Page 18 of The Betrayer
My time had run out, and the show had to begin. I had to make the presentation alone.
As usual.
Chapter 8
Will
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IWAS MINGLING WHENa voice floated over the chatter filling the room up to the high ceiling. Slowly, the talk died down. The band had already stopped playing, and I turned to see Paul on the stage, a microphone in his hand.
Was I supposed to be up there? I tried to remember the sketch of the evening Paul’s assistant, Tara, had sent me at the beginning of the week. Too much had happened between then and now, and all I could see in my head was a list of words, but not what those words said.
Paul’s welcome speech was good—he was equal parts funny, charming, and strong. Either those “model lessons” were finally paying off or I was rubbing off on him. Either way, I was proud. The audience responded, laughing when they were supposed to laugh, clapping when they were supposed to clap, and I only heard a handful of conversations still going on.
The thing with this crowd was they were used to being listened to but not actually listening. It wasn’t unlike a group of five-year-olds who wanted to keep talking despite the teacher trying to get their attention. Except the people here were grown adults who believed the world revolved around them and what they wanted. Unlike a five-year-old, everything around these grown adults told them it was true, and no one tried to disabuse them of that knowledge—not in this elite crowd.
The fact that Paul was holding their attention was a testament to how far he had come. He was settling into his role as COO of a major corporation. Someday, he would make as good of a CEO as me. If not better.
But I would never admit that out loud.
When the emcee announced dinner would be served after the auction, people moved away from me toward the tables. I stepped outside the crowd as it shifted forward slowly. I wasn’t interested in the auction and certainly didn’t want to sit and make small talk.
People lingered around the room’s edges, talking as the emcee began the auction. I had to give it to him—he was good. He kept this demanding audience entertained, laughing even as he auctioned off the artwork, the intimate dinners with a famous chef, the vacations, the boats, and even the airplane.
One of the items on the list Tara sent me suddenly popped into my head—I was an auction item. That was what I was forgetting. Included in the auction was an evening with me, which I had remembered earlier in the day. With the promise of a night spent with young companionship, I’d entirely forgotten.
I excused myself from the elderly investor I had been talking with, about to go up and take my place on the stage, when someone slipped through the doors. I stopped short.
It was the bartender from the club, Steffanie Mercer—I remembered her full name. She must have made an impression on me.
My path changed from the direction of the stage to the carpet over which Steffanie walked. The young woman had chosen a slinky red gown, the draping fabric clinging to her in all the right places. She had curled her hair, and someone—Barker or his assistant, perhaps—had pinned it back with a couple of sparkly clips. She also wore more makeup than what she’d had on behind the bar, which completed the ensemble. Steffanie Mercer cleaned up quickly, and she cleaned up well. I’d made a good choice.
“Steffanie, I’m glad you made it.”
With a smile, the young blonde held out her hands to me. I took them, drawing her close for a peck on the cheek that lingered a moment longer than a platonic greeting. I wanted to ensure my intentions for the night were clear from the get-go, if they weren’t already.
