Mine

Tate - 5

Hiram’s guests, if you could even call them that, stuck around for hours past the bidding. Ian and I greeted each of them politely as they came up to me, telling stories of my parents or complementing my civilian presence as a famous star.

None of it impresses me, but I do it anyways, feigning loyalty and love towards Hiram and The Order. In a way, I do respect them, under Hiram, I loathe them just as much.

After a few hours, the people stop, and Hiram sits at his private table he returned to not long after he disappeared. Most of the men who had purchased women have left, and the night slowly crawls to the early morning hours just as I decide to call it.

We approach Hiram’s table, my impatience thinning with every step as I remind myself of where I am and who’s watching.

“Ah, Mr. Loren!” Hiram shouts through a puff of smoke. His gold chain grazes a glass as he distinguishes his cigar into a tray in the center of the table.

All his callers turn to look at me.

“Hiram. Man of the hour.” I say, trying not to grit my teeth.

He laughs, but it’s laced with lies and hate, our relationship an unspoken dance of disgust.

“Leaving so soon?”

“Yeah, we’ve got some things to do in the morning,” I say, matching his smile as his friends shift uncomfortably.

Hiram takes his time, sipping from his own glass, the golden ring on his pinky finger tinging against it. He swallows, sucking the leftover spirits from his teeth as he signals a waitstaff nearby for another round.

“Cancel it.” He grunts, reaching into his pocket and dropping a fifty to the kid bringing over the drinks.

“Excuse me?”

Before I can stop myself, it’s out, tone and all. Fourteen eyes all snap to my face. Ian stones himself beside me.

I don’t bother taking it back or apologizing, holding for an answer.

“You heard me. Cancel it. You purchased girls. They are your responsibility.”

My shoulders slump just a bit, but Hiram takes notice.

“You thought I forgot? Or perhaps you thought I didn’t see? Either way, you both owe me time at The Warehouse.”

“The what?”

Hiram blows out another puff of smoke as his callers chuckle. One in a grey suit lights the tip of Hiram’s cigar again and chuckles.

“You never took your best Boneman to the Warehouse, Hiram?”

“It’s not your business what I do.” Hiram snaps puffing his cuban again.

The man puts his hands up in front of him in surrender as he sits back, taking a sip of his own drink. I can see sweat beads on his pink forehead and can’t help but smirk a bit.

“The Warehouse. I’ll have the address sent to your phone. I’ll see you there tomorrow and I’ll expect your presence all day, Mr. Loren.” I nod, turning on my heel to leave.

“Oh and Tate?”

I still, not bothering to turn around again, and instead, turn my head to the left so that he can see my profile.

“Thank you, for tonight.”

With that, I leave