Chapter Twenty-Three
Maren: One Week Later
“ L adies and gentleman, we are just getting started! Two-fifty going once. Two-fifty going twice. Do I hear three hundred?”
The auctioneer’s voice rings through the PA system as two white-jacketed, white-gloved Fox Club employees lift a gold-framed oil painting—abstract, midcentury—and the crowd murmurs interest and flutters their bid numbers. The chandelier lights are low, the music is soft and bluesy, and somewhere, strategically out of sight, four men are moving a museum’s worth of fine art through an unattended, alarm-disabled fire door.
In the back of the ballroom, I sip my champagne and watch.
“So what do we do?” Zayn whispers in my ear. “I feel like I’m at my damn senior prom in this thing.”
The tuxedo really suits him, I have to say—a deep crimson with black lapels—but he does look decidedly uncomfortable...though not as uncomfortable as Nick, who’s a few feet away from us, fiddling with the cuffs of what I know to be an Armani silk jacket.
“Same,” Nick mumbles.
“What was that, like, two weeks ago for you?” I crack, and cast a pointed look at the lowball glass in his hand. “That’d better be apple juice.”
“Hey,” Nick says. “I’m nineteen, not four. And Will said I could,” he adds, reddening. “Said I had to drink like James Bond to feel like James Bond.”
“And do you?” I ask.
“I dunno.” Nick hunches his shoulders a little, but his eyes brighten. “I mean, the whole heist thing—”
“ Tzzp !” I make a zip-it motion with my fingers. “What did I say is rule number one?”
“Oh. Right.” He shuffles his feet—Santoni oxfords, hand-detailed, also courtesy of Jack. “Um. I guess...I guess I feel good?”
Zayn studies him a moment. “You look good, too.”
Nick’s ears go red.
“Do I hear six hundred? Six hundred, ladies and gentleman, for this striking work of expert composition—”
“What we do,” I answer Zayn, as bids pop up and the price goes from respectable to ostentatious, “is blend in.”
“Blend in?” Zayn gives me a look.
“First rule of shapeshifting,” I tell him. “Act like you belong, and you belong.”
Zayn blinks. “I hear you, but—”
“You wanna be sheriff? Then you’d better cozy up to a lot of boring white people,” I mutter.
“Oh, and you’re an expert at that, little Miss Rosie the Riveter?”
“I can do a thing or two,” I say. “Watch me.”
“Sold!” the auctioneer cries, smacking his gavel, “to gentleman number 64 here.” He smiles. “And with that, we’ll take a little intermission before the remainder of the live auction. Eat, drink, enjoy the hospitality—”
I tune out the rest of what he says and straighten my shoulders—tricky to do, in this gown, but I manage. Bare shoulders are tasteful, Jack informed me, especially in something like black velvet, “and especially with that a gorgeous piece like that solitaire of yours.”
I touch my finger to the diamond resting in the hollow of my throat. Glad it’s there. Glad it’s mine.
I suck in a breath.
Here goes nothing.
“So good to see you,” I cry, and descend on a white-haired matron in a spangled evening jacket who smiles politely, if uncertainly, at my greeting. “Maren de Mornay,” I go on, as if reminding her. “We met at the last auction?”
“Oh...yes,” she says, after a moment. “Yes, of course.”
I don’t know this woman from Eve. But I’d bet folding money she was there, and go double-or-nothing that she recognizes my last name, at least.
“I wanted to introduce you,” I say, seizing Zayn by the elbow, “to a good friend of mine. Zayn Rashad”—I all but shove him forward—“this is—”
“Mrs. Frederick Kitteridge,” she fills in for me, offering a veiny, beringed hand, which Zayn shakes—though not without staring like he might be expected to kiss it, first. “But you can call me Kitty. Everyone does.”
“Kitty,” he says. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Behind us, I can feel Nick goggling. I step ever so slightly to the side to block him from ruining our facade.
“Deputy Rashad,” I explain, “is running for county sheriff.”
“Oh my.” Kitty’s water-blue eyes go wide. “Brave man, I take it.”
“Or very foolish,” Zayn says, giving a nervous laugh. “I’m hoping I can do my part, is all. I have great respect for the office.”
“Mm.” Kitty presses her lips together, clicking her dentures. “That’s more than could be said about the outgoing administration. Never liked that Wheatley, myself. Not surprised he’s gotten tangled up in all that...unpleasantness.”
“I certainly hope Deputy Rashad can count on your support,” I butt in. Zayn flashes her his best politician’s smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse us—lovely to see you again.”
I seize Zayn by the arm, give our new friend Kitty a little wave, and turn sharply on my heel to take our leave.
“Nice work,” I mutter in his ear, squeezing his biceps. “Feeling good?”
“I feel,” he says through a clenched-teeth smile, “like an asshole.”
