Chapter 3 Kit
KIT
Milo wasn't lying about the crab cakes. They're incredible, little golden puffs of seasoned crab and cream cheese that melt on my tongue, and I've already eaten six of them while pretending I came here for any other reason than the one currently making my palms sweat against the bidding paddle in my lap.
The gymnasium has been transformed, basketball hoops draped in gold and black fabric, the school colors strung across the ceiling in sweeping arcs, tables lining the edges of the court with food and drinks and auction programs.
Everything’s been upgraded over the past few months, the new bleachers able to fold back and allow room for rows of chairs facing a makeshift stage at center court, and the place is packed.
Omegas, Betas, and a handful of Alphas, all buzzing with the kind of chaotic energy that comes from mixing hormones, competition, and an open bar.
That’s definitely new and most likely sponsored by the basketball team. There’s some rich kid on the roster and anything he wants, he usually gets.
I'm sitting between Milo and Avery in the seventh row, close enough to see the stage clearly but far enough back that I can pretend I'm not invested.
Avery is tucked under Declan's arm a few seats over, looking disgustingly happy, his vanilla cupcake scent blending with Declan's pine until the air around them smells like a bakery in a forest. Quentin is on Milo's other side, his attention tracking Iris who’s working just beside center stage.
I make a little whipped sound, Quentin throwing me a finger before turning his attention right back to Iris. I’m only a little jealous. Everyone around me is in love and I'm here to commit financial warfare. Feels about right.
"You don't have to do this," Milo whispers for the third time since we sat down, leaning close enough that only I can hear him. "There's still time to eat more crab cakes and go home with your dignity intact."
"My dignity died the first time Easton knocked my textbooks out of my hands in September. This is a resurrection."
"That's not what resurrection means."
"It does tonight."
The auction has been going for about forty minutes, basketball players cycling through the stage one by one.
A point guard with a nice smile went for fifteen hundred.
A center who could barely string a sentence together somehow pulled two thousand because he flexed mid-introduction and three Omegas in the front row lost their minds.
A shooting guard with a sleeve tattoo and a visible knot bulge in his dress pants, because apparently tailoring is a lost art, went for twenty-two hundred after a bidding war between two Betas who both looked ready to commit murder.
I watch all of it with the same level of interest I'd give a parking meter. My paddle stays in my lap, my posture stays relaxed, and my heart rate stays normal. Then the announcer calls Easton's name, and every single one of those things becomes a lie.
He walks out from behind the curtain and the gymnasium responds before I do, a swell of noise that rolls through the crowd as people shift forward in their seats.
He's wearing that navy suit, the one that fits his shoulders so perfectly it should be illegal, the white shirt unbuttoned past his collarbone to show the chain and the tattoo that creeps up the side of his neck. Fuck.
He looks so offensively, aggressively good that my body mounts a full rebellion against my brain.
My pulse hammers up into my throat as my scent sharpens before I can rein it in, the black cherry going syrupy in a way that I know Milo can smell because he glances at me sideways.
Heat pools low in my stomach and my thighs press together under the pretense of crossing my legs, the first whisper of slick making me want to die right here in this folding chair.
This is just the thrill of the plan, the anticipation of revenge, the rush that comes from knowing I'm about to ruin someone's entire evening.
It is not attraction. It is absolutely, categorically, without question not attraction, and if my body could stop leaking evidence to the contrary for five goddamn minutes, that would be great.
Easton scans the crowd from the stage and then smiles at someone in the front row and my stomach clenches.
He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms, showing off his muscles and an Omega two rows ahead of me actually gasps.
His hands are enormous. I knew that already because those hands have shoved past me in hallways and knocked things from my grip, but seeing them displayed under stage lighting while he works his cuffs is a different experience entirely and one that I'm going to need therapy to process.
The announcer rattles off his stats, his position, his GPA, because of course Easton has a 3.8 while also being the worst person alive. Paddles start going up before she's even finished.
"One thousand!"
"Twelve hundred!"
A Beta from the lacrosse team, grins at his friends before raising his paddle. "Fifteen hundred!"
My jaw tightens incrementally with every number, my fingers curling around my own paddle until the cardboard edge digs into my palm.
