It’s beautiful and worth more than what Akara paid for it.
“…at twenty-one, Maximoff Hale was honored with the World’s Philanthropy of the Year Award for founding one of the most profitable charities…”
The noise behind the door grows louder, footsteps pounding, and we all shift before the door creaks open and a head pops out. I see a tight bun, Botoxed forehead, and an ankle-length dress, no…I don’t recognize this woman.
But her beady gray eyes land on me.
“Mr. Keene,” she whispers. “Come here, please.” She gestures towards the lobby.
I’m not leaving. “What is it?” I ask.
She glances nervously at the few heads we turn from the audience. Whispering, she says, “I’ve been informed that you are no longer serving as security tonight. I can’t let you in the orchestra hall without paying the entrance fee. I’m sorry.”
I run my hand over my strong jaw. Someone on the security team had to have “informed” the event staff. My narrowed eyes drift to Thatcher, but he’s still staring unflinchingly ahead.
Focus.
I act quickly and whisper to the woman, “I can pay afterwards.”
“You can’t. I’m sorry. If you’d step into the lobby, we can get your entrance fee squared away and you’ll be able to return.”
I may not make the start of the bidding, and I make a split-second decision. I raise the clicker between Donnelly and Oscar. “Which one of you fuckers wants it?” I’m trusting them to bid for me if I’m not back in time.
Oscar licks his salty thumb from his chips. “Can’t choose between us, Redford?”
I’d like to make that choice, but I met them both nearly at the same time in my life. I was just eighteen, and ten years later, we’re all still here. I can’t say who needs each other more or less. We’ve all just been there in rough terrain, and that’s why I can’t choose right away.
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.”