“Then you’re fitting in.” I smile at him, and toast with a champagne coupe I scoop off a passing tray. “You’re doing great. This thing’s in the bag.”
Zayn huffs. “It’s basically a one-man race now. I’d have to try to lose.”
“So don’t try.”
Someone appears at my elbow—Tuck, in a peach-colored jacket and matching pale glasses frames, which I happen to know conceal a very slim, very discreet CCTV relay right to the lenses.
“Hey, we need you.”
I frown. “Everything okay?”
“Perfect. Better than good. Just...come with me.” He smiles. I look at Zayn and Nick, who shrug, and submit to being led out of the ballroom and down the hall on Tuck’s arm. As we depart, I throw a glance over my shoulder.
“You don’t think...” I catch one last glimpse of the two of them, Zayn leaning in to say something in Nick’s ear. “Never mind.”
“I don’t think what?” Tuck says, craning his neck slightly as we sweep out into the small patio before the parking lot.
“Zayn,” I say. “And Nick. Is that...am I nuts?” I tip my head. “Is there something there?”
“Ohhh.” Tuck blinks. “You know...no, I don’t think you are.”
“Really?” I say. “Because I don’t even know if Nick—”
“I do,” Tuck cuts in. “Let’s just say I had to give him a quick lesson about, um, clearing his browser history after he gave me that laptop back. Not that I judge,” he hastens to add. “But, um. Yeah. He swings that way.”
“No kidding,” I say. “Who’d have thought. You think he’s up for the life of a political spouse?”
But Tuck doesn’t have a chance to answer, because the air rips alive with the sound of a motor revving, and a sleek, fast, something zips to a stop half a foot in front of us.
I open my mouth, shut it. Look at Tuck. “Is that...”
He beams. “Surpri—”
“Surprise!” Rob hollers, flinging open the driver’s door and spreading his arms wide, looking as playful and mischievous as his tux is sharp and all-business.
“Maren.” He bows, indicating the car. “For you.”
I am...stunned. It’s not just a car. It’s a sports car, the same deep green color of the forest at twilight and with a familiar emblem on the grill—
“A Mustang?” I press a hand to my mouth. “You didn’t—”
“We did.” Will pops up from the passenger side, straightening the white lapels of his own jacket. “We very much did.”
LJ, dark-eyed and tight-faced, hands in his pockets like he loathes whoever invented men’s formalwear, joins us from around the corner. “Happy birthday, Maren.”
My birthday.
I let out a laugh. Somehow, in the complete and utter fucking chaos of the last weeks, months of my life, somehow I managed to lose sight of the day that for most of my life was all I could think about. All I had to look forward to.
And that day has...passed.
“My birthday was a while ago,” I say. “I mean, thank you. Damn. Thank you.” I press a hand to my forehead. “I just—what am I saying?”
“She ain’t wrong, boys,” Rob says, striding over to join us. “We screwed up.”
“We were otherwise preoccupied,” LJ mutters. “Staying alive and shit.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “Really, it’s fine. I didn’t mean to—”
“Nah, Maren.” Tuck grins. “It’s your birthday. You deserve it.”
“And not just any birthday,” Will adds, swinging around to Tuck’s other side. “Your twenty-first, eh? So in addition to buying you your first- ever alcoholic beverage, we thought we’d buy you a 2019 Ford Mustang Bullitt in beautiful Highland Green. An homage to the classic ‘68, the 2019 model maintains the iconic Mustang silhouette while offering a more modern—”
Something pings in the back of my mind, and I throw out a hand to cut off Will’s spiel. “Buy?” I spin to face them. “As in, legally?”
“You’ll be happy to hear that she is clean as a whistle,” Rob says. “Picked her up at the dealer myself. Nice little father-daughter outfit outside of Chevy Chase.”
I bite my lip to keep from grinning too hard, and Rob ducks his head. “Thought you’d appreciate that.”
“You like it?” LJ says, studying me.
I give up and break into a grin. “Are you kidding me?” I spin around, staring at it—the car. My car. My own beautiful Mustang, free and clear. “I love it. I’m in love with it.” I fly to the driver’s side door, peer in the window at the seats, the console, the shifter. “Only thing that’s wrong with it is that it probably works too well,” I add, straightening back up. “Nothing for me to fix.”
“Oh, make no mistake, it’s a mess ,” Will says. “This thing is going to be a pain in your ass for months to come. You’re the second owner and the first one seemed to think battery acid was the same thing as motor oil. We’ll be lucky if you can get it back in one piece.”
“We’ll pick you up some new socket wrenches,” Rob adds, rolling his eyes. “Or whatever you need. Anything. But in the meantime...” He raises his eyebrows, dangling a key fob in front of me.
“How about you take us home, pretty lady?”