Chapter 1: How I Got Auctioned Off and Fucked My Way Into A Relationship

Let me tell you about the night that changed everything.

The night I stopped being invisible and started becoming chaos.

Her name was Eve, and this is how we met.

But first, let me introduce myself properly, since this is where my story really begins.

I am Gabriel Hare—Gabriel as in the angel of mischief, Hare as in the creature known for its enthusiasm in matters of reproduction. The name fit better than either of my parents ever intended. (My father was Brazilian, surname Coelho, but he changed it to the English version when I was born. He had no idea what he was setting me up for.)

I’m 6’2” of trouble with green eyes and a sly crooked smile that’s gotten me into (and out of) more beds than I can count. Dark hair, dyed black and growing shaggy—my last cut had been five months earlier for prom. People call me sassy. I call it being honest with style.

I’d spent my whole life hiding in oversized clothes, ashamed of my body, running from mirrors. Then something shifted at the end of senior year. I got my braces off, traded glasses for contacts, and decided to try actually dressing like I had a shape. Fitted graphic tees—nerdy designs, the kind Sheldon Cooper would wear but slightly more stylish—and tight pants that actually showed I had an ass. I’d picked up swimming freshman year of high school, started too late to compete seriously, but four years of it had given me a swimmer’s build: lean muscle, defined shoulders and back, decent arms, and a slightly bigger ass from all the squats our coach made us do.

Nobody back home noticed the transformation because I’d hidden it so well for so long. And honestly? I didn’t notice it either until I spent a summer abroad before college and came back with the shocking realization that some people actually wanted to sleep with me.

But that’s a story for another time.

More importantly, I had a swimmer’s stamina. That would matter later.

This is the story of how I started figuring that out.

It was hazing week, early fall semester of my freshman year.

Early September—still warm enough that you’d sweat through your shirt by noon, but the evenings had that first hint of cool air that meant summer was dying. The kind of weather where you’d start the night in short sleeves and end it wishing you’d brought a jacket.

The seniors were running this “charity auction” to raise money for kegs—because nothing says philanthropy like funding your own alcoholism. They’d put us freshmen on a raised platform like livestock at a county fair, and upperclassmen would bid on us. There was no actual promise of what you were bidding on, just the vague implication of ... something. A date, maybe. A dare. Bragging rights. Whatever.

The party was packed. Music thumping so loud you felt it in your chest, people drinking from red cups that would be crushed and abandoned by morning, that electric energy of a college party where everyone’s still figuring out who they’re going to be and nobody’s committed to anything yet. The room smelled like spilled beer, cheap cologne, and possibility.

I arrived feeling a little lost, still figuring out how to navigate these things, when Diego found me.

Diego. Let me tell you about Diego.

I’d met him at a frat party earlier that week—this stocky guy with long dark hair pulled back in a samurai bun, very Latin-looking with sun-tanned skin and dark everything else. Chubby in a way that somehow worked on him, very hairy body but no facial hair, and an energy that said he was always three seconds away from starting some mischief.

“Gabriel!” he called out, grinning. “Come meet some people.”

He led me through the crowd to where two girls were standing near the makeshift bar. One was this 5’1” Cherokee girl with waist-length black braids and the kind of confidence that made everyone in a room turn to look when she walked in. New money, the kind you could see in the way she dressed, the way she moved through rooms like she owned them. She looked like she could’ve been a model if she’d been a foot taller: perfect proportions, curves in all the right places, and this hot, teasing energy that made everyone want to be in on whatever joke she was telling.

Standing next to her was a girl slightly taller, with long straight hair and skin that looked like a permanent natural tan. She had the kind of curvy body that made people stare and then feel embarrassed about staring: substantial chest, wide hips, strong legs. There was something soft about her face, something kind.

“Gabriel, this is Isabella,” Diego said, gesturing to the shorter girl. “And that’s Lila. They wanted to meet the new guy everyone’s talking about.”

