Page 26 of The Auction
“Neither am I.”
I move to press the button to end the call, but he speaks again—sharper this time.
“End the date, Cassidy?—”
Click.
Whatever else he was about to say is lost to the dial tone.
I give the phone back to the hostess and glance at Brad, who’s currently trying to eat his salad like it owes him money.
He chews with his mouth open—loud, wet, aggressive.
“Everything okay?” he asks, a shredded carrot clinging to the corner of his lip.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing a smile. “Just… work.”
We move on. Kind of.
I sip my wine. He tells another story. Something about venture capital and kombucha.
My phone sits face-down next to me, practically vibrating with repressed chaos. I don’t dare turn it back on. I’m not giving Jaxon the satisfaction.
Brad reaches across the table suddenly and takes my hand.
“I’m really glad you agreed to meet me tonight, Cassidy.”
“Thanks, Brad. I’m having a great time.”
I’m not.
I was.
Until I turned off my phone.
But no. I refuse to go there. Jaxon Kane is a closed door. Boarded up. Chained shut. Padlocked and buried.
“I was thinking, after dinner maybe you could come back to?—”
The restaurant explodes into chaos.
Cops pour in from the front and side doors, shouting commands and flashing badges. Diners gasp. Chairs scrape and I’m frozen.
Two officers rush toward our table.
“Don’t move!” one barks.
The other grabs Brad, wrenching his arm behind his back and slamming him—slamming him—face-first into the table.
“What the hell?!” I yelp, jerking away, pressing myself back into the leather bench.
“Bradley Mercer,” the officer shouts. “You’re under arrest!”
They cuff him like he’s a violent fugitive and haul him toward the exit, ignoring his protests. Half the restaurant is filming. The other half is staring at me like I’m Bonnie to his Wall Street Clyde.
My face burns.
My chest is tight.
