Spiders in the Grove (In the Company of Killers #7)(19)

“Costly way of doing it,” Joaquin puts in.

“Sure,” Cesara agrees, “but learning from one’s mistakes through head-first experience is the quickest and most effective way.” She pauses, and then adds, “I don’t suppose she’ll be joining us tomorrow night though.”

Joaquin smiles. “I’d be surprised if she did; a shame, really—an inexperienced buyer is always good for us.” He shrugs. “No matter; we’ve got more big buyers coming tomorrow night, that, I’m confident, will make up for Miss Lockhart’s absence.”

His comment gets my attention. More big buyers? Maybe all is not lost yet.

“Is that why you make it a three-night event?” I ask.

“Yes,” Joaquin answers, places his lips on his glass and sips as he eyes me. “Not everyone can show up on the same day; we like to give our buyers options.”

“Well, if I was a buyer,” I say, “I’d worry about all the best girls being sold off on the first night.” I remain standing, and I refrain from eye contact with him as much as I can.

Cesara hands me a glass of wine, and, with a look in her eye, and the subtle backward tilt of her head, she insists that I join her and Joaquin on the loveseat.

Fuck…

Reluctantly, I do. And I see she notices it straightaway, the reluctance.

Think fast, Izabel…you gotta get yourself out of this.

“Tell me about the buyers,” I say as I sit down—right next to Joaquin, because that’s where Cesara wants me, between them—and try to keep conversation the number one activity for as long as I can. “Are there any who I should be…aware of, for any reason?” I’m fishing for clues on Vonnegut; I just hope it comes off as an innocent inquiry.

“In time you’ll learn these things,” Cesara says, combing her fingers gingerly through my hair.

“Yes, but since we are in the middle of my first auction event, it’d be nice to have some pointers.”

“Head-first is the best way to learn, remember?” Cesara says with a grin, and then her eyes dance over the rim of her glass as she drinks from it slowly.

I take a deep breath, covering it up with the motion of my own drink, assuming I’ve failed at my information attempt.

She sets her glass on a side-table. “But in this particular situation,” she says, compromising, “head-first could look bad on me.”

OK, maybe not a failure, after all.

Joaquin smirks, agreeing.

He straightens his back against the sofa, places his glass on a side-table, and then turns at an angle to better face us, his shiny dress shoe propped upon his knee.

“The biggest buyers,” Joaquin begins, “usually attend on the third day—it’s quieter and less crowded. And because of our relationship with them, we pick girls for them ahead of time, based on their usual purchases, their preferences, and we set them aside.”

“Oh yes,” Cesara adds, “we always save the best girls for the biggest buyers. It costs three times as much just to get in the front door on the third day of the event, and they’re willing to pay it.”

“And even the least expensive girls,” Joaquin says, “start out at a quarter of a million dollars.”

“Wow,” I say, pretending to be amazed by this information. “Imagine someone like Miss Lockhart trying to bid against one of those buyers.”

Joaquin laughs.

A grin spreads across painted Cesara’s lips. “Yes,” she says, “that would be quite a sight to see.”

“I admit,” Joaquin adds, “I rather enjoyed the show with Miss Lockhart tonight”—he twirls his hand at the wrist, and his brown eyes roll upward momentarily—“these events can be so monotonous at times; I really get nothing out of them anymore.”

“I’d say your bank account does,” Cesara puts in.

Joaquin’s expression agrees. “True. And that’s the only reason I do it.”

“Oh?” I ask, though I didn’t mean to out loud; it just came out.

Joaquin nods. “I’d much rather be running everything—I’m practically just an event organizer, and truly, that’s a woman’s fucking job—or a fairy; the fairies do it even better.”

“You’re so homophobic, Joaquin,” Cesara says, playfully. “You know what that means, don’t you? Being homophobic?”

Joaquin’s right eyebrow hitches up curiously.

“It means,” Cesara says, “you secretly think about men a little more than you like.”

Joaquin doesn’t look as offended as I expected him to.

“You’re a nasty bitch, Cesara,” he says, grinning. “Sometimes the things you say make me want to put my hands around your throat.”

“But you do that already,” she says, suggestively. “And you know how much I like it.”

Oh, Jesus... Figuratively, I roll my eyes straight into the back of my head.

Before their sexual play goes too far, and I become the mayonesa in a Mexican sandwich, I pretend-cough, throwing my hand over my mouth and making the grossest hacking noise with my throat I can work up.

They both look at me as if I just ruined the moment.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, casually. “So, you were going to tell me how not to make you look bad?”