Isabella looked me up and down with an assessing gaze that made me stand up straighter. “So you’re the one all the gay guys are lining up to bid on tonight.”

I blinked. “What?”

Diego and Isabella burst out laughing. Lila smiled softly, like she’d heard this joke before.

“The auction,” Isabella explained. “It’s happening in about an hour. And apparently half the gay guys on campus have pooled their money to bid on you.”

“Why the fuck would they do that?”

“Because,” Diego said, grinning, “everyone thinks you’re gay.”

I stared at him. “What?”

Isabella leaned in conspiratorially. “There was a party. Earlier this week. You told someone your sexual preference was ‘anything goes.’”

Three nights earlier, I’d gone to my very first college party.

Not the hazing-week auction, but one of those generic “welcome back” frat things you see in movies: sticky floor, bad pop remixes, and enough sweat in the air to qualify as a light mist.

I’d shown up alone because I didn’t know anyone yet and I was too stubborn to sit in my dorm pretending I didn’t care. So I walked in clutching a red cup like a life raft and did exactly what every freshman swears they won’t do.

I hugged the nearest wall and tried to disappear.

That’s when Diego found me.

He was moving through the room like he owned it, saying hi to everyone, clapping guys on the shoulder, kissing girls on the cheek. It looked like he’d made it his personal mission to welcome every new face on campus.

He spotted me instantly—some poor lost soul in a graphic tee plastered against the drywall—and beelined over with a grin.

“You look terrified,” he shouted over the music, thrusting a fresh cup into my hand. “I’m Diego. Official Party Tour Guide for Confused Freshmen.”

I laughed despite myself. “Is that an elected position or did you just declare it by force?”

“Little of both.” His smile was pure trouble. “First college party?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Yes,” he said, absolutely merciless. “But don’t worry, you’re doing better than the guy in the corner throwing up in a potted plant. Come on, I’ll introduce you to people before you fuse with this wall.”

He dragged me through the crowd, narrating as we went.

“That’s the D&D table that swears it’s not a D&D table ... That girl will absolutely try to sell you weed by the end of the night ... Avoid that guy unless you want to join improv. Worst fate imaginable, trust me.”

We traded a few quick jokes, and I could feel my shoulders loosening. Diego had that kind of energy that made you feel like you’d known him for years, even though we’d met thirty seconds earlier.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” I asked at one point, after he mentioned her.

“Home.” He rolled his eyes fondly. “She hates these things. Says they smell like armpit and desperation. She’s not wrong. But somebody has to keep the freshmen from dying.”

After a while he clapped me on the back. “All right, Gabriel Hare. You’re officially inducted. I’m going to go rescue the next lost lamb. Try not to get sacrificed.”

And then he vanished into the crowd.

I ended up near a cluster of guys who were clearly very comfortable with each other—laughing, touching each other’s arms, leaning in close to be heard. It wasn’t flirtation, not that I recognized at the time; it was that easy physical warmth I’d never really seen between men back home.

I hovered nearby, partly because they seemed friendly in a way I understood, partly because they were the only people actually speaking loudly enough to cut through the music.

One of them noticed me drifting in their orbit and waved me closer with a casual “Yo, freshman—come over here!” the same way you’d call a puppy you wanted to pet.

Suddenly I was in the circle.

They were talking about people at the party—classic gossip disguised as “observation.”

“That girl over there?” one said, jerking his chin toward a hippie-looking chick dancing barefoot near the kitchen doorway. “She’s definitely a freak in bed. Look at her. That’s flexible energy.”

Another one laughed. “Yeah, man. That one’s the real freak. She looks like she knows every position in the Kama Sutra and invented a few extras.”

“Facts,” someone muttered. “Flexible girls are always wild.”

One guy nudged his friend.
“Bro, you talk big, but you only ever do missionary.”

They kept going—positions, weird stories, locker-room nonsense—like commentators calling a game, each one trying to top the last.

Then one of them turned to me and grinned.

“So what about you, man? What’s your preference?”