“Yeah. Your first name needs to start with an N. Some fortune-teller told her it would guarantee her happiness.”
And here I thought I had some crazy exes.
When it’s time to head out, I grab an Uber, since Nate and I are in no condition to drive. Nate must be feeling terrible, because he doesn’t complain. Not even when it turns out our pickup is a Ford Taurus with a huge rust spot on the trunk.
But the moment I arrive at the Aylster Hotel, where the auction’s supposed to take place, I decide I should’ve told Elizabeth I died and couldn’t make it.
Because the hotel contains memories. When Skittles and I were bubbling with the excitement of the first time and high on our fantastic personal chemistry. I still have both when I think of her, but she doesn’t. If she did, she would’ve called by now. And she definitely would know that I’d never do anything to hurt her.
Now my heart hurts more than my head. Maybe I’ll die for real and get out of the auction that way.
Nate and I drag each other toward the area where we’re supposed to gather. I spot Elizabeth coming toward us with her mouth slightly parted.
Despite the expression of shock, she glows. And is perfectly put together. Like…her skin’s perfect, her makeup is perfect and her outfit is perfect. Even her hair is perfectly golden and curled. The only things not photo-ready are her gray eyes, dark with disappointment.
If she’d just yell, that’d be easier, but nope. That’s not in her repertoire.
“Who’s going to bid on you looking like that?” she says, her voice soft. “Especially you, Court.”
“Sorry.” I sniff and look down. My left shoe is untied. Isn’t that fascinating? “If you’re mad, I can just write a check and not terrorize the audience.”
She sighs heavily. “My makeup artist hasn’t left yet. She’s going to fix you up.”
I jerk my head, then wince as a shard sticks into a spot behind my eye. “You’re going to make me look like a girl?” Is it really too late to get sick? Maybe I can scrape a piece of gum off a sidewalk and chew it. Die of some horrible L.A. street disease.
“You too, Nate,” she says.
“Me?” He spreads his arms. “Come on.”
“We’re going to make you look like you weren’t out binge-drinking last night. She won’t be use mascara and eye shadow, unless you ask.” She arches an eyebrow. “You aren’t going to, are you?”
“No,” I say slowly, still debating the merit of the street gum.
“Then come on. I’m going to make sure I get the right price for both of you.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Pascal
The hot red dress I borrowed from Curie fits me like a second skin. She also lends me a strapless push-up bra, saying it goes with a low sweetheart neckline like Klingon and grunting. (She knows me too well.) I add a silver heart pendant for luck and courage.
I step into the luxurious Aylster Hotel and breathe in deep as the memory of my and Court’s first time floods my mind. It’s a good omen. Right? Maybe the location will remind him of how it was before.
To be honest, I have no idea what I’m doing or how I’m going to win him. Should I put it on my credit card? Do they even take credit cards? And what the hell is my credit limit, anyway? I don’t remember, since I never charge more than I can pay off in a month.
But is my money going to be anywhere near enough? A hundred million dollars is nothing to these people. The most I can spend is maybe two thousand.
As I approach the ballroom, I understand what Gavin meant. Security is tight, and the guy who’s in charge—or, at least, I think he is in charge from the way he commands others—looks like he eats broken glass every morning to stay mean and sharp. I give him my ticket, and he squints like I shouldn’t be the one handing it to him. I swallow, nerves raw. Is he going to kick me out?
“Gavin Lloyd, huh?” he says, his voice gravelly.
My mouth dries. “I’m sorry?” How does he know who the ticket really belongs to? There’s no name on it.
“Nothing.” He smirks. It transforms him into an even scarier horror show. “Enjoy the evening.”
“Thanks,” I say weakly, and run inside before he changes his mind.
Although the huge ballroom is full of people, I don’t recognize anybody. Everyone seems to know everyone else, though. The buzz of chatter is constant, occasional laughter breaking the hum of words. Nobody seems to care I’m standing awkwardly by myself. No one tries to say hello, either, which is fine by me. I’m too nervous to make small talk, as I realize I’m hopelessly outclassed. Curie has great taste, and the dress is gorgeous, but it’s nothing compared to people decked out in dresses you only see on the latest fashion magazines and who have real gemstones sparkling from their ears, throats and hands. No wonder the security guy looked at me funny. My pendant is silver, not platinum. Bet he could tell from a glance.