Chapter 2 #2
“Not my fault you know me so well,” Charlie laughs, mood infinitely brighter than it was when Andrew first woke him up. With a full belly and Andrew beside him, he might even make it through tonight’s showing without a hitch.
“By the way,” Andrew starts, gathering up Charlie’s trash, “Amanda texted me about the dress code.”
“Why did she text you?” Charlie frowns. He knows that Andrew is friends with his agent, but they don’t usually text about Charlie. At least, he doesn’t think so. Now that he thinks about it, he’s never asked what they text about. Maybe he should.
“Because you don’t follow rules.”
“I hate rules.”
“I know you do,” Andrew says in an appeasing tone. Charlie feels his good mood zap away, knowing exactly what’s coming.
“She wants you to wear real shoes.”
Charlie wiggles his bare feet, flexing his toes while imagining them in shoe prison.
“Crocs are real shoes,” Charlie tries.
“You are not wearing Crocs with one of Denise’s custom suits.”
“I wore them last night,” Charlie points out.
“Unfortunately, I am aware. Do you remember when you hid in the bathroom to text me about Amanda giving you shit because it was a black tie affair, and you showed up in a silk paisley shirt, linen pants and Crocs?”
“It was a very stylish ensemble,” Charlie grumbles. “I’m the artist, shouldn’t I be allowed to have creative freedom?”
“And you do, three hundred and sixty-two days of the year. This showcase is huge for you, Charlie.”
“You know I don’t care about notoriety.”
“I know, and I love that about you,” Andrew says. “But do you care about having electricity? Food? Art supplies?”
“I care about art supplies,” Charlie concedes.
“Right, then you know that selling one or two of your paintings to this specific clientele can take care of your bills for six months, Charlie. Put on the suit and real shoes and play nice with the rich people. Then when it’s over, you can go back to your normal heathen self.”
“I really fucking hate it when you make sense,” Charlie sulks.
“Also,” Andrew starts, grabbing a clean dish cloth to wipe the counter in front of Charlie. “You need to brush your hair.”
“Fuck off.”
“Suit, shoes and hair.”
“What the fuck, Annie?”
“You can do it, Charlie.”
“I don’t wanna do it.”
“Maybe you’ll impress that pretty boy of yours. How could he possibly look at you in a suit and not want to give you his number? He might even beg for yours.”
“You’re trying to manipulate me.”
“Is it working?”
Charlie can feel the corner of his mouth twitch up. “Yes.”
For the umpteenth time in ten minutes, Charlie tugs at his tie.
His throat feels like it’s being suffocated, and not in the fun way involving naked bodies and orgasms. Ties should be illegal, as should dress shoes.
Looking down at his feet, he frowns. He cannot believe Andrew got him to wear these.
He supposes the upside to having an identical twin the exact same size as him is being able to borrow what he needs from Andrew so he’s not forced to buy something he doesn’t want to own.
The downside is that it’s left him in a pair of Andrew’s shiny black dress shoes that make Charlie look fucking pompous.
He’s pretty sure they’re a designer pair since Andrew likes that shit, and he doesn’t want to think about how much money the stupid things making his feet feel like they’re wrapped in cement cost. His feet are hot and sweaty, and he desperately wants to stretch his toes.
Why the fuck do people wear shoes like this? It’s actual torture.
“You look like you want to strip yourself naked in the middle of this gallery,” Andrew whispers while passing him a glass of wine.
“I do,” Charlie says, begrudgingly accepting the wine because it’s the only thing to drink being served tonight. He’d much rather have a cheap beer or even a can of Coke. Still, he’s fucking thirsty and could use something to help settle his irritation.
“Well don’t, even your notoriety tonight won’t spare you a public indecency charge,” Andrew says, as if concerned that Charlie might actually strip off his suit in the middle of his own showing.
He’s tempted, but he’s not stupid. Before he can point that out, Andrew is once again speaking. “Any sign of your mystery man yet?”
“No, but there’s a bigger crowd here tonight than I expected.
I’ve also been doing what you said and playing nice.
I had to listen to one woman bemoan the difficulties of deciding which of her three homes she wanted to spend winter in.
Another man asked me if I had a favorite golf course in the area. Do I look like I play golf?”
“Yes,” Andrew answers, hiding his smile behind his wine glass.
“Asshole.”
“I hate to be the one to remind you, but both our parents are lawyers. We grew up in an upper-middle class tax bracket, and our parents belong to a country club. You were literally on the golf team in high school.”
