Highest Bidder (Salacious Players’ Club)

Daisy

Two months later

There’s this part of grief counseling where we’re supposed to sit in silence for a few moments. It’s meant to be meditative and calming. For five minutes, we listen to nothing, and it allows us to just focus inward.

It’s my least favorite part.

It feels like being shut alone in a room with someone I’ve been avoiding. Painful and awkward and torturous. But I do it. Because that was the promise I made myself. I’m not going to cut corners and fake recovery. I am going to do the hard things.

Big risk, big reward.

The five-minute timer beeps and everyone slowly opens their eyes. Another least favorite of mine. Staring into the grief-stricken faces of survivors, like me. But it turns out convincing yourself that someone else has it worse doesn’t actually make you feel better. Because sadness is just…all around. And I don’t mean in just these meetings, but everywhere. No one is really immune or safe from sadness.

No one has perfect, poetic lives.

It took me having one for a split second to realize that. Even on private jets and balconies overlooking the Eiffel Tower, the grief and pain I’d been bottling up and shoving into a ratty old backpack stuck to me like static cling.

But I also learned, through these harrowing and sometimes overwhelmingly sad meetings, that while sadness does permeate the air nearly everywhere, so does joy.

Ironically, it turns out that that’s sort of what makes life poetic in the first place. It’s not an Instagram filter or a Pinterest board. It’s gross and gritty and beautiful and stunning all at the same time.

I also had to accept that love could be just a memory, and it wouldn’t make it any less perfect or significant.

My mother loved me so much, she walked away from the man of her dreams. She walked away from real love. But she came back a happy woman. It might sound sort of weird, and I don’t share this part with my grief group, but knowing that I fell for the same man my mother did made me feel strangely close to her. Without thinking about the gross parts, of course. I love that her heart beat for the same person mine did, and that means something. Like she’s still here.

I’ve let go of Ronan Kade.

I don’t cry about it anymore. At least not every day, like in the beginning. I just remember the truly perfect moments and the surprising ones. Honestly, I’ve gotten to a point in my healing where I’m sort of astounded and shocked that it happened at all.

I fell in love with a man thirty-five years older than me. Who happens to be a billionaire.

Who also happens to be the most romantic, passionate, caring, down-to-earth, perfect man—no, perfect person—I’ve ever known.

I mean, how many girls can say they’ve experienced something like that by the age of twenty-two?

I’m lucky. Or at least I keep telling myself that.

When I think back on the whole experience, I try to remember the reason I came out to Briar Point at all. Why did I go to such lengths to find him? Was it really about understanding why he left me the money? Or was I somehow picking up where my mother left off?

I don’t see him at the club anymore. Everyone’s talking about it, and I’m starting to feel the pressure. Like all of their harsh glares are really saying, Why don’t you quit so the billionaire we love will come back?

But I can’t quit. Because I need this job. Even though I know Geo won’t hound me for my half of the rent, I have to pay him or else this has all been for nothing.

“Daisy, did you want to answer today’s prompt?”

I look up from the knot of wood on the floor I’ve been staring at since I’ve been lost in my own thoughts.

“I’m sorry…what was it?”

“What are you excited for? It can be anything. An event. Big or small. Or a milestone, maybe.”

I look around the circle at the faces staring back at me. I can tell by the nervous, jittery energy that they’re not a talkative bunch today, which is why she’s asking me. I sort of like talking and starting the conversation. Even if it does usually end up in tears and grief, at least by the end we’re laughing and smiling.

“Umm…I have a gig tonight at this piano bar I love. It’s like…a showcase they have once a week. They’re going to let me play my own songs…as long as I promise to play the classic covers too.”

“Did you finish your song?” the moderator asks.

“I finished a couple, actually.”

A few people around the circle clap and aim their tight-lipped smiles in my direction.

“How do you think your mom would feel about your songs?” she asks in a follow-up. My chest tightens at that question.

“Umm…” I smile to myself, thinking about the fact that some of my songs definitely make reference to the same man she was in love with nine years ago. But all of that aside… “She called me her favorite songwriter. So I know she’d be really proud.”

“She is proud,” one of the older women in the group adds, and I grin at her.

“Thanks,” I reply.

