Survival of the Richest

by Skye Warren

From across the room I see Hugo with his head bent, speaking to Christopher and another man with a shaved head and muscles like whoa. I’ve never met the third man before. He stands and approaches the bar area, so I sidle up to him.

  “Hi,” I say, dropping my rose-gold clutch on the mirrored surface.

  He looks at me sideways. “Who are you?”

  There’s a natural command in his voice, the kind that can only come from having been in charge of men for a long stretch of his life. Military? It’s in the way he holds himself. “A friend of Beatrix Cartwright. And Avery James.”

  His eyes are a darker blue than Sutton, more midnight than ocean. “Ah.”

  “Ah?”

  “You’re the artist. The one Sutton talks about.”

  “He talks about me?” My voice comes out high-pitched, because I don’t know whether he talks about what happened in the hallway or what happened bent over on the counter. Either way my cheeks burn hot in the company of this stranger. He’s wearing a wedding band and he doesn’t seem the least interested in me sexually, which only makes it more embarrassing somehow.

  “You’re going to save the library.”

  “Oh,” I say, relieved. “I’m not sure how, but that’s the plan.”

  “Christopher’s going to lose his shit. It was his idea to raze the whole thing down. I think that’s the only way he knows how to make something successful.”

  Is that what he’s trying to do with me, tear me down to my roots, to the muscle and bone, to build me into a woman he might actually trust? “That is weirdly insightful, stranger. Almost like you know Christopher really well, but I don’t know you.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches. “Blue Eastman.”

  “Your name is Blue.”

  “Yes.”

  “Like it says that on your birth certificate. Blue like the color.”

  He laughs a little rusty, like he’s not used to doing it. “That’s right.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t really move on. Was Green in the running? If you had been born with green eyes, would you be named Green?”

  “Probably.” He pauses, accepting a beer that the bartender sends his way. “Do you want anything? Sutton will be annoyed at me that I bought you a drink.”

  “An old-fashioned,” I tell the bartender, a pretty young woman with strawberry-blonde curls and twinkling eyes. “And I’m paying for it.”

  Blue takes a sip of beer and then considers the amber liquid. “My father had brown eyes. Black hair. My mother had dark skin and even darker hair.”

  “Babies have blue eyes,” I whisper.

  “Not in my family. At least that’s what my dad said, for all that he didn’t know shit about genetics either. So he named me Blue to punish my mother, to always remind her that he knew.”

  “Wow. Did she actually…?”

  “Until the day she died, she maintained that she had never cheated. Which either makes her a dedicated liar or very bad chooser of husbands.”

  Love is a terrible monster. It seduces you like a siren, pulling you closer even though you know you’re going to be smashed to bits against the rocks.

  “I’m sorry.” What a terrible way to grow up, knowing that every time your parents looked at you, they were thinking about an indiscretion that may never have happened. Finding the proof in your appearance. “No wonder you left and joined the army.”

  “That obvious?”

  “Pretty much. But what I don’t know is how you know Christopher. He’s not exactly the hoorah, my-biceps-are-bigger-than-yours type. I say that with complete respect, because your biceps are definitely bigger than mine. And also everyone else’s.”

  “We’re… friends,” he says, the word almost foreign on his lips.

  “I didn’t know he had friends.” Except for Sutton, though I wouldn’t have used the word friends. They’re business partners, sure. Enemies maybe.

  Blue nods toward the group of armchairs in the corner where Hugo and Sutton are still talking. “The four of us. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but we sort of ironically, but not ironically, call ourselves the Thieves Club.”

  “Is it because you steal jewelry at galas? I’m not judging. Anyone would consider it. There’s a ridiculous amount of diamonds in a single room.”

  “It’s something Hugo said a long time ago. That every dollar earned was a dollar we took from someone else. Whether we returned a service for that money is beside the point. The amount of money in the world is finite.”

  There’s a rush of air, and then Christopher is on the other side of me, having appeared like some kind of magician. The breath whooshes out of me for a solid five seconds, and when I breathe back in a gulp, the air comes flavored with him—crisp and dark and always so damned comforting when I shouldn’t be comforted by him.

  “Until the government prints more,” he says, the educated economist inside him sounding like Daddy, which unnerves me and comforts me even more. Goddamn it.

  Blue tips his glass of beer in greeting. “Though if we took those freshly minted dollars, we really would be the Thieves Club.”

  “We’ll call that plan B,” I say, accepting my old-fashioned from the bartender with a murmured thanks. “The gala seems like an easier mark, really.”

  Christopher is faster than me, sliding a twenty across the mirrored counter before I can pull money out of my clutch. It makes me scowl at him, because it’s an extension of the way he tries to control me—handing out and withholding money according to his own code.

  “I’m not grateful,” I tell him, taking a gulp of the drink.

  “I don’t expect you to be,” he murmurs. “But you don’t need to think about stealing. You’re one of the richest women in the country.”

  Blue seems to have evaporated, probably returning to the group of armchairs in the corner. I can’t seem to take my gaze away from Christopher’s dark eyes to check. There’s something different about him tonight, but I can’t figure out what.

