Highest Bidder

“Thank you, Freya, for the dance,” he said with a deep bow. “And thank you for saving me from Brent years ago. I’m so sorry that I couldn’t do the same for you and your family. I truly apologize.”

The hell?

“What do you—” I started to ask, but he was already walking away, and I was left in the middle of the dance floor, with a very stupid look on my face.

Freya

“Brent didn’t cut in at any point?” Maddie asked a few hours later on the phone.

“No, he bloody didn’t,” I fumed. “In fact, I didn’t see him again. I think he left.”

“Wow,” she breathed the words out. “But what could his brother have meant by ‘sorry I couldn’t do the same for you?’ Perhaps it was just a thoughtless comment.”

“Perhaps,” I replied, “but something keeps bothering me. I know these people, and that dance wasn’t for nothing. Also, when he said that line, all the dazzle from his face disappeared. He acted like we were in a life and death game and he was giving me an important clue.”

“That gives me the chills. By the way, do you remember what you heard when you walked in on them years ago? What was the argument about?”

I turned around on my pillow and lowered my voice so my mother wouldn’t hear me from the living room. “Ten years ago and I was eleven, so I could have got the wrong end of the stick, but I think Liam Lucan was accusing Brent of trying to kill his mother.”

Maddie went very quiet. “Whoa! Brent Lucan a killer? No way. That’s not even funny.”

“I’m not joking,” I replied.

“Aren’t they blood related?”

“No. Brent’s father married Liam’s mother after Brent’s mother died,” I replied. “But that’s a whole other bitter situation. Anyway, Brent had a marble figurine held high over Liam’s head and his neck gripped in his hand. If he had smashed it on him, he would surely have killed him. I got scared and ran in. I threatened Brent that I would expose him if he did it.”

“That was impressively brave for an eleven-year old child!”

“Not really. I’d never met his brother, but I knew Brent. I had seen him at a friend’s birthday party where he had been rude to me so I was annoyed with him, but I think I also secretly liked him and I didn’t know what to do with it. I guess in my childish mind, I thought I would have one over him, but as Brent walked out of the room he stopped in front of me and told me I was going to pay for what I’d just done. His face was so black and thunderous I felt my blood freeze over.”

“My God, Freya! And you still slept with him?”

“Um … the first time, or the second time?”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she yelled into the phone. “The man sounds like a right psycho. Stay away from him! And his brother.”

“What about the money?” I asked. “Should I give it back?”

“No. Don’t you dare! I’ll never speak to you again if you do that. You earned that fair and square.” With the sense of drama worthy of a Kardashian, she hung up on me.

I couldn’t help my amusement. It was short-lived however. As I pulled the covers to my chin, and gazed at the ceiling, I knew something without doubt though.

Something was very wrong. And I intended to get to the bottom of it.

Freya

Auditing in Context, taught by Steve Barron, was one of the few classes I could usually sit through. The overweight, but still bikeresque instructor with silver white hair, cowboy boots, and distressed jeans held in place by a skull belt was usually visually entertaining enough to encourage a full attendance to what might otherwise be an extremely dull course.

Today was a first for me, as not only was I on time, but I was not in the midst of a constant battle with sleep because of abject exhaustion. I was however, distracted. Very distracted. My financial woes were now a thing of the past, but next in line was my worry about Brent and Liam and how I figured in that mess.

I was taking notes, but when I looked down at them, I saw they had stopped being legible quite a while ago. I threw my pen down in annoyance and exhaled noisily.

Stacy, my Jamaican classmate turned to me with amused eyes. “Today’s class is not that bad.”

Knowing our position by the corner would be an appropriate shield, I rested my cheek on my palm and turned towards her. “Do you think people constantly seek out troubles for themselves? Like when one is solved they move on to creating the next?”

She laughed softly.

“You laugh, but I’m dead serious,” I said.

“Are you talking about yourself? What ‘next trouble’ are you spinning?” she whispered back.

I shook my head to end the conversation and turned back to my notes. Yeah, my new trouble is called Pining over a man who seems to have difficulty recalling your existence.

Forty-five minutes later, we were done with the class and we were separated into groups for our next project.

I found mine forming a small cluster of eight at the back of the auditorium. I was glad to find a familiar face in Abel Norman. We had once worked together on another project last year. He was tall, but so lanky that he always seemed as though he was leaning over, constantly on the verge of being snapped in two.