Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
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.
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.