“One semester my freshman year,” Charlie hisses. “To make Dad happy. But my soul withered away and died in polo shirts. No offense.”
Decidedly unruffled by Charlie’s outburst, Andrew merely hums.
“That guy in the corner has been staring at you all night,” Charlie observes, eager for a change of subject.
“The guy in the cream suit?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I think he’s from out of town. He asked me if I knew any good hotels when I was getting our drinks.”
“Annie.”
“What?”
“He was hitting on you.”
“No, he asked if I knew any hotels around town that were good and—oh.” Andrew straightens. “Well, it looks like he’s moved on. He’s hitting on that server now. Not that they look very happy about it.”
Charlie’s head swivels, eyes honing in on the cream suit guy’s lascivious gaze and the way the douchebag lays his hand on the server’s chest just moments after all but eye-fucking Andrew for the last half an hour.
To make things even more annoying, the server he’s flirting with is someone Charlie recognizes instantly—that familiar head of white blond hair and delicate features unmistakable.
Even from across the room his glitter eyeshadow shimmers, and Charlie is hit with a staggering wave of arousal.
This attraction is tempered by something far less pleasant when the man strokes a finger down the server’s chest.
Despite the polite smile plastered on the server’s face, his body language screams discomfort, and Charlie is moving without a second thought, hurrying across the room. Once he’s close enough to hear, his anger at this cream suited dickface only increases.
“Aw, come on. A pretty thing like you would look nice in my Bentley.”
“I’d get it dirty,” the server—Charlie suddenly remembers his name is Ron—replies. He doesn’t look like a Ron, but who is Charlie to judge? Well, he judges a lot if he’s being honest, but he’s polite enough to keep those thoughts between himself and Andrew.
“We could both get it dirty,” the man smirks, inching close enough that the tray of hors d'oeuvres Ron is holding wobbles slightly. Taking a step backwards, Ron tightens his hold on the tray.
“You might want to try looking for something that’s on the menu tonight, sir.” Ron shoves the tray at him. “It’s pufferfish. When not prepared correctly it can be deadly, but I’m sure we won’t get so lucky tonight.”
The man looks entirely unsure what to make of the interaction, especially when Charlie snickers.
Ron turns to look at him, raising one eyebrow.
“Oh look, there’s an eligible rich asshole—I mean bachelor. He’s available, maybe you should try and get his number.”
Rendered speechless, Charlie can do nothing but gape as Ron smiles, making his retreat and leaving Charlie alone with the cream suit douchebag.
“You want to get out of here?” he asks.
“I’m going to pass. You were literally just hitting on someone else, and you’ve been eye-fucking my brother all night.”
“He can join us,” the guy stays, stepping into Charlie’s personal space.
“I wanted you anyway, but you were busy, so I figured he was the next best thing, but if you’re available—” Charlie tunes the rest of what he says out, white hot rage flooding his veins at someone having the audacity to insult Andrew.
“He’s not worth it,” Andrew whispers, squeezing Charlie’s shoulder. “Come on.”
“This fucker—”
“Is loaded,” Andrew whispers, stepping between Charlie and the guy in the suit. “He’s also on the investment firm for downtown. I knew he looked familiar, so I googled him when you walked away. You can’t afford to do whatever it is you’re thinking about right now unless you want to be blacklisted.”
“He called you the next best thing,” Charlie hisses.
“I’ve been called much worse, Charlie.” Andrew doesn’t look shocked or offended, and that makes Charlie want to break something.
He’s so fucking sick of people acting like Andrew is a substitute for him.
He’d burn all his popularity and talent to the ground if he thought it might make things easier for Andrew, but he knows Andrew would never want that.
All Andrew has ever wanted is for all of his brothers to be happy.
“Annie.”
“It’s okay, Charlie.” Andrew squeezes his shoulder. “Come on, let's go see how many overpriced hors d'oeuvres we can eat.”
“You’re manipulating me again,” Charlie grumbles, eyes on the cream suit dickbag as he shakes his head and walks across the gallery, thankfully far away from Andrew and Ron.
“It’s not my fault it’s so easy,” Andrew smirks, leading Charlie towards the back doors where they’re more likely to run into the servers coming in and out of the kitchen with the trays.
It’s also conveniently further away from most of the patrons who clearly want to be closer to the luxury of the main gallery room and not right next to the back doors where catering is.
Andrew leans against the wall, crossing his arms. “So that was the guy, huh? He’s pretty.”
“He is pretty, right? Even you noticed it.”