Page 142 of Unleashed
I pull the folded paper from my back pocket and shove it at him.
"You about to pull out some glasses, old man?" I tease.
In reality, he’s only seven years older than me.
He snatches the paper, unfolds it, and starts reading.
"What is this, a fucking autobiography? Jesus."
"Shut up. I worked hard on that."
He turns the page. "Wow. Even the date of Dad's death. You really got invested in the Sterling lore."
I shrug. "Look, I'm giving a lot of nothing dressed up as something. Are we good for Harper to type it up and send it to Gianna?"
Hunter hands it back. "Yeah. Fine. She ain't getting her meeting, though. I'm not interested." He stops. “Yet.”
I run my hand over my jaw. "She said to tell you she's your enemy's enemy."
Hunter and Colt both laugh. "Yeah. Still our enemy, though. Let's watch this play out before we start inviting the devil onto our doorstep. We got our leverage, we know we can outgun the Greeks and Ranch 42."
I nod. We don't go looking to start wars. But if we get dragged into one, we aim to end it.
"Shut the fuck up, both of you," Colten hisses. "They're announcing her."
The auctioneer's voice booms through the speakers, and the arena goes quiet.
"Lot seventeen, ladies and gentlemen. Sovereign's Gold. Four-year-old American Quarter Horse, AQHA registered, sired by Shining Spark out of a Colonel Freckles dam. Fourteen national halter points, three reserve championships, and undefeated in her last eight showings across the Southwest circuit. Starting bid is set at three million dollars."
She walks into the arena, and even I have to admit it. She's something.
Sixteen hands. The palomino coat so bright she looks like she's been dipped in honey and polished with a cloth. Muscled through the shoulder and hindquarters, clean legs. Her handler barely has to guide her. She moves through the arena with every step placed and powerful.
Three fuckin’ million though. Well, and a shit load of coke.
Colten hasn't blinked.
"Here we fuckin’ go," he says under his breath.
"Three million to start," I mutter. "We've got five."
Surely this will be a steal.
"We'll need it."
The auctioneer opens the floor, and the first paddle goes up immediately. Three million from a rancher near the front, I don't recognize him.
"Three-one," Colten says, lifting our paddle.
Three-two from across the room. Three-three from the front row.
Colt doesn't flinch. "Three-five."
It climbs fast. By the time it hits four million, half the room has dropped out. There are three paddles left. Ours. The rancher in the front row, who's starting to sweat. And a paddle on the far side of the arena, held by a man I do this time know the face of.
Jake Holloway. Ranch 42. Carson's right hand. Standing with two of the Greek bodyguards flanking him.
"There it is," Hunter says quietly behind me.
