2. Evan
The pettiest partof Evan didn’t want the artist’s work to be good. Unfortunately, the Bitter Betty who occasionally floated near the surface of his soul was in for a disappointment because the work was exemplary. He knew it the moment he opened the door to the softly lit gallery and stepped out of the February chill. But then, he shouldn’t have been surprised. This was Kelly Perryman’s gallery, and Kelly knew talent.
“Evvie!”
A voice rang out over the murmur of the medium-sized crowd. Evan turned to find Kelly striding toward him, resplendent in a sheath dress and four-inch heels. Tall even without the shoes—though everyone seemed tall to Evan who, at five foot six, had long ago learned to live with the world towering over him—Kelly was stunning, with a shock of bright-red hair cropped close to her head, skin so pale it would make a ghost do a double take, and a rail-thin frame.
“You made it.”
“I told you I would,” he said, leaning up on his toes to reach her cheek. He should have worn heels, but the salt on the sidewalks was sporadic at best, and the last thing he wanted was to bust his ass in front of important people. “It looks fantastic.”
“Doesn’t it?” Kelly smiled, looking around the small space until her eyes landed on an older gentleman holding court in a corner. “That’s the artist.”
“Local?”
“Mm-hmm. High school art teacher, actually. It’s such an interesting story.”
Kelly proceeded to tell that story because she was nothing if not enthusiastic. Evan should know—he’d been one of her pet projects not long after moving to Seattle with a brand-new degree from the Art Institute of Chicago. During his childhood in suburban Illinois, the Art Institute had been a refuge, and when he needed to choose a college, it had been close enough to home that he could do his laundry on the weekends but far enough away that he didn’t run the risk of relying too heavily on his mother’s loving embrace.
Postgraduation, however, he’d found himself with a modicum of talent, a few worthwhile pieces of work, and a decision to make about where he was going to set up shop and try to make a name for himself. He was torn between staying in Chicago, attempting LA, or daring to touch the Holy of Holies that was New York City.
In the end, he’d done none of the above and had moved to Seattle with his then-boyfriend instead. Kelly offered him a show early in his residence, but that had been eight years ago and mostly showcased college pieces. His more recent work couldn’t open a damn door, much less a gallery, and while his plan had always been to get to New York, that dream began to seem more and more out of reach as the years passed. After all, he had a good—albeit unconventional—life in Seattle. Most starving artists, when faced with a need to provide for themselves, turned to working at coffee shops and waiting tables. Evan, ever the boundary pusher, had started sleeping with people for money instead.
Granted, escorting was the world’s oldest profession. In some ways, he was only following in the footsteps of the late, great bohemians and dilletantes who’d fucked and frolicked their way to the top. Only, there wasn’t anything very romantic about servicing Seattle’s closeted corporate class. The money was good, though—enough to afford him a comfortable downtown loft and keep him living in the style to which he was accustomed.
Still, what it came down to was that he remained in Seattle, not New York, and the pipe dream of moving to Manhattan and making a name for himself had rusted. His latest show had been in his neighborhood coffeehouse, and he spent more time warming other people’s beds than working.
“Anyway, that’s the gist of it,” Kelly said, finishing up the artist’s story. Evan had caught maybe twenty-five percent of it, smiling and nodding in all the right places. “And I—oh, hello, you!”
With that, Kelly was on to the next hot thing, releasing Evan’s arm and flying toward the door with remarkable grace given the spikiness of her stilettos. Evan didn’t mind—he needed a cocktail. It didn’t hurt that the open bar was staffed by a tall drink of water with a winning smile and—as Evan discovered when he turned around to retrieve a glass—an ass you could bounce a quarter off. Or a paddle.
But that was a fool’s fantasy. The bartender looked like an all-American straight boy. Probably went to the university and played… soccer. Yes, soccer. With a pretty little blond, blue-eyed girlfriend who came to all his games and gave him middling-to-satisfactory blow jobs when he won.
All of which amounted to precisely Evan’s type, because he liked his men the way he liked his furniture: oversized and difficult to break. What was the fun in being the world’s tiniest top if you couldn’t force strapping submissives to their knees? Dominants like Evan were in short supply in Seattle’s queer community. For whatever reason, a lot of queer, kinky men were shockingly performative in their heteronormativity. Sure, everyone might be versatile in the bedroom, but when it came to preferred dominants, bigger was always better.
Evan’s clients were no different, and he subbed or bottomed for most of them. So it was always a pleasant surprise when one wanted him to be the spanker rather than the spankee. The paid sex combined with the tiny toppiness meant Evan’s dating life was sparse to nonexistent. Sure, he slept around, but most people weren’t into long-term relationships with escorts, and Evan was picky. Plus, who the hell had time to date when being single in the city was so much fun? Perhaps not as much fun at twenty-nine as it had been at twenty-two, but life was for living.
“Here’s your drink,” said Hot Bartender.
“Thanks, baby,” Evan said, slipping a ten-dollar bill into the tip jar. An open bar was nice, but if he wanted generous pours, he had to tip like he was paying.
Drink in hand, Evan wandered through the gallery, stopping to admire certain pieces and dipping in and out of overheard conversations. Typical art crowd—rich patrons and poor creatives. He knew from experience which ones had money and which ones were faking it.
“Reminiscent of Maureen Thomas,” one of the moneyed ones was saying, a middle-aged brunette in a cocktail dress that had been tailored to hug her considerable curves. She held her husband’s arm while taking in one of the pieces near the back.
Evan inched closer, hoping he’d misheard the name she’d just dropped.
“I suppose,” said hubby, leaning in to peer at the painting.
“It’s only ten thousand, and it would complement the one we bought in Manhattan.”
