The Little Black Dress (Love in Las Vegas)

Red darts away, sliding into a seat on the front row like an eager child ready for the magic show at a birthday party. She fans herself with her bidding paddle before looking over her shoulder. Her gaze finds mine, and she jerks her head back toward the stage up front.

I drop into a chair in the back row, my fingers tightening on my own paddle as my heel taps against the marble tile floor. The program listed the Pollock as the eighth item to be auctioned, so I dig deep into my shallow well of patience and prepare to wait.

Nothing else in the auction interests me. I just want to get my painting and get out.

I somehow manage not to roll my eyes as piece after piece goes for exorbitant amounts of money. I’m sure I have more money at my disposal than most of the patrons in attendance, but I wouldn’t even consider dropping the loads of cash they’re dropping for Ming vases and rare coins.

It’s just stuff. None of it holds meaning to these people like that painting does to my mother.

My breath hitches as two men hoist the easel holding the Pollock up onto the stage. It’s time. A collective gasp echoes my own as the painting tips to the side, but one of the workers catches the frame, righting it before it can hit the floor.

Jesus Christ. Are they trying to give me a heart attack?

The auctioneer babbles on about the piece for several minutes, reciting its history of ownership and previous sale amounts before starting the bidding at five million. Before I can react, the redhead up front raises her paddle.

“Oh, hell no,” I mouth, raising my own when the auctioneer calls out a six.

“Can I get seven million?” he asks after acknowledging my bid, and once again, the woman raises her paddle.

Who the fuck even is she? She must have money to be able to bid such a high amount, but I’ve never seen her before. She doesn’t run in my circles. Maybe she’s from out of town. Maybe she heard about the auction and flew in to obtain it.

“I’m sorry, Red. This is going to be a wasted trip for you,” I murmur quietly, raising my paddle again and again as we battle back and forth for supremacy.

As if realizing this is turning into a bidding war, the other interested patrons quickly bow out and stop raising their paddles. Back and forth we go, the price jumping in million-dollar increments as I quickly lose what little patience I possess.

“Twenty-five million,” I call out loudly as I raise my paddle once more.

The redhead spins in her seat, staring at me with a narrowed gaze. She’d just bid seventeen million, so my raising it to twenty-five startled her. And by the looks of it, angered her, too.

Spinning back around, she raises her paddle as the auctioneer suggests twenty-seven million. Pinching my lips, I firmly raise my own for the next increment. I’m watching her closely, so I don’t miss the way her bare shoulders tense when the auctioneer accepts my bid and looks back at her.

“Thirty million,” she calls out, her voice clear, laced with impatience and no small amount of anxiety.

“Thirty-five million,” I counter, and that’s when it happens.

Her entire body curls into itself, and the thunk of her paddle hitting the tile floor echoes through the silent room. My chest swells with satisfaction as the auctioneer calls for any other bids. Seeing no takers, he asks a second time. A third.

Then the gavel bangs the podium, and the bidding is closed. The Pollock is mine.

Pushing myself up from my seat, I smile and make my way toward the accounting office. My work here is done. I got what I came for, so there is no reason to stick around.

My mother is going to be ecstatic when I give her that painting, which makes it worth the money I spent.

Every fucking dime.