I watch them bid on Easton like he's a prize, like spending time with him is something to be won, and the fury that rises in my throat doesn't feel like righteous anger anymore.
It feels possessive, and that distinction horrifies me.
"Two thousand!" a blonde Omega calls, and something in my chest snaps.
My paddle goes up before I've made a conscious decision to raise it. "Twenty-five hundred."
The gymnasium goes quiet in sections, the silence spreading outward from my row like a ripple.
People crane their necks, trying to identify the voice, and when they find me, the murmuring starts immediately.
I can hear my name threading through the whispers, followed by Easton's, followed by variations of are you kidding me and oh my god and isn't that the Omega he torments?
Avery leans past Declan to stare at me with wide eyes. Milo has his face in his hands. Quentin, to his credit, looks mildly entertained.
On stage, Easton’s gaze locks onto mine and the practiced confidence on his face cracks open for just a second.
The surprise is written all over his face but there’s something darker that makes the hair on my arms rise.
His chin dips just slightly, his eyes narrowing behind those gold frames, and the smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth isn't the one he gives the crowd.
It's the one he gives me in hallways right before he says something designed to take me apart.
My heart starts beating so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.
"Twenty-five hundred to the gentleman in row seven," the announcer recovers, her voice pitched with excitement because she knows a story when she sees one. "Do I hear twenty-six?"
"Twenty-six!" the blonde Omega counters, turning in her seat to find me. Her expression is somewhere between annoyed and confused, like she can't figure out why someone like me is bidding on someone like him.
"Three thousand." My voice doesn't shake.
I'm proud of that because everything else about me is shaking, my hands, my knees, and the resolve that's held this plan together since the hallway.
Three thousand is more than I should spend.
Three thousand is textbooks and groceries and the emergency fund I've been building since freshman year. Three thousand is stupid.
I don't care.
"Three thousand! Do I hear thirty-one?"
The blonde Omega looks at her friend, who shakes her head.
The lacrosse Beta has already folded. The other Omega sets her paddle down with a visible pout, crossing her arms over her chest. For a breath, the only sound is the bass line of whatever playlist the events committee has going through the speakers.
"Thirty-one hundred." A new voice kills the silence, coming from somewhere to my left. I don't bother looking to see who it is.
"Thirty-five hundred." I raise my paddle higher.
My meal plan is going to take a direct hit.
I might have to pick up a third shift at the bookstore.
I might have to sell my textbooks early.
I don't care about any of it because Easton is still watching me from the stage and his expression hasn't settled back into the mask.
He's looking at me with his real face, the one underneath the smirk and the bravado.
The competitor to my left hesitates, then lowers their paddle. The announcer waits, drawing out the moment, scanning the crowd for any last challengers.
Nobody moves.
"Sold! For thirty-five hundred dollars, to the young man in the seventh row!"
The gymnasium erupts with a mixture of cheers and gasps and at least three separate conversations start behind me that I can tell are going to be all over campus by morning.
Milo drops his hands from his face just long enough to look at me with an expression that says I love you but you've lost your entire mind.
I don't respond because I’ve already returned my attention to the stage, where Easton is stepping down.
He walks directly into the crowd, people parting for him without thinking about it. The sea of bodies opens up, row by row, as he cuts through it with his eyes locked on mine. The swagger from thirty seconds ago evaporates as the reality of what I've done catches up to me.
I just bought Easton Cole.
Easton Cole, who makes my life miserable on a daily basis, who shoulder-checks me into lockers, whose scent makes me wet against my will, is walking toward me with an expression I've never seen before and I am sitting in a folding chair with crab cake crumbs on my blazer.
He stops in front of my row as people between us scramble to make room, pressing back into their seats. He's close enough now that his scent hits me full force, and I have to grip the sides of my chair to keep from doing something humiliating.
Easton slowly leans down, bracing one hand on the back of my chair so his arm cages me in from the right. His mouth stops beside my ear, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my neck, and every nerve ending in my body goes live.
"Hope you got your money's worth, Kit." His voice is barely above a whisper, and rough at the edges. "Because I don't do easy."