  He looks a little less forbidding.

  “A lot of good that does me,” I say.

  “If you help us push this project through you’ll get the money you want.”

  I look down at my drink. Now I understand why men do this, the broody, staring-at-alcohol thing. It’s a moral dilemma, because if I push the project through, I’ll help Mom. But I’ll also destroy something beautiful in the library.

  “Sutton told me,” Christopher says, reading my mood correctly. “You’re your father’s daughter. You know there’s no way to make money back on a library.”

  “Maybe it can be like the Den. You could serve alcohol at the counter while you check out books. And people could discuss philosophy and sex like a modern-day French salon.”

  “It works for the Den because Damon Scott runs it. It’s basically headquarters for his criminal enterprises. Laundering money and selling weapons isn’t in our business plan.”

  “He doesn’t sell weapons,” the bartender says.

  Christopher gives her a small smile. “You would know.”

  She smiles back with a nod that makes her look like royalty. “I like the idea of selling alcohol at a library. I’d buy a glass of wine to sit with a book, but I’m not sure it will make the kind of money you’re looking for.”

  “This is Penny,” Christopher says, giving enough weight to the name that I should know who she is. “She’s with Damon Scott. Though I haven’t seen her behind the bar before tonight.”

  “I’m trying my hand at mixing drinks.”

  “You’re good at it,” I say with a rueful glance at my empty glass.

  She laughs, a tinkling sound. “Thank you. Anyway, it’s a good place to eavesdrop on people. That’s probably why Damon started a bar in the first place. He sells information.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re looking to get into the information business?” I ask Christopher hopefully, even though I wouldn’t like him half as much if he did. He operates on his own code of honor, which is warped and broken but comes
from a good place.

  “Fashion and trendy electronics at a high markup would be preferable.”

  “I could buy it from you,” I say, which suddenly seems like the best idea. “It would be my personal library, so it follows the rules of the trust fund. And I’d give you whatever you paid for it. More, even. So it would still make money for you.”

  “That’s assuming I would sell it to you,” he says, almost gently now. That’s what’s different about him. There’s no derision in his expression. Less coldness in his voice. He’s almost, almost human. And he sounds apologetic, as if he wished he didn’t have to disappoint me.

  “I’m not going to beg.” Mostly because I know it won’t do any good with him. I’ve already tried that, when I was far more desperate than I am now.

  “I’m not selling it, for many reasons. The location of the library was calculated based on many different factors. We won’t find another place ripe for gentrification like this one.”

  “Why do you care so much about gentrification?”

  “Because it’s going to make me a rich man.”

  “If you had two million dollars to put into it, you’re already a rich man.”

  “One million,” he says. “Sutton put in the other half. And a million dollars doesn’t make you a rich man in this economy. There’s more in the trust to maintain the damn yacht.”

  “Good Lord. How much does it cost to wax the deck?”

  Christopher gives me a half smile that looks so much like him as a college boy that my heart skips a beat. “That depends on how shiny you want it.”

  “The library is a monument to knowledge and community and the irrepressible spirit of mankind. You can’t just tear it down and build a mall.”

  “Malls are irrepressible. And profitable.”

  There’s no way I can save the library. Failure makes my chest feel tight, which isn’t a totally new feeling. Especially when I’m in Christopher’s presence. Why do I always feel crushed when he walks away? And why do I keep seeking him out, even though I know how it will end?

  I can’t save the library, but the worst part is I’m not sure I can save the mall project either. We would have to convince the historical society to let us build it.

  Another cocktail appears in front of me, sent by the too-knowing Penny with sympathetic brown eyes. I take a large swallow of my cocktail, enough that even this top-shelf liquor makes my throat burn.

  “You can use the office,” Christopher says. “Invite them over and show them the plans. I don’t mind letting them see, but I’m not going to change a damn thing.”

  “There’s the spirit of compromise and community that will endear you to them.”

  Penny shines a perfectly clean glass with a rag, managing to look conspicuous as she does it. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I’ve met some of the women in the historical society.”

  “Are you friends with them?” I ask hopefully.

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but I like to think I know how they operate. And if you bring them into a boardroom and show them documents that are already drafted, they’re going to say no.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking, too. And the worst part is I don’t totally disagree with them. It’s a gorgeous building. It should be lovingly restored, not torn down for the land.”

  Christopher gives me a dire look. “And Sutton asks why I don’t think it’s a good idea, you being our liaison with them. Maybe because you’re not on our side.”

  “I’m not on anyone’s side,” I tell him, annoyed. “I’m on my own side. There’s only me on this side. You and Sutton, you’re not invited.”

  A smile plays on Penny’s lips. “Did you hear about the show that’s come to the Grand? It’s sold out on Broadway, with limited tour dates, so it’s a coup that we got a stop. One night only. Tomorrow night.”

  The implications run through me like warm water. Mrs. Rosemont may have asked to hear details about the project, but it won’t help to show them to her. Those councilmen that are holding the permits in perpetual review? They’ll nix them for good. “So everyone will be there. Can we get tickets?”

