Chapter 42 “The End of the Game” - Weezer
“The End of the Game” - Weezer
Rhett
“If I’d known you look this good in a tuxedo, I might have demanded you wear one sooner.” Saylor gives me an impish smile as she straightens my lapels.
“Enjoy it while you can,” I say. “It’ll be the only time this year, if I can help it.” While I may have grown up in suits and bow ties, that doesn’t mean I enjoy wearing them.
Saylor smooths down the shoulders of my maroon Armani jacket, then stands on tiptoes to press a kiss to my lips. My hands fit around her waist the way they were meant to, and I tug her closer, not at all opposed to stripping off both of our outfits and hopping back into bed.
She pulls back. “You’ll wrinkle my clothes.”
“Nah,” I say, glancing down at her tailored black pantsuit. “Too expensive for that.” I’ve enjoyed nothing more than stocking her closet with as many clothes as it will hold, not that she ever wears them. Tonight is the exception.
Brushing her hands over the black jacket, she sighs. “Men.”
I snort out a laugh and grab her waist again. Under the blazer, she’s wearing a sheer lace top with a bralette underneath. She’s tied the whole look together with a leather belt, simple silver hoop earrings, and pointed-toe stiletto heels. My girl looks hot.
“We’re going to be late,” she warns me, but there’s no frustration in her voice. She wants this just as much as I do.
“Fuck the whole thing. Let’s just stay home.” I nuzzle her neck and nibble her earlobe. She’s wearing a new perfume, and it makes me want to haul her to the bedroom right now.
“What about Maeve?” she asks around a smile. “She’ll kill us.”
“I’d forgotten about her for two blissful minutes,” I say, pressing a gentle bite to the slender column of Saylor’s brown neck.
She giggles and tries to squirm away from me. “Such a brave man.”
I growl in irritation, but she’s right. Maeve Wilson is not the kind of person you want to mess with. “Fine,” I say, “but we’re leaving early.”
“Okay by me,” Saylor purrs, dropping one more kiss on my lips before scurrying across the room to grab her handbag.
I’ve hired a car for tonight so I can feel up my fiancée in the backseat on the way to the charity auction.
It’s still hard to believe that this incredible girl has agreed to be my wife.
As we drive to the Museum of Art, I hold Saylor’s hand in mine and stare at her ring. “No regrets yet?” I ask her.
She rolls her eyes and tugs her hand away, but only so she can wrap it around my neck. She pulls my head down to hers. “None.”
The car pulls up to the museum’s entrance way too soon for my liking. Saylor and I separate, and I climb out of the car first, then reach out a hand to her. It’s her first big society event, but she doesn’t even look nervous.
We find everyone else once we step inside, or rather, they find us.
Maeve approaches, hands on her hips. “There you are. I thought you lovebirds had decided not to show.” She says this with a smile, but it’s covering thin ice. The ice queen is on the verge of cracking.
“Sorry we’re late,” I say, and press a kiss to her cheek. “Traffic.”
She purses her red lips even tighter, because she knows traffic had nothing to do with it. She’s wearing a floor-length black satin gown with sharp, structured shoulders and a deep V-neck, a diamond choker, and matching stud earrings.
Watch out, world. Maeve Wilson is out to kill tonight.
I move to greet everyone else, keeping Saylor tucked under my arm.
She’s attended a few poker games and even helped us with several revenge plots, but everyone is still a little on edge with someone new in the group.
We’d all just gotten used to Slate being around when I announced that Saylor and I were serious.
Pierce, Heath, and Slate are all in tuxedos as well, although both Heath and Slate look as uncomfortable as I feel.
Why do we do this to ourselves? One glance at the woman at my side reminds me exactly why.
I’d have worn my fucking birthday suit to this thing if Saylor asked me to, and now I kind of wish she had.
“So, what’s the plan?” I ask, rubbing my hands together. This thing will be boring as fuck if we’re not bringing someone down at the same time.
“Deirdre Cox,” Maeve says, eyes sparking with fire. “We run up her bidding, then back out at the last minute. Meanwhile, Lux will drain her accounts so she’s left with a bounced check.”
Lux nods her agreement, and I wonder where she’s keeping her laptop. It’s definitely not under that fitted white satin gown.
Pierce adjusts his black bow tie. “The shell bidder is already seated, but I gave him instructions earlier.”
Maeve whirls on him. “What shell bidder?”
Pierce stares down at her for a few seconds before saying quietly, “The one we agreed upon.”
If he were anyone else, I’d be scared for his safety right now. Maeve may be just over five feet tall, but she packs a lot of venom in those sixty-one inches. Her heels give her a slight advantage, but Pierce still towers over her.
