that made Finn’s pulse quicken.

“Everything okay, boss?” he asked, keeping his voice steady despite the unease creeping up his spine.

Mr. Thompson sank into his chair with a heavy sigh, running a hand through his thinning hair. For the first time, he looked older—his usual calm demeanor replaced by something more vulnerable, more desperate.

“I’m in a bit of a bind, kid,” he muttered, his voice rough.

Finn crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, brows furrowing. “What’s going on?”

Thompson stared down at the mess of papers in front of him before looking back up at Finn. The lines on his face seemed deeper tonight.

“A few years ago, when I renovated the bar, I took out a loan. Thought business would keep growing, thought I could pay it off no problem…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “But things didn’t go as planned. We’re steady, but not steady enough to keep up with the payments.”

Finn’s stomach twisted. He’d known things had been tight, but he didn’t realize it was this bad. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or anyone?”

“I didn’t want anyone to worry,” Thompson said quietly, rubbing his face. “Didn’t want to drag anyone into this. But now…” His voice faltered. “The creditor’s been breathing down my neck. They want the full sum, and if I don’t pay—”

He paused, the weight of the words hanging in the air.

“They’ll take the bar,” Finn finished for him.

Thompson nodded, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I’m out of options, Finn. I might lose everything.”

The silence between them stretched, heavy with the realization. Finn had worked at this bar for years—hell, it had been a lifeline for him when nothing else seemed to be. The thought of losing it made him feel like the ground was slipping out from under his feet.

“Isn’t there… anything we can do?” Finn asked, his voice low.

Thompson sighed again, his gaze never leaving the desk. “I’ve been trying to figure that out. There might be one way—just one—but it’s a long shot.”

Finn leaned in, instinctively sensing that something important was coming. “What do you mean?”

Thompson looked up, his eyes searching Finn’s face for a moment before he spoke. “You heard about the big charity event downtown this weekend?”

Finn nodded. “Yeah, everyone’s talking about it. Big names, lots of money.”

Thompson’s expression hardened with resolve. “They do this runway show every year. They hire good-looking folks to represent brands—big money in it. Enough to make a dent in what I owe.”

Finn blinked, piecing it together. “Okay… but you’re not exactly sitting on a staff of runway models, boss.”

Thompson shifted uncomfortably, glancing down. “I actually had someone lined up. Real good-looking guy, tall, knew how to carry himself. He was supposed to go, make the money, help keep us afloat.” He let out a frustrated sigh. “But last week he had an accident. He’s fine, but he’s out of commission. And now I’m out of options.”

Finn felt a knot form in his stomach. The sinking feeling was all too familiar—the sense that he knew exactly where this was going. “So… what now? You’re just out of luck?”

Thompson leaned forward, his gaze locking onto Finn’s. “Not if you help me.”

“Me?” Finn’s eyes widened, taking an instinctive step back.