Oscar sees and takes the clicker. “Donnelly isn’t good with numbers. Go.”
On my way out, I warn, “You bet over ten grand, Oliveira, and you’ll be paying for my bar tabs for the next decade.”
Oscar crumples the chip bag. “Love you too, bro.”
I slip through the doorway, and the auctioneer’s voice fades.
With the heavy door opened for a half a second, Thatcher turns to peek into the lobby. He’s clearly looking for his client, and I don’t let him see Jane.
I kick the door closed, his glare meeting mine before it shuts.
“This way.” The woman directs me past a fancy concession bar that sells wine, caramel popcorn, and cocktails.
I follow and survey my surroundings. The carpeted lobby is quiet, even as a throng of security hovers near Luna Hale and Beckett Cobalt.
Maximoff’s little sister sits on the staircase that leads to the balcony levels, and she’s showing Beckett something on her phone. Could be a fanfic story that she wrote. She looks better than earlier. More talkative.
Near the restrooms, the woman stops at the registration table, laptops opened and papers stacked in neat piles.
“Farrow?” Jane exits the girl’s bathroom, a blue tulle skirt over leggings, and cat-eye sunglasses perched on frizzy brown hair. “Isn’t Moffy on stage? He needs one of us out there in support—”
“I’m dealing with some shit.” I gesture to the table, and the woman stiffens at my language. “Sorry,” I apologize to her and open my wallet. “You can go, Cobalt.”
Jane frowns.
“You’re right,” I tell her. “He needs you.” I want his best friend to be in sight if I can’t be, but it’s not easy to swallow the fact that money is what’s obstructing me.
Jane studies the table, the woman, my wallet, putting two-and-two together. Especially as the woman tells me, “We don’t take cards for the entry fee. Only check.”
Shit.
My fingers freeze on my wallet. “Who carries around a checkbook?” I ask, my gaze drifting as soon as Jane unzips her yellow-sequined, banana-shaped purse.
I blink once and Jane already has the checkbook open, bending over the table to write the amount. “Two thousand, correct?” she asks me.
I appreciate the gesture, but I prefer buying my own way. “Jane—”
“You’ll pay me back.” Her blue eyes flit up to me as she scrawls her name. “You don’t have time to argue, and if you have another plan, please let me know.”
I don’t. “Okay.” I nod.
I’m not sure if she’s doing this more for Maximoff or for me. I almost roll my eyes. Of course this is for Maximoff, but I’m lucky that he has Jane unflinchingly on his side.
“Thanks, Cobalt,” I say as she rips the pink check out of the book.
Jane offers a small smile, and then passes the check to the woman.
I don’t waste another second that Jane’s given me. And she’s right in tow as I reenter the orchestra hall.
Thatcher reaches a hand above Jane’s head behind me. Just to hold the door open for her, but she follows my lengthy stride. Catching up quickly.
The auctioneer is already spewing numbers at rapid speed. “2k, would I get a 3k? 3k, would I get a 4k? Somebody bid now, make it 5k.”
I can spend twelve grand again since I didn’t need to use two.
When I near Oscar, he clicks the clicker, but the device lights up red. Meaning he was too slow, and someone else whose device lit up green locked in for that bid.
“Boyfriend is popular,” Oscar says and passes the clicker to me. “I only got the 1k bid, which is null and void now that it’s at…”
We all listen to the numbers…7k.
I click at 8k. Flashes red.
“Merde,” Jane mutters.
Fuck, there are too many bidders.
“Somebody bid now, make it 9k.”
Finally, the device lights green.
“9k, would I get—10k, we got 11k—,”
Fuckfuckfuck.
I click and click.
Red. Red.
“We got 12k—”
Green. I hold my breath, and we all wait to see if a rich prick bids on him.
“Somebody bid, make it 13k,” the auctioneer chants. Don’t.
I want him.
“13k!” he shouts and bangs a hand on the podium. He pushes up his slipping glasses. “Would I get a 14k?!”
My stomach drops.
I can’t let this eat at me; I saw this happening from the start, but an acidic taste runs in the back of my throat.
Jane has her knuckles to her lips, worried.
That’s not good. I look down at her and ask, “What’s the chance that one of your family friend’s bids on him like they bid on you?” Jane has already gone through this process tonight. After Maximoff is finished, Beckett and Charlie are the only two left.
14k. I hear the number grow.
“Terribly small,” she whispers, and me and the rest of SFO listen closely as she explains what most never hear. “The old woman who bought the night with me—she was the friend of my socialite grandmother, and my grandmother has never doted over Moffy the way she does me. She buys me thousand-dollar tea pots when she knows that I dislike tea, and she only gifts Moffy store-bought cards with no signature.”
I catch myself grinding my teeth.
Donnelly tightens his loose cartilage earring. “Grandma Calloway sounds like a b…” His voice trails at Akara and Thatcher’s reprimanding looks. “…itch. Bitch. I meant bitch.”
15k.
“Paul,” Thatcher snaps.
Donnelly lets it go without care.
I’m stuck watching Maximoff stare off in space, green lights flashing in the hands of the audience, and my muscles tighten. That acidic taste in my throat keeps rising.
Jane shifts her weight, nervous.
17k.
“Redford,” Oscar says my middle name with a flat tone. It’s serious, and I instantly follow his vigilant gaze to a boxed seat, up in the third tier across the orchestra hall.
Where Charlie Cobalt sits.
His bowtie is undone, white button-down sticking out from his slacks, sandy-brown hair ruffled.
Oscar has been keeping an eye on his client, and something’s not right. Charlie is bent forward, hands on the railing, unblinking.
Watching. Too carefully.
He’s usually slouching or slumping in disinterest. But Charlie zeroes in on the audience while clickers blink green and red. Too interested in this outcome.
All of a sudden, Charlie bolts to his feet and disappears through the upper-tier door.
Oscar whispers, “He knows something.”
“And he’s not going to tell us shit,” I say softly. “This is Charlie.”
“He’ll tell his older sister.” Oscar’s dark curls fall over his forehead as he nods towards Jane.
Jane looks uncertain.
I tilt my head. “You’re his sister.”
“He can be abnormally private,” she says as though being left out doesn’t hurt. “We should find Beckett—though, Beckett will only spill Charlie’s secrets if it’s life-threatening.”
I don’t pretend to understand the Cobalt family hierarchy of secret-keeping and secret-spilling. None if it has any ounce of order or sense to me.
“Boss, I’ll get my client,” Donnelly says about Beckett. He already pushes the doors to the lobby before Akara says, “I’ll go with you.”
They leave.
25k.
Oscar brushes his earpiece, someone’s speaking, and I never thought I’d miss my radio or Alpha in my fucking ear.
While I wait for him to fill me in, I concentrate on Maximoff. He stares at the wall, his trance broken, but he’s listening carefully to the number.
28k.
Oscar touches my shoulder. “Charlie is coming here to speak to you. It can’t be good.”
“No shit.” My voice dies as the double doors blow open. The pop of
noise causes a wave of mutterings and heads to turn.
Charlie couldn’t care less, his attention plastered to me.
“What is it?” I ask. That acid in my throat is bile. I taste it. My gut—my intuition that I rely on—sickens with dread.
He nears quickly, his shoulder brushing mine at the same height, and he says hushed but fast, “You have to win him.”
I shelter the urge to ask why. “I don’t have thirty grand—”
“I’ll wire you the money,” Charlie cuts me off, not removing his intense yellow-green eyes from my face. “Farrow.” Urgency is on my name, but I can’t tell if fear, worry, or something else accompanies it.