Page 19 of Alphas Like Us

Quinn frowns. “No way it’s worth thatmuch.”

“It’s not,” I say. “The guy was anidiot.”

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 onlotion, I wasn’t going toask.

Oscar watches the stage, then me. “Should’ve just sold the boyfriend’s motorcycle. He’s more popular than you.” Oscar knows that fameis why I got more forless.

“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 notorque.

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 dreamhouse.”

Donnelly digs in the chips. “You know Akara’s bike would’ve sold formore.”

Oscar slaps Donnelly’s hand away. “This issnack-sized. For one person. Me. Get yourown.”

Donnelly gives him a middlefinger.

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 streetfighter.

It’s beautiful and worth more than what Akara paid forit.

“…at twenty-one, Maximoff Hale was honored with theWorld’sPhilanthropy of the Year Award for founding one of the most profitablecharities…”

The noise behind the door grows louder, footsteps pounding, and we all shift before the door creaks open and a head pops out. I see a tight bun, Botoxed forehead, and an ankle-length dress, no…I don’t recognize thiswoman.

But her beady gray eyes land onme.

“Mr. Keene,” she whispers. “Come here, please.” She gestures towards thelobby.

I’m not leaving. “What is it?” Iask.

She glances nervously at the few heads we turn from the audience. Whispering, she says, “I’ve been informed that you are no longer serving as security tonight. I can’t let you in the orchestra hall without paying the entrance fee. I’msorry.”

I run my hand over my strong jaw. Someone on the security team had to have “informed” the event staff. My narrowed eyes drift to Thatcher, but he’s still staring unflinchinglyahead.

Focus.

I act quickly and whisper to the woman, “I can payafterwards.”

“You can’t. I’m sorry. If you’d step into the lobby, we can get your entrance fee squared away and you’ll be able toreturn.”

I may not make the start of the bidding, and I make a split-second decision. I raise the clicker between Donnelly and Oscar. “Which one of you fuckers wants it?” I’m trusting them to bid for me if I’m not back intime.

Oscar licks his salty thumb from his chips. “Can’t choose between us,Redford?”

I’d like to make that choice, but I met them both nearly at the same time in my life. I was just eighteen, and ten years later, we’re all still here. I can’t say who needs each other more or less. We’ve all just been there in rough terrain, and that’s why I can’t choose rightaway.

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 nextdecade.”

Oscar crumples the chip bag. “Love you too,bro.”

I slip through the doorway, and the auctioneer’s voicefades.

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 seeJane.

I kick the door closed, his glare meeting mine before itshuts.