His Acquisition by Ava Lore Page B

silent auction, but one where people actually had to
raise their little numbers and everything. The snobs probably thought it was
very droll, and it's great fun to watch drunk rich people try to outbid each
other, so of all the mandatory functions Felicia was obliged to throw at least
twice a year this, I had decided, was the least painful. Plus, Felicia could
probably buy some nice pieces she wouldn't otherwise have access to.
    Me, I was just hoping for a fist fight to break out.
    I checked myself one last time in the mirror, making certain I
didn't look too much like a vomit splash-guard, then grabbed my dumb beaded
clutch bag—the one with my phone in it, the portal to all my plans and
people—and stalked out of the bathroom, hurrying toward the backstage. The
Edison Ballroom is an old Depression-era hotel-turned-theater, and it's pretty
much perfect for an auction. There's a bar and a lounge and it's dim and
crowded so everyone can get all intimate with each other, whether they want to
or not. The auction was about to begin, and I had to make certain everything
was in place.
    I arrived, out of breath, to inspect the pieces one last time.
Two handsome young men who probably did bouncer work as their day jobs were
lingering near the first lot, joking about some girl they both knew. Gross. I
stomped up to them and waved their bow-tie-wearing asses out of the way before
grabbing my phone from my purse.
    The pieces had been donated by the audience, and it was
essential that they be in the same condition they arrived in. After all, people
were here to be seen, and also so everyone could know just how expensive their
tastes in art ran. That the money went to Felicia's favorite charity, an
inner-city arts program for disadvantaged kids, was probably irrelevant to
these people.
    It didn't matter. I just had to make sure it ran smoothly, and
to that end I had photographed every piece before it left storage in Anton's
basement art gallery. I pulled up the list and began going down the line.
    Lot one, an Andy Warhol. Pristine condition, still pristine.
Good. You never knew when someone was going to smoke a thousand cigars
right under their modern masterpiece. Next!
    Lot two, an Andre Masson paiting. Lot three, another one.
Both fine. Lot four, a piece of facade from some Greek temple. Awesome. Let's
just rip it all up. Lot five, a... really cool modern Aboriginal painting from
Australia. Shit, I wish I was rich. Lot six, a bronze Chinese mirror. Lot
seven, an ugly Edwardian brooch worth, like, nothing, haha, someone was doing
spring cleaning. Lot eight, a white porcelain Chinese vase, Qing dynasty... and
not here.
    Why is it not here?
    Out on the stage, the emcee, one of the inbred country-club set
who fancied himself a comedian, tapped the mic. “I'd like to welcome you all to
the First Annual Waters Charity Art Auction...”
    Panic seized me. The auction was starting and we were missing
lot eight, one of the more expensive pieces in the auction. Its spot was empty.
Empty! It was a beautiful piece, too, exquisite and smooth and fine. For a long
moment as the emcee started babbling, I stared at the picture of it on my
phone, then at the spot on the table where it should have stood. Empty.
    Phone: vase.
    Table: empty.
    Phone.
    Vase.
    Table.
    Empty.
    Oh, shit.
    And that's when I somehow managed to fuck everything up.
    Filled with ire, I took a step back, my voice already rising in
my throat. “Where the fuck is that white vase?” I hollered at the top of
my lungs as I pivoted smartly on the balls of my feet and set off to find out
whose ear to chew. Instead of striding purposefully through the backstage area,
my laser focus honed in on locating the missing vase, I collided violently with
someone rushing in my direction.
    I saw it all, in that perfect moment of stillness before
disaster strikes. A young man, his eyes wide and horrified, reeling backwards.
Our mutual momentum sent us both careening out of control, struggling to