  “It’s been sold out for weeks. Damon and I have been looking forward to it since we heard. And I happen to have a couple of extra seats in my box.” She glances sideways where Sutton sits, watching us now with an unreadable expression. “Only two, but we know the owners of the theater. They’ll let us add another chair to the box.”

  “Thank you so much,” I say, clapping. “This will be perfect.”

  Christopher sounds droll. “I don’t suppose you’d accept money in exchange for the seats.”

  She laughs. “Of course not. You’ll owe us a big favor, because if there’s one thing Damon Scott loves collecting more than information, it’s favors.”

  “He has friends,” I tell Avery, on my bed and staring up at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. I took a cab back to L’Etoile, refusing to let either Sutton or Christopher bring me home.

  “He’s probably had friends before.”

  “I don’t know.” I remember how he looked bent over his textbook, forlorn and serious and determined. “He may have given his textbooks names and had whole conversations with them.”

  “You just never lived in the same city as him,” she says.

  “Did you know about this Thieves Club? That’s what they call themselves, Sutton and Christopher and Hugo. And this man whose name is Blue, like the color.”

  “Because they steal jewels from the bank?”

  “That’s what I asked!” This is why talking to Avery grounds me. She understands me like no one else. Besides she asked for the scoop, which is only fair since she gave me the tip about going to the Den. “Apparently it’s because every dollar they earn is one taken from someone else and money is finite or something.”

  “Hmm,” she says. “So he has friends and you met them. Does that mean he’s human now, instead of a big symbolic version of your dad you can hate?”

  “Don’t psychoanalyze me,” I say in a singsong voice. “Two can play at that game and you sold your virginity in a public auction, so you’re always going to be weirder.”

  That earns me a laugh. “So you’re going to the theater tomorrow.”

  “And I still have no idea what I’m going to say to Mrs. Rosemont. Hey, the library is a gorgeous piece of history. Can we have your blessing to burn it down?”

  “Burning it seems inefficient. Won’t there just be a wrecking ball or bulldozer or something?”

  “In my head it’s going to be burned like the libraries at Alexandria. And then Christopher will fire me. And Sutton will spank me. And my mom probably won’t even do the experimental treatment even if I can get the hospital to let her in after this.”

  “There will be other libraries,” she says gently.

  I swallow down the acid that threatens to come up, ruining the pretty lace bedspread. “You’re right. The treatment is the most important thing.”

  This reminder could not be more important. The treatment is more important than making Christopher Bardot jealous. More important than seeing if Sutton Mayfair can be the man who might actually replace him in my heart. More important than the library and painting and anything else in the world. That’s the kind of focus that gets things done.

  It’s the kind of focus that’s kept me alive in the cold years since the will reading. Having some goal set for me, however impossible it seemed. Making a living for Mom while going to college. Finding some peace despite the mockery the media made of us.

  The butterfly garden was a natural extension of everything that came before. Useful and elaborate and slightly over the top.

  There will be other libraries. “Is this how men feel when they sell their morals?”

  “It’s how I felt,” she says, and I know she’s thinking of her time at the Den.

  “I’m sorry. I wish you’d have come to me then.” She’s able to laugh about it now, mostly because that’s how she found Gabriel Miller. It
was terrible at the time.

  “And I wish you would fly to the Emerald right now instead of going there tomorrow. We can eat popcorn and watch Mean Girls and talk about how boys suck. And then you can tell me about Sutton spanking you, which I did not overlook by the way.”

  “There was possibly a thing with a dusty old book.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “And a library counter.”

  “So you guys are officially… you know. Doing it.”

  “We’ve done some things,” I say, as breezy as if I’ve done every single thing on the sexual menu. Repeatedly. “Not all of them. He’s very skilled with his hands. And his mouth.”

  Avery doesn’t precisely know that I’m a virgin.

  She thinks I’ve had sex because she knows I go into bedrooms with frat boys and let them hang socks on the door, so it’s a reasonable assumption. But I’ve perfected the art of listening to their troubles and keeping all my clothes on. I’ve also perfected the art of a hard kick to the balls in case one of them gets particularly persuasive.

  Like I told Sutton, I don’t think one particular act matters that much. I never thought I was saving it for marriage, but in my head, when I touch myself at night, it was always a dark head of hair and black eyes that looked down on me. Always the same.

  No matter how much I hated him, Christopher was always the gold standard.

  “He’s fun to play with while I’m in town,” I say, still casual, because I’d like to have casual virginity-removing sex with Sutton. Then I can stop the stupidity of imagining Christopher being my first. “Not anything serious.”

  “Oh my God, Harper.” She sounds scandalized. “Two men?”

  “No,” I correct sharply. “There’s only one man. Even that is temporary.”

  Temporary, the word my mother used to describe my father’s wives. And her husbands.

  Nothing lasts forever.

  “Two men,” Avery says, insistent. “There’s always been something between you and Christopher. Mostly you two have never stayed in the same city long enough to do anything about it. And now he’s seeing you with his business partner…”

  Seeing me with my dress up around my waist, my sex exposed in the hallway while his business partner licks my pussy. “Nothing is going to happen.”