The words hit like a slap, and Evan sucked in a breath. His shock wasn’t because of the price tag—Kelly priced her pieces fairly—but because Maureen Thomas was Evan’s rival. His nemesis. The Blanche to his Baby Jane.
Granted, Maureen Thomas had no idea she and Evan were mortal enemies. As far as Maureen knew, they had attended college together, and now they were Facebook friends. But Evan was a bitter bitch, so every time Maureen posted a photo that was geotagged Paris or Singapore or any one of the other fabulous, interesting places where she lived and worked, Evan wanted to throw his laptop out the window.
It would have been one thing if Maureen was talented, but she wasn’t. In school, she’d been mediocre at best. Good enough to get into the program but definitely at the bottom of the class. Frankly, she’d simply wanted success more than the rest of them, and she understood the business of being an artist. Every time there was a networking event, a talk, or an opening, Maureen had been there. She’d mastered every social media platform as a promotional tool, and in the end, she’d succeeded. These days, she was a household name among the rich and famous who parked their wealth in art collections. Her work graced a hundred celebrity walls, and she was constantly being written up in industry publications and occasionally in mainstream ones—she’d nabbed not one, not two, but three profiles in Vanity Fair. She would likely end up in the Met before it was all said and done.
So to say that Evan resented Maureen Thomas would be the understatement of the century. But though the woman lived rent free in Evan’s head, he doubted that she thought of him at all.
Christ, he needed a joint.
When Evan pushed open the back door, the cute bartender was hanging out in the alley, smoking something that was definitely not a cigarette. Raising a brow, Evan joined him and pulled out the small tightly rolled joint he’d stashed in his pocket.
“Got a light?” he asked.
“Sure.” Bartender took out a lighter, and Evan leaned in, catching a whiff of cheap aftershave.
“Thanks.” Evan stepped back, holding the smoke in his lungs before exhaling. “You got a replacement in there, or are the wolves in the henhouse?”
Bartender blinked. “Huh?”
“Who’s watching the bar?”
“Oh. There’s two of us.”
“Gotcha. I’m Evan.”
“Keith.”
He looked like a Keith, with his sinewy arms and strong jawline, and while flirting with straight boys wasn’t illegal, it was occasionally ill-advised. This one seemed harmless, though.
“And what do you do when you’re not tending bar, Keith?”
“I’m a student at UW.”
Evan’s mouth twitched. Got it in one. “Soccer scholarship?”
Keith blinked again. “Uh… no?”
“Shame. You look like a soccer player.”
“I do?” He glanced down as if he might accidentally find himself wearing cleats. “I run track.”
“Ah.” Evan took another drag of his joint. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“You look like you move fast.”
Keith gave another of those slow blinks. Evan thought he ought to get a dog, considering how easily he fell for dopey puppies like this guy.
“Are you, like, hitting on me?” Keith asked.
Perceptive. Color me impressed.“Yes, but I know I’m not your type.”
“I mean, you’re a dude. But thanks, I guess?”
Evan smiled. Kids these days, with their decency and their Gen-Z values. “You’re welcome.”
Keith exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Are you friends with um… the artist?”
“No. I know the gallery owner.”
“Oh.” He nodded. “I like it. The art. I don’t know much about that kind of stuff, but it’s like… it makes me feel kind of weird.”
Keith was no Clement Greenberg, but Evan could appreciate the sentiment. “Tell me more about that.”
“It makes me think about bodies, and how, uh… it doesn’t take much pressure to just cut right through our skin? It made me think about that.”
“We are fragile creatures,” Evan agreed then raised a brow. “Are you interested in… bodies?”
“Sure. I’m premed, actually.”
Still waters run deep.Evan smiled again. “That’s good. We need more handsome doctors to make us feel bad about ourselves when we end up in their offices.”
Keith snorted. “My dad’s a surgeon, so… yeah, whatever. What do you do?”
“I’m an artist too.” This was easier than explaining that he used to be an artist but now just fucked people for money. “But my work isn’t quite so abstract.” He couldn’t help another pointed glance up and down Keith’s toned body. “I hire models sometimes.”
“No shit?” Keith narrowed his eyes with the contemplative look of someone who had to earn his pocket money, even if pops was taking care of tuition. “How much does it pay?”
Evan named a figure, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Keith was beautiful, but Evan hadn’t done any substantial work in over a year. It wasn’t like he was suddenly going to be struck with divine inspiration.
“This isn’t just about getting me naked, right?”
“No,” Evan said and meant it. As someone who was paid for his sexual services, he was extremely respectful of his models. “Bring your girlfriend—I don’t care.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“No?”
“No. We broke up because…” Keith trailed off. “It doesn’t matter. Can I give you my number?”
“Yes,” he said, smiling at the irony of leaving with the hot bartender’s phone number after all, which wasn’t quite what he’d imagined, but he was already picturing what lay beneath the rumpled shirt and tie. The way the light would hit those muscled thighs, and—ah, maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to work out his atrophied creative muscles for an afternoon or two. Maureen Thomas probably painted twelve shitty paintings a day. The least Evan could do was churn out one half-decent likeness of the Greek sculpture offering him the opportunity.
Maybe it would be good. Maybe he could do a series and talk Kelly into giving him another show—make a success of himself and stop escorting to pay the bills. After all, he was nearly thirty, and there was a limit to how long his youthful good looks would keep him employed.
Keith gave him his number, and Evan put it into his phone. Then Keith went back to work, and Evan finished his joint. He was just about to go inside when his phone pinged with a text from a client he hadn’t seen in a couple of months—Ray, who liked messy blow jobs and light bondage.
Ugh.Well, it wasn’t like Keith was posing for him the next day. It was just one more night of escort service. He’d worry about his career in the morning.