“I’m doing the bidding,” Maeve says. “Remember?”
“No, I don’t remember,” he says.
“We talked about this. In great detail.”
Saylor sends me an amused look that asks Are they always like this?
They’ve always butted heads, but it’s been especially bad since their companies had a mutual deal that went south, thanks to Deirdre Cox. Hence the reason we’re all here tonight.
“The only thing I remember is agreeing we’d hire a shell bidder so Deirdre doesn’t get wind of the plan,” Pierce says, stepping closer until he’s toe to toe with Maeve.
She fumes at him, refusing to back up even an inch. “No, we agreed that I would do the bidding to make her angry and keep her trying to outbid me.”
Heath cocks a brow at me, and I grin back, shaking my head. “Maybe we could just fuck the whole plan and go play poker,” I suggest.
Neither Pierce nor Maeve appears to hear me. Either that, or they’re very good at pretending not to. Their staring contest is making Walker uncomfortable, and she fiddles with the new diamond on her hand. Heath beat me to it in the proposal game, but I couldn’t be happier for the two of them.
“Maybe you were too busy fucking your boy toy to remember what we discussed,” Pierce says. “Where is he, anyway? I thought maybe you’d bring him tonight.”
Maeve’s spine goes ramrod straight. “Fuck off.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Pierce snaps his fingers as if he actually just remembered, the fucker. “He’s probably here with his wife.”
“So, anyway,” I say, butting in and clapping my hands before Maeve can snap my best friend’s neck. “What are we bidding on again?”
“A stupid hot-air balloon,” Maeve says at the same time as Pierce says, “A vintage, fully restored hot-air balloon.”
Saylor lets out a chuckle beside me. “You’re kidding, right?” She was volunteering on the crisis hotline the night we planned this takedown, and she has yet to be party to any of the really ridiculous things that go down in this world.
Heath snorts. “Afraid not.”
Apparently, Deirdre Cox has been talking about this hot-air balloon with everyone she meets, already planning parties around it and everything. A bit over the top, if you ask me, but hey, why have money if you can’t spend it on ridiculous shit?
“Guys, it looks like the auction is about to start,” Walker says, gesturing to the room where the bidding will take place. She’s right. The foyer of the museum has mostly cleared out, and we are standing here like fucking idiots.
Maeve holds up her paddle and doesn’t take her eyes off Pierce. “I’ll be in the front row, bidding on a hot-air balloon like we agreed.” Then she stalks off, leaving the rest of us in her hypothetical dust.
“Oi, mate.” Heath slaps a hand on Pierce’s chest. “You sure you want to take that on?”
Pierce is still watching Maeve walk away, but he shrugs. “It’s nothing I can’t handle, trust me.”
* * *
The auction is boring as hell, but I could have guessed as much. Saylor and I sit in the back. She’s watching the bidding, but I’m mostly trying to figure out how to get a hand into her top without anyone seeing. Why the fuck didn’t she wear a dress?
When the hot-air balloon comes up for bids, though, I straighten in my seat. There are a handful of interested buyers, but they drop out one by one once the price climbs into the six digits.
“All this for an old balloon that probably doesn’t work anymore?” Saylor asks.
Eventually, there are only three bidders left—Deirdre Cox, who looks like she hasn’t been laid in a decade; Pierce’s shell bidder; and Maeve, who also looks like she hasn’t been laid in ages.
The number keeps climbing, and I feel Saylor tense up beside me. She’s really getting into this. I grin and tuck her hand into mine.
“Two hundred sixty-eight thousand,” the auctioneer says.
All three paddles go up.
“Two hundred seventy thousand.”
Once more, three paddles in the air.
The auctioneer sighs. “Three hundred thousand.”
The paddles continue going up with each number he calls.
I yawn and settle back in my seat, throwing my arm around Saylor’s chair.
We might be here a while. Both Deirdre and Maeve look ready to murder someone—each other—and the shell bidder looks as bored as I feel.
Something tells me this isn’t going to end well.
Fifteen minutes later, the bid is at two and a half million.
Maeve’s face is as red as her lipstick, and Deirdre’s has lost what remaining bits of color it had.
Then—I’m not even sure how it happens—Pierce’s bidder gets distracted at the same moment Deirdre gives up the fight.
This leaves Maeve with the winning bid for an old hot-air balloon she’d rather smother herself with than take home with her.
I grab Saylor’s hand and pull her from the room, needing a drink before this whole thing comes to blows. I can already smell the smoke coming from Maeve’s ears.