I stare into Pete’s eyes, trying to look more confident than desperate, and more apologetic than intimidating. He stares back, his jaw hanging open as if the answer’s on the tip of his tongue.
“No, it’s fine,” he says at last. “There was a mistake on the guest list. Can you call ahead and tell them to expect Reed Nolan?”
The suit gives us both a look, sizing us up, but then pulls out his radio.
“Half an hour,” says Pete. “Or I’ll come get you myself. I was a bouncer once. I’ve still got moves.”
I force a chuckle, knives stabbing in my head like they’re trying to carve their way out my skull. “I believe it. Thanks, man.”
Waving as I drive through, I exhale in relief, though I still feel like a fucking asshole. Pete’s gonna have a lot of questions to answer because of me. Getting fired could end up the least of his worries. We go back a long time, and I hate to betray him like this.
It’s for a good cause, Pete. I hope you’ll understand.
When I get to the mansion’s entrance, a full checkpoint has been set up. A dozen guards man the station, operating a metal detector, confiscating cell phones, scanning for recording devices and frisking everyone, with no exceptions.
I shouldn’t be surprised by the security. Without it, the men here tonight — the sponsors for tomorrow’s auction — would turn right back around. This is the real inner circle, and they make the guests at Prescott’s last party look like the peanut gallery. These are shot callers in government, industry and finance — they’d have a lot to lose if they got caught buying a sex slave. That means no one gets inside with anything that can take a picture or record a voice.
“Your phone, sir,” a suit says as I get close.
Holding my cell tightly in my fist, I grit my teeth and power it down. I must have left Carson Bennett a dozen messages in the last twenty-four hours, but she hasn’t responded. She said not to expect a response, but with what I’m doing tonight, I’d like to know we’re on the same page. What if she finally tries to call while I’m inside? I’ll be leaving here in a hurry — I probably won’t have time to get my phone back, which means I’ll effectively be going dark.
Clock’s ticking.
Fuck it. I’ve told her everything I can. It’s out of my hands now.
“Of course,” I say, handing over the phone.
They wand me, checking for other devices, then frisk me for weapons.
“Through here, sir,” says another suit, waving me into the metal detector. I pass through without setting it off.
“Name?” asks the last guard.
“Reed Nolan.”
The suit nods and opens the front door for me. “You’re clear, sir. Enjoy the party.”
“Thanks,” I say, buttoning my jacket and tightening my necktie.
I find my way to the ballroom and look for Prescott. For a party with this much security, inside the atmosphere feels surprisingly tame. The house music and strippers from last week are gone, replaced by a string quartet. Convivial but light conversation creates an ambiance of professional camaraderie: friendly, but still guarded. This is what happens when the men in the room — all decked out in bespoke suits and gaudy, jeweled timepieces — are all alphas. I’m sure it’s a rare occasion that they’re on more or less equal footing with everyone in the room — does it make them uncomfortable, or is it a relief to be surrounded by people they can identify with?
Maybe if this all goes well, I’ll see them together in the same room again — in jail.
Spotting Prescott, I jog over, mindful of the time.
“Reed! What are you doing here?” he asks, walking up to shake my hand like its an ingrained instinct. “I thought Byron needed all hands on deck.”
“Nah,” I say with a smirk. “He’s got it all under control. I doubt he’ll even notice I’m gone.”
Prescott chuckles, clapping my back. “Yeah, I’m sure he’s enjoying himself. Speaking of which, grab a drink, make yourself at home! Kick back and have some fun, okay? You’ve earned it. I know Walker’s been a madhouse lately.”
“Yeah, absolutely crazy,” I say, forcing a chuckle. “I could use a break.”
“I’ll do my best to accommodate. I know it won’t compare to a night all up in Quinn’s pussy, but there’s a steak dinner later, following the presentation. It’s not much, but I wouldn’t want tonight to steal any thunder from tomorrow, you know?”
“Of course.”
Prescott waves for me to walk with him, so I follow. “I was going to surprise you at the auction, but since you’re here, there’s no point in waiting,” he explains as we reach his office. He opens the door with a keycard, then flicks on the lights. The room is empty this time, except for us.