FARROW KEENE
As I retrace my path up the aisle, headed towards Omega, Maximoff climbs the few stairs to the stage.
Stoic, unbending, and undeniably striking, he stands beside the podium like a 15th century sculpture, body and jaw carved from marble. And the affluent crowd is about to bid on the modern, real-life version of Michelangelo’s David.
He’s mine.
I don’t love him because he’s a coveted piece of art to the thousands here and the millions outside. I love him because he’s so pure it hurts, so moral it aches, and so strong-willed it kills me not to speak to him, not to be near him, not to look at him or to protect him.
Velveteen seats squeak, bodies shifting to open purses and reach in pockets for a remote device called a clicker. The auction is electronic, no hand raising or numbers hoisted.
My boots feel heavier.
Each step is cumbersome and barbed as I put more distance between me and the stage. Instinct says turn around, don’t leave him.
Don’t leave him.
I fight the urge to rotate, race towards the stage, climb up and kiss the fuck out of Maximoff. My jaw tics, and I stuff my hands in the pockets of my slacks.
I’m not losing him.
I’m not really leaving him. What I said was true: this isn’t real, but shit, the desertion is a kind of torment I’ve never experienced. It bites at my heels as I walk away and let him do this alone.
Since I’m not his personal bodyguard at this event, I can’t be a part of the “night” portion of a night with a celebrity. The “night” is planned one week from now. At a location Ernest hasn’t disclosed yet. And I have to trust Bruno to protect Maximoff there.
Unless I can win him myself.
I pull a clicker out of my pocket. I already registered my information and bank account, and this is my attempt to prevent bad shit from happening.
I reach SFO, and no one seems surprised that I went “rogue” and chose my boyfriend over door-duty. It’s not just me being a maverick. If that’d been their own client, they’d be hard-pressed to say they wouldn’t do the same.
Akara spins his phone in his hand; he’d be tenser if Sulli, his client, were participating in the auction. “I can’t vouch for you anymore with Alpha,” he tells me. “It’s not sticking, and we’re in a spot where Omega has less leeway.”
I nod. “Okay.” I can’t say I’ll change my actions, but I’d rather Akara not put his neck on the line for me. I can take all the heat.
Oscar motions me forward, about the same time I slip between Donnelly and him. I face the stage, and my stomach overturns.
Maximoff is staring off in the distance. Lost in his head. Almost like he’s not here.
I’m not close enough to wake him up.
“…the grandson of two Fortune 500 moguls with the billion-dollar companies Fizzle and Hale Co…” The auctioneer pushes up his silver-rimmed glasses and reads a bio to the audience.
I partially tune him out and whisper to Oscar, “How much do you think he’ll go for?”
“More than you have, Redford.”
I roll my eyes, but I would’ve said the same thing. This is a fucking pipe dream, but Luna only went for twelve grand. Jane was forty.
Oscar bats his eyelashes. “It’s the thought that counts.”
“Did you come up with that one all on your own, Oliveira?” My curt voice draws his lips down. This shit is actually serious to me, and he notices.
“How much do you have to spend?” Oscar asks, his strict tone matching mine.
“Twelve grand.”
Donnelly smacks a pack of cigarettes on his palm, but he won’t smoke in this venue. “You really sold it?”
“I had to.” With all the fines I incurred on tour for breaking security rules, my bank account sat idle at three hundred bucks.
I don’t need to be an Ivy League grad to know Maximoff’s price tag will be much higher than that.
“Sold what?” Quinn Oliveira asks. The youngest bodyguard sidles over to us, distancing himself from Thatcher Moretti: the six-foot-seven immobile bodyguard who hasn’t budged verbally or physically since we’ve been here.
A silent Thatcher is my favorite Thatcher. Because when he’s speaking, nine-times-out-of-ten it’s to reprimand me. Since he accepted his demotion, no longer a lead of any force, he scolds me eight-times-out-of-ten now. But he has no real power over me anymore.
“Farrow sold his bike,” Donnelly answers, sliding an unlit cigarette behind his ear.
Quinn gestures to me. “Bro, I would’ve bought it. I’ve been looking for one.”
I keep watch of the stage, Maximoff, the auctioneer, and Omega all at once. “What would you’ve offered for a five-year-old FZ-09?”
“It’s a Yamaha,” Oscar says to his little brother.
“I know,” Quinn snaps and rubs his unshaven jaw, frustrated.
Oscar raises his hands. “Just trying to help.”
Quinn ignores him and nods to me. “Four grand.”
“And that’s why I didn’t sell it to you,” I say easily, and then I catch some of the auctioneer’s words.
“…at nineteen, Maximoff Hale attended Harvard University and swam for their team…”
I heat, the clicker damp in my palm. I rub my hand on my shirt, then I glance at Oscar, feeling his gaze on me. He’s perceptive and clever, a lethal combination for those who don’t want to be analyzed. But I don’t mind.
“You can say it,” I tell him.
He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
I’ve never cared about someone like this.
“What’d you sell it for then?” Quinn asks me about my bike.
“Twelve grand,” I say distantly, hearing voices escalate in the lobby behind the double doors.
Quinn frowns. “No way it’s worth that much.”
“It’s not,” I say. “The guy was an idiot.”
Truthfully, I put the ad on Craigslist and mentioned how the motorcycle belonged to “Maximoff Hale’s boyfriend” and a middle-aged man bit the bait. He said he had no plans to ride it, and after he made an offhanded joke about a CVS deal on lotion, I wasn’t going to ask.
Oscar watches the stage, then me. “Should’ve just sold the boyfriend’s motorcycle. He’s more popular than you.” Oscar knows that fame is why I got more for less.
“I’m not selling my boyfriend’s Kawasaki to win him,” I say. “Also, his bike is a piece of shit.” The brand is great, but he’s had his Z1000 since he was sixteen and crashed multiple times, as aggressive on a bike as he is in a car. I tried riding the motorcycle, and it had almost no torque.
Oscar opens a snack-sized bag of Lays. “Fans don’t care if his bike is a piece of shit or a plastic vehicle in Barbie’s dream house.”
Donnelly digs in the chips. “You know Akara’s bike would’ve sold for more.”
Oscar slaps Donnelly’s hand away. “This is snack-sized. For one person. Me. Get your own.”
Donnelly gives him a middle finger.
Akara hears his name, vaguely listening to our conversation. “I’m never selling my bike, guys.” He has a CBR1000RR sportbike that he wrecked, but he cashed in a favor with Banks, the most skilled mechanic on the team. Thatcher’s twin brother worked on the Honda, removed the fairings, fixed the engine, and turned the bike into a street fighter.