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.
He reaches for the clicker in my hand.
I pull back, and not wasting time, I press the button. The device blinks green and I enter the 30k bid. Someone else bids 31k, but I manage to get to 32k before anyone else can.
“Charlie,” Jane whispers, “the H.M.C. board said we’re not allowed to pool our money into any bids. It was a stipulation—”
“Fuck the board,” Charlie says beneath his breath, and to me, he says, “Continue.”
I comb a hand through my hair. “If this is serious, Charlie, security has the ability to shut down the entire auction—”
“Maximoff wouldn’t want to end an event early,” Charlie cuts me off.
A short laugh sticks to my throat. “When have you ever cared what Maximoff wants?” 37k.
“It’s fine,” Charlie says, glare on my glare. “It’s fine. You’re going to win him. The solution is right here.”
I should grab Maximoff off the stage. I should leave with him, but I can’t tell if that instinct is just me being hyper-vigilant of the guy I love, combined with the after-effects of a stalker.
I’d like to say that Nate, that sick motherfucker, didn’t affect me, but I’m standing here questioning my natural instincts.
My memory makes years feel like yesterdays and weeks feel like minutes ago.
Great for sex. Better for love. Shit for what Maximoff calls doomsdays.
I can still feel the animal blood pouring down my head. I can feel Nate’s limbs slipping out of my grip and how my adrenaline thrashed my pulse…
I almost shut my eyes. But the image will still be there. And I have to live with this forever, but I wish it didn’t have to fuck with my reflexes.
Normally I wouldn’t hesitate this long. Fuck it. I make an abrupt choice and put trust in Charlie. I stay here to bid on Maximoff.
There’s no going back.
“Who else is bidding on your cousin?” Oscar asks Charlie.
Charlie is quiet. He had the best vantage point in the boxed seat, and he could tell whose clicker kept lighting green. I stare at backs of chairs and heads. Unable to distinguish the person I’m electronically contending.
“Charlie,” Jane snaps angrily and speaks in rapid French. He replies back just as swiftly in the same language.
The auctioneer spouts off, “45k, got 46k…” My clicker lights green, locking in the bid, but the auctioneer’s voice suddenly fades, and the orchestra hall goes strangely quiet.
The auctioneer frowns and lifts a tablet he’s been using. “It looks like a bidder has put in a high offer.”
“Oh no,” Jane breathes.
I run my tongue over my lip piercing, watching concern pass through Charlie’s features.
He brushes a hand through his disheveled hair. “It’s fine.” But I can’t tell if he really means it.
I grit down. Fuck this. I look at Oscar. “I’m getting him.” I’m getting my boyfriend off the motherfucking stage.
Oscar nods.
“Wait a second,” Charlie says with more confidence, holding out a hand.
The auctioneer sets down the tablet. “We’ll start the auction at the highest offer.” He clears his throat. “Two million, would I get a two-point-one mil?” No chance. I don’t even know if Charlie has access to that amount of money, and he could lie and say he does.
I pocket the device, and Charlie stares ahead, not stopping me.
“Going once,” the auctioneer calls.
My stomach somersaults. “Charlie, who’s bidding on him?” I ask.
“Going twice.”
Charlie’s eyes are locked on the stage like he’s in a daze. “No one good.”
“Sold!”
Violins screech as the quartet plays again, calling for an intermission, and hundreds rise, congesting the stage and aisles.
Get him.
I head down the right aisle, and I’m surprised when Charlie Cobalt follows me, step for step.