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)
“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.