Page 42 of XO Karma

Using the tip of the weapon, I nudge it under the lid and flick it off, deflating at the sight of a lonely piece of paper with calligraphy scrawled on it. “What is this?”

“All will make sense come morning.”

15

ASTER

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” I grumble, readjusting my bowtie for the third time as I try to ignore my absolute disdain for these stuffy events. They remind me of a part of my life I’d prefer to forget entirely. I always feel perfectly in place, yet like an outsider all at once.

The valet trades me a ticket for my keys, and I store it inside my suit’s breast pocket.

“Maybe if you tried to have a good time, you actually would,” Diego says, a cocked brow and a smile on his face. A security guard confirms our names on the list, then opens the ornate front doors and ushers us inside.

“The exhibition begins here,” an older man in a tuxedo says with a practiced smile while gesturing to a large archway. We enter the main room to find at least ten sparkling stuffed animal carcasses scattered around. It reminds me of my family’s hunting cabin, only gaudier.

“These are the sculptures people are paying millions for?” I ask Diego as we pause before a raccoon adorned with thousands of black gemstones. The entire body is covered. Only its head is visible aside from eyes made of large dark jewels. “Is this even legal?”

“Completely. They’re non-protected wildlife, and there’s no law that prevents the placement of…” Our eyes drift to the bedazzled rodent. “Sparkles.”

“People seriously pay for this shit?” Although I’m hardly surprised.

“According to my sources, there will be an all-out bidding war tonight.” He gestures to a massive sparkling bear in the corner. It’s wearing a jacket seemingly made of diamonds, although by the shine and lack of security near it, I suspect they’re fake. “That one is rumored to capture upwards of ten million.”

Ten million. For fake diamonds on a stuffed bear. Shaking my head, I say, “If only there were better uses for that type of money.”

I understand the privilege of growing up rich, which is exactly why I left that lifestyle. I got so damn sick of seeing these pretentious assholes dropping money on ridiculous things while their employees defaulted on their mortgages. My dad bought another McLaren while his head engineer worked two jobs just to afford his son’s medical bills. Not that my dad gives a shit about anyone but himself.

I may have splurged a few times over the years, but they’re normal things like a single car or motorcycle. Not an eighteenth vehicle to rot in my thirty-car garage, or a five-million-dollar painting to put on the wall over my marble fireplace.

“If I had ten mill, I’d buy a 1957 Ferrari 250 Testa Rossa,” Diego says, making fake driving motions in the air.

I huff a laugh, slapping him on the shoulder. “Hate to break it to you, but you’re going to need about four times that.”

He shoves me off him. “Could you just let a man dream for a minute?”

“Diego!” Someone waves from across the room, and he excuses himself, leaving me with the “art.”

“You’d be surprised what people will pay for access,” a woman says, appearing beside me. A golden, form-fitting gown hugs her curves as she nurses a glass of champagne.

“Access?”

She gestures at the sparkling zoo around us. “This room is full of people who understand the value of this art is not simply the stones or the uniqueness of the mounts.” My gaze bounces between people deep in conversation. “It’s being in proximity to others with the same goals and ambitions as you. So what’s your goal, Mr. Blake?”

I slide my eyes slowly to hers as a smile spreads across her face. “You know who I am?”

“Of course I do. It’s my job to know the names of everyone who steps through the front door. Especially those who write for Solarium News and have a history of hating the rich.”

“I don’t hate the rich. I hate people who care solely about lining their own pockets at the expense of the innocent.”

“No one is innocent.” Her lips curve, while her eyes reach right into my soul. “Especially not you.”

My heart stops. Could she know?

I shake away the thought. Of course not. She likely hates me for my reporting on the crime section and shit-talking about these art pieces. I unbutton my suit jacket as the temperature in the room increases. Can someone turn down the AC in here?

“These animals were innocent, and look where that got them.”

“Every single one of these poor things suffered from an incurable illness or injury,” she states, gesturing to the raccoon. “Georgie here had a broken foot.” She points to a snake whose gems are adorned in an arrowed rainbow pattern. “That one swallowed trash and couldn’t digest it.”