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.”
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.
4
MAXIMOFF HALE
When I was seventeen, I told my dad, “I don’t think I’ll ever fall in love.”
I couldn’t imagine a person fitting into my unconventional life. I couldn’t imagine a companion at my side.
Not like that.
In my head, there’d be no one for me. No man. No woman. No person. I’d be alone, and it was supposed to be okay. It’d be okay that it would always be just me, only me.
My dad, with amber eyes that can cut the soul into jagged pieces, stared right…right into me. Where most would fear him, I bathed in warmth—those sharp-edged eyes, with their bitter history and raw truths, comforted me.
And he said, “Before I had you and your siblings, your mom was the one good thing in my life. And I know I’m supposed to tell you how love conquers all. How we could move mountains together. But the love we had almost destroyed us both. Love is like having a mortal wound and you’re bleeding out and no matter how hard you look, you can never find the goddamn cut.” He never broke eye contact.
I kept looking. Listening, feeling his words.
“It’s its own special brand of pain,” he told me. “Because no matter how much you love, you’re still a passenger to their life. You have to watch all their bad decisions. You can’t think for them or change them. Just be there for them. And sometimes, it’s not going to be good enough. Sometimes things happen out of your control.” He paused. “Love is pain, and you know what…I feel sorry for anyone who hasn’t met it yet.”
I think about that.
As my boots cement and the stage lights overpower my vision, rows and rows of blurred faces staring back, I think about love.
How I thought I’d never feel it.
The pain.
The kind my dad scorned but also ached for.
I don’t want Farrow to be a passenger to my bad choices, watching my fucked-up decision to be sold for a night.
But I keep picturing Farrow Redford Keene…I keep imagining him running down the aisle. Coming towards me. Because if our positions were reversed, I’d want to pull him off this damn stage. And I’d know I can’t, he can’t.
I’d feel like screaming and screaming and screaming just to reach him. Until my veins burst in my neck and my lungs set on fire.
Until my last breath was used to call his name.
I imagine him climbing on stage in one swift motion. His intense focus meeting my tough gaze, his hand catching my hand, his inked arm sweeping around my shoulders. Pulled together, not letting go, never letting go—but I don’t see him, or even hear him.
He’s just the agonized love inside my head.
“Sold!” the auctioneer yells.
I blink out of my thoughts and near the stage stairs.
A delicate hand touches my shoulder—and I swing my head, meeting the kind eyes of a twenty-something girl.
Probably an event coordinator.
Probably. Christ. My face twists in a bitter expression that I almost never fucking wear.
Because I’m not even a tiny bit sure who she is or her job description or why she’s on stage. I’ve been told next to nothing. At this event, I’m just a celebrity guest.
The one up for bid.
At the events I organize, I know everything. Down to the names and faces of the clean up crew.
Ernest didn’t think I’d cooperate if I had knowledge, so he’
s blindfolded me. Worse, I have no idea where the auction money is going. The board muttered something about humanitarian projects. Which is vague and nondescript.
And the company should be clear and upfront with all the guests tonight. So I’m not thrilled about the money raised at the auction. Being reinstated as CEO of H.M.C. Philanthropies is the only good thing that’ll come out of this.
“Sorry,” I apologize to the girl before I ask, “who are you?!” I have to shout as the classical music blasts next to me, a violin in my ear.
“An event coordinator!” She flashes a Night with a Celebrity event badge with her name: Tami. “We’re taking a fifteen-minute intermission!”
“Who’s up next?! Beckett or Charlie?!”
She shrugs and forces a smile as an answer.
Great.
I descend the few stairs. Guests mingle in the aisles and around the stage. Bruno grants me about fifteen feet of space, enough that I forget he’s even here.
I’m closer to the right aisle, and that’s when I see him.
Farrow slips through the chatty masses with a determined stride. His shoulder bumps into a woman, and champagne almost spills on her emerald necklace—wait, why is Charlie behind him?
I move faster, squeezing past guests as Farrow weaves between other bodies. Both of us in pursuit of the other.
“Maximoff,” a few people call for me. Wanting to talk.
I don’t stop.
Not until no one and nothing barricades Farrow from me and me from Farrow. His arm instantly curves around my shoulders, and with his other tattooed hand, he holds my jaw, his lips against my ear as he whispers quickly, “Charlie knows who won the two-million dollar bid on you.”
My heartbeat pounds against Farrow’s hard chest.
Two-million dollars.
I nod stiffly. I had no idea I was won for two-million. I must’ve tuned out that part, and I can’t conjure the kind of person who’d spend that life-changing amount on me.
We both turn towards my cousin who nears. Charlie plucks a champagne flute off a server’s tray and downs the drink in two gulps. He sets the glass on an armrest of an empty seat.
Alphas Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 3) Page 5