Page 55 of Highest Bidder

“So, yeah,” I said. “I don’t do ‘ambiance’. I don’t do pretend. If I’m paying for it, I want to be clear on what I’m paying for. Last night blurred that line too much.”

She didn’t say anything; just quietly lay there against me.

I should’ve let the conversation die, but I glanced at the phoenix tattoo on her wrist. The one I’d asked about the first night we met, but she wouldn’t elaborate on.

Knowing a little more of her story, I could piece together the significance, but I wanted to hear it from her.

My thumb drifted over the ink. “You told me this was a conversation for another time. How about now?”

****

Vivian

I remember he’d asked at the masquerade party, and I’d brushed him off. I didn’t normally share my story with people I knew, let alone strangers.

But he wasn’t a stranger anymore. Not really. And now he was asking again, and it felt different this time. Like he wasn’t just curious. Like he actually cared.

I looked at the ink on my wrist that I’d traced more times than I could count.

“I got it when I was seventeen. The day I’d saved up enough money to sign the lease on my first apartment.”

“How were you able to sign a contract at seventeen? Or get a tattoo?”

I shrugged. “I had a fake ID. And the places I frequented didn’t exactly scrutinize it.”

He nodded like he understood, although I didn’t see how he could. Our lives couldn’t be more different if we tried.

Still, his thumb traced over it again, slower this time, and he murmured, “My little phoenix. You are a survivor, that’s for sure.”

Maybe he understood more than I gave him credit for.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Vivian

I showered, then wandered into the kitchen in one of Jeff’s white t-shirts. He was leaning against the counter, barefoot, in a red SDSU t-shirt and grey sweats, scrolling through his phone.

He smiled when he glanced up and noticed me, then asked, “Are you hungry?”

I nodded, not sure if I was supposed to assume the position on the island counter.

He opened the fridge and pulled out eggs and sourdough. “Have you ever made French toast?”

I blinked. “Isn’t it just bread and eggs?”

He gave a grunt that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “God help me.” Then he reached into a drawer, pulled out an apron, and tossed it to me. “Come here.”

I moved immediately to comply.

He showed me how to whisk eggs with cinnamon and vanilla, while explaining why he lets the bread soak instead of dunking it and tossing it on the pan like I probably would’ve. His hand brushed mine a few times as I worked, but he didn’t correct me or take over. Just let me try it myself.

“You’re not a bad student,” he said when I flipped a piece without mangling it.

“High praise from the Master,” I teased.

His brow lifted. “Careful, little girl. That mouth is going to get you in trouble.”

“Isn’t that what it’s for?”

---