Page 37 of Playing Dirty
I lean in closer, dropping my voice. "Look, have I done something? Because if I’ve made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry and you just say the word and?—"
"No." She cuts me off, her eyes wide "God, no, Cillian. It's nothing you've done, I swear. I'm just having an off night."
Her eyes hold mine, and I nod and let the obvious lie stand, giving her a reassuring smile that she returns before turning her attention back to the group.
"And then, of course," the doctor is saying, sounding impressed with himself, "you understand the demands of the practice."
"Oh, certainly," the tech bloke interrupts. "Though I’d arguethat the startup world has its own unique intensity. It’s a similar high-stakes environment, in its own way."
"Hardly comparable," the doctor counters, puffing out his chest. "When you have a life on the table, there is no margin foranyerror."
Miriam tries to interject. "It’s funny you say that, my grandson is actually?—"
"It’s not even about the hours," the doctor continues, cutting her off. "It’s about theweightof it. The lives in your hands."
What kind of fucker interrupts a sweet old woman? Who raised this shithead?
I open my mouth to say something, but Margot is already leaning forward.
"I’m sorry, Miriam,” she says. “What were you saying? I think you were interrupted."
She says it pleasantly enough, but both the tech bloke and the doctor look momentarily ashamed, and I hide a small smile as Margot directs her full, warm attention back to Miriam.
Miriam beams, seemingly oblivious to the slight as she looks at the group. "Well, my grandson is in medical school, and I just find it so courageous, what these young people do."
She continues on, and I watch Margot listening with her whole heart, nodding and smiling at Miriam while the doctor and tech guys are firmly put in their place.
I'm not sure I've ever met anyone so genuinely kind.
"Alright, and now for our marquee lot," the auctioneer booms, his voice echoing through the ballroom as every eye in the room swings toward me on stage. "A private candlelit dinner for two, featuring a curated tasting flight from Solstice Estates... and, of course, the company of Mr. Cillian O'Rourke. NHL forward forthe San Francisco Renegades. If you've ever wanted to spend an evening with this Irish charmer, now is your chance."
I give the room a small, photographable smile and try not to think too hard about the termIrish charmer. With every gaze fixed on me under the glare of the stage lights, I do my best to look like I'm worth the hype. The auction has been underway for what feels like a small lifetime, and the crowd is sufficiently lubricated by now that the bidding has turned aggressive on even the minor lots.
Earlier I watched two men nearly come to blows over a small boat, and given they both look like they have more money than God, I'm not sure why they were carrying on like it was a matter of life and death.
People are fucking strange. Rich people especially, though I guess I'm one of them now. It never fully feels like it though, since I grew up in a family that always had to keep money in mind. Sometimes I think a scrappier upbringing is essential to building any real character.
"Let's open the bidding." The auctioneer's eyes sweep the room. "We have an opening bid already on the boards from a phone bidder at fifteen thousand."
A murmur ripples through the crowd. I somehow resist the urge to shake my head at the absurdity. I'm so not worth that kind of money, but hey, if they want to pay. The family group chat has been merciless since I found out Vivian's putting in a bid. Keeping me humble.
A paddle goes up near the front of the room. An older blonde woman, country-club polish and dripping in diamonds, lifts hers with a confident snap.
"Sixteen thousand from the lady in the front. Do we have seventeen?"
"Eighteen from our phone bidder," the staffer on the phone calls out, raising her own paddle.
"Twenty," the blonde says, calm as anything, as if she's merelyordering another round of tea.
The crowd lets out an appreciative noise. My stomach drops a full inch. I glance toward the edge of the stage and there she is, Margot, half-hidden behind a pillar and watching the stage with an intense, unreadable expression. She catches my eye for half a second before determinedly looking anywhere else.
Come on, Vivian.
"Twenty-two," the staffer calls.
"Twenty-five," the blonde says, her paddle lifting again without hesitation.
A brunette nearby joins the fray. "Twenty-six."
