N9ne: The Tale of Kevin Clearwater (King, #9)(31)

Pike nods and scratches at his goatee. “Impressive, but like I said—”

I cut him off and continue, “Whereas the silver ring on your pinky finger is an antique. A Classon ring made by George Classon in the early nineteen hundreds for the members of the first official MC in South Florida, The Venom MC. There’s only twelve in existence, and the ones that have sold at auction no longer have the three-carat black diamond, whereas your ring is obviously still intact.”

Pike stares down at the ring and looks up at me with his jaw open as Nine watches on silently.

“Its value is somewhere between sixty-thousand to a hundred thousand dollars, depending if you find the right buyer, preferably a collector who knows that the only other original Classon rings in existence are heirlooms that have been passed down to the original members’ families and are rarely available for purchase.”

Pike looks up from his ring. “Okay, so what would you offer me if I were to bring this into the pawn shop?”

“If you’d want to pawn the ring, I’d lend around twenty-five percent of the lowest value, so fifteen thousand. If you wanted to sell it to the shop, I’d be willing to go up to fifty percent of the lowest value, so thirty-thousand, but since the market for the item is specific, I’d start the offer at twenty-thousand. On trade…” I tilt my head and think, tapping my finger against my chin. “I wouldn’t trade. Not without knowing the current values of what you have in the shop to offer.”

“Fuck me,” Pike says.

“Holy shit. How do you know all that?” Nine asks.

“There’s an advantage to growing up on the other side of the causeway. Rich people love their charity auctions, and they love talking about the value of all the stupid useless shit they buy even more. Conversation pieces are a must because a lot of them can’t come up with anything to talk about on their own.” I look to Pike. “Do you want me go into the difference between the values of classic pianos? Because there’s a big difference between a Steinway and a Fazioli when it comes to worth, depending, of course, on the year made, the condition, if it was used in concert or as part of—”

“Come in on Monday. We’ll talk,” Pike says.

I smile triumphantly. “Thank you. I’ll see you on Monday.”

Nine smiles at me, and it’s not condescending. He looks…almost…proud. Which is ridiculous. He can’t be proud of me. He doesn’t even know me.

I take a swig of my drink, partially to hide my smile, but it’s empty.

“I’ll go get us another round,” Nine says. He points to Pike who holds up his empty beer.

“Yeah, man. I’ll take another,” Pike says.

Nine walks off toward the keg next to the cooler, and every woman with a pulse watches him like a pack of turkey vultures waiting to pounce.

“How do you know, Nine?” I ask.

“Been friends our whole lives. Did a stint in a couple foster homes together. Another few in juvie.” He gives me a long, hard look. “And uh, how do you know him?”

“I don’t. He appeared literally out of nowhere, but looking at that—” I point to one woman (out of many) appraising him. “—makes me feel like I know his type.”

We both watch as, one by one, women approach him with their shoulders back and assets out.

“Oh, yeah?” Pike raises an eyebrow and shoots me a sideways smirk. “Shoot, then. What do you think Nine’s type is? I’m interested to hear your take.”

“Well, just look at him.” I point to where he’s pouring a dark-haired girl a beer from the keg. The girl leans over the keg without even trying to pretend she’s not interested, putting her ample cleavage on display. I snort.

“So, you’re saying his type is helpful?” Pike asks, not understanding what I’m getting at.

“I’m saying look at the way women are throwing themselves at him. He’s…okay he’s like ridiculously good looking. It’s a fact like science and the periodic tables and all that. Tall. Tattoos. Muscles. Lips…” I trail off, remembering how those very lips brushed on mine.

“You were saying,” Pike presses, looking amused as he talks into his empty cup.

“You know what I mean. He can have his pick of any willing girl here, and from the looks of it, that’s the majority of them. My guess is that he’s the type of guy that has a different girl in his bed every night. I’m not slut-shaming, just observing.” I raise my free hand in surrender.

“Listen, you seem cool, and you know the value of shit, but the way you’re looking at the value of people, this person in particular, is all wrong.”

“You’re saying he doesn’t take a different girl home every night?”

He looks over to Nine again. “I’m saying that the truth might surprise you.”

“And what exactly is the truth?”

“Go on, look for yourself. Really look. Not at the women gaping at him like they’re front row at a Magic Mike show. At him.”

I look back over, and this time I try to ignore the girls twirling their hair in their fingers and giggling. The one girl has turned into a crowd of three. I look past their sex-crazed eyes, and I do what Pike says. I look at Nine. Just Nine. And he’s talking to them but not blatantly flirting. There’s no touching even when a girl smashes her breasts together in what looks like an attempt to point out some sort of tattoo on her chest. In fact, he takes a step back and grabs her cup, filling it from the keg while glancing back at me over his shoulder. He glares at Pike, and they exchange some nonverbal message that makes Pike chuckle. Nine finishes filling the girl’s beer before making his way back to us, leaving several enthralled and highly disappointed women in his wake.