From then on, someone else answers and then another, and soon, we’re all talking about the things we’re excited about, encouraging each other, and you almost wouldn’t recognize us as a grief counseling group.

Which I guess is sort of the point.

As it turns out, healing from grief and a breakup at the same time is really exhausting. Which means when I’m not at counseling or working or writing a song, I’m sleeping. And every moment I’m not sleeping, I’m wishing I was.

“Daisy,” Geo calls, tapping on my bedroom door. I roll over and check the time on my phone, “It’s seven. You don’t want to be late.”

Actually, yes, I do.

I think I might have lied when I told the group I was looking forward to this night, because I’m actually dreading it. This will be the first time I perform any of my own songs in front of a crowd that’s not my mom or Ronan.

“Big risk, big reward, Daisy,” I mumble to myself, imagining it’s my mother’s voice harping at me to get out of bed and go to the bar. I only have to tell myself the same line about ten times before I finally sit up and pull on my pants. And since I took a little too long, I now have to rush, throwing my wild hair into a long, messy braid over my shoulder. Then I slip on one of my mom’s old band tees that’s been ripped to make it more of a crop top.

I toss my journal into my new backpack and rush out the door. Geo is standing in the hallway waiting. He’s dressed up tonight, and I pause as I take in his whole look. He looks fine as hell in those black leather pants and a pair of high-heeled boots, making his slender legs look longer than they already are. The black eyeliner brings out the green in his eyes and his shirt is so tight his toned biceps are on display. It makes me wish he’d dress up like this more at the club.

“Daaaaaamn,” I drawl as I let my gaze sweep up and down his body. “Mr. Tall, Dark, and Sexy as Fuck.”

“Oh, stop,” he replies, and I laugh as I throw my arms around his neck.

“You got dressed up for me,” I mumble into his ear, and I feel him smile against my cheek.

“Of course, I did, Daisy Moon. This is your big night. And we all know I’m your only friend.”

When I pull away from the hug, I give him a shove. Then I take his hand in mine, our fingers entwined, and even I’m surprised to find I’m the one pulling him to the door.

It’s a short walk from Geo’s apartment to the bar, but I feel like I’m practically running all the way there. I don’t want to be late, but I’m also terrified to arrive, so every step feels ominous and exciting at the same time.

When we finally arrive, my hands tremble as Geo pulls open the door. It’s not nearly as crowded as it normally is on the popular dueling piano nights. But there is a nice little crowd of people lingering around the tables. When I spot a familiar face standing at the bar, I freeze.

Eden St. Claire is holding a martini glass next to a grinning blonde. It takes me a moment to recognize Garrett’s fiancée, Mia. I coast their way with a look of surprise on my face.

“Oh my God, what are you doing here?” I ask as I put my arms around Eden.

“A little birdie told me,” she says, glancing up at Geo standing behind me.

I glare at him with wide eyes, and he does his best to look innocent. But I can’t even be mad at him. The way it feels to have someone else here for me is…amazing. It makes me feel a little less alone.

“You’re going to do great,” Mia says with a beaming smile.

“Thank you.”

Just then I spot the organizer waving at me from the bar, so I excuse myself and rush over. He quickly goes over the lineup and what I should do when it’s my time.

I swallow down the sudden urge to vomit again. “Want a drink?” he asks when he notices my complexion turn pale.

I shake my head. The thought of alcohol only makes it worse. “No thanks. Knowing my luck, I’d forget my lyrics or something.”

“Okay, break a leg, kid,” he calls as the announcer takes the stage.

Hearing my name uttered through the mic feels like a dream. Slowly making my way up to the stage, all eyes on me, the moment goes by in a strange gaze of slow-motion surrealism. But as I take my seat on the bench and the crowd goes quiet, I glance out to the floor again, bright overhead lights blinding my vision.

But one face stands out. Sitting at the bar, a glass of bourbon in his hands, he watches me with a warm, comforting expression. Suddenly, I remember that day on the street in Paris.

Just play for me, he said.

So, that’s exactly what I do. I imagine there’s not another soul in the room, just his rich chestnut eyes and the proud look on his face. If I’m just playing for him, I couldn’t screw this up if I tried.

“Thank you,” I mumble into the mic, and the crowd quiets to a low hush. “My name is Daisy Moon. And this song…is called ‘The Highest Bidder.’”