3. Kael
KAEL
Alistair Blackwood’s parties pass legendary on their way into myth.
Fairy-tale creatures arrive in self-driving chariots, dressed to the nines, drawn to him like moths to golden light and expensive champagne.
The entertainment starts on the street with a full symphony serenading the walk up.
Drinks drift on a constant tide of silver trays, borne by hot servers who materialize only when your glass is empty.
All of it is just framing for Alistair’s true gem.
Strip away the servants, guests, and live soundtrack, and the house itself is almost modest on a quiet cul-de-sac in Glen Park that makes you forget the drive up and up and up.
The climb comes back to you inside, where Alistair keeps San Francisco’s twinkling skyline on display.
My Uber driver cuts off a few ever-patient, driverless cars and noses right up to the front, beside the woodwinds.
“You sure this is the right place?” he says, eyeing my striped collared shirt, which suddenly feels inadequate.
“I’m sure,” I say, stepping out of the car and into Alistair’s world.
He rolls the window down for one last question. “What kind of party is this?”
I set my jaw, canvas clutched against my chest, pretending everything will be fine. “I have no idea.”
It’s my fifth one of these. Alistair seems to enjoy making each party feel like a brand-new level of the same game.
“Beverage, sir?” A server materializes at my side, tight-fitting clothes showing off an unfair amount of muscle. He’s young, gorgeous, and I can’t help but compare his effortless presentation to my own awkwardness.
I imagine his interview requirements were a lot simpler than mine. Are you hot? Can you carry a tray? You’re hired.
“Pbr?” I say, heat creeping up my neck.
“Sir?” With a tilt of his head the word sounds dirtier.
I raise my voice over the fluting piccolos. “Pbr!”
“Oh, you’re…” He relaxes slightly, then snaps back into character. “Right this way, sir.”
“Kael,” I correct. “Just call me Kael. And I’ll drink whatever’s on your tray.”
At Alistair’s front door, two imposing men flank a metal detector.
A small table holds stacks of empty security bags beside a kind-faced man politely encouraging everyone to free themselves from technology while the guards make sure they do.
I drop my phone into a bag, seal it, and pocket the awkward, now-useless pouch.
My hot escort hands me a small, potent cocktail of liquid courage and leads me through the first floor, where tuxedos and gowns surround a gleaming onyx grand piano.
We descend a winding staircase wrapped around a twenty-foot birch tree and a cascading waterfall. The skyline, the escort at my side, the opulent blend of stone, steel, and wood should be sensory overload. Instead, my attention keeps snagging on the rectangle in my arms.
It’s empty. I’ve brought an empty canvas to Alistair Blackwood’s party. He did say it was okay if it was a work in progress. I suspect this pushes that boundary further than he meant.
The deeper we go, the more the party shifts from champagne dignitaries to gin-fizz gentry to bourbon-soaked bourgeoisie.
The bottom floor is for commoners, and everyone knows their place. Hot twenty- and thirty-something gay men come to Alistair’s like it’s any other Castro club. This is as far as my escort goes.
“Know your way from here?” he asks from the last step.
“Yeah, I do.”
He hesitates, his hand fidgeting at the back of his neck. “How much is he paying you?”
“Rent,” I say, and the escort’s eyes widen.
“I thought two thousand was good.” He shrugs. “What do you do?”
I hold up my canvas. “I paint.”
His stare goes blank, and I remember what I’m holding. Before I can explain, he’s already turned and vanished back up the stairs.
Shit. I need to figure out what to say about this.
The party’s barely started, but it won’t be long before this level is the most debauched.
At my first party, I learned that being buried on the bottom floor of tech’s favorite eccentric billionaire’s mansion is the safest place in the world to get stupid, especially if you’re rich enough that nothing sticks.
Drugs flow as freely as rumors about Alistair, and it’s not my scene. Sequins flash, short shorts ride high, and neon glows from every corner. The carefree laughter of sexy socialites spills up and down the staircase, reeking of money and privilege.
I push through the noise and sweat toward the back room.
Nine other artists wait inside, each standing beside their work, looking as awkwardly self-conscious as I feel.
These are my people—not my friends, but my peers.
We’re meant to wait down here in case Alistair decides to parade us through the party or make a personal appearance.
At one party, neither happened. I left with a nice buzz and nothing more.
That memory gave me courage to bring the empty canvas.
Though being surrounded by actual paintings makes that courage feel more like foolishness.
Bass thumps outside, but with the door closed, it’s quiet enough for normal conversation, though no one’s taking advantage. So, I break the ice.
“Kael.” I wave, blank canvas hidden against my chest. “Good to see you guys again.”
“Hey, Kael.” A sculpted, shirtless man, new to Alistair’s collection, greets me first, gesturing to the empty space beside him.
“Someone understands the assignment,” I joke, instantly regretting it when he blushes. “You look great. Uh, your work looks great.” I drag my gaze up from his abs to the abstract splotches on his canvas.
“Thanks. I’m Marcus.” He bends his knees, spreading his fingers like a director framing a shot. “I call it Anguish in the City.”
Behind him, a younger guy with short green hair and neck tattoos rolls his eyes.
“It’s, uh, really good,” I stammer. “Alistair will love it.”
Everything is subjective, except for that man’s V. We’re all doing what we have to. If I had that body to distract from my nonexistent work, I’d be as naked as Marcus.
The door swings open and a group of six women spill in, their voices slicing through the quiet.
“Oh my God, Cassie, in here!”
“Heyy, boys,” a woman in a shimmering gold dress chirps.
“Oh my,” another coos. “I can’t believe he has a private art room!” She’s already too drunk for this early in the night. “Complete with eye candy.”
“Too bad they’re all gay.”
Do they not realize we can hear them?
“Hello, ladies!” Marcus steps forward, far too excited by the interruption.
“Hello, you,” one of them says, while another purrs, “What happened to the rest of your suit?”
Her comment makes me notice his suit pants are slim-cut and tailored to perfection with a subtle satin stripe down the side. They’re far more elegant than I gave him credit for, and I try to fit Marcus into the few things I understand about how Alistair’s patronage works.
The rules are unspoken, but they’re obvious in the room: Alistair collects attractive, gay men and supports their art in exchange for…
availability. Presence. Being part of the decor whenever and wherever he wants.
Some guys would kill for the chance. Marcus’s eagerness to play host to six drunk women tells me exactly how far he’s willing to bend.
He catches one of their hands hovering near his back and folds her fingers into his with a practiced smile. He introduces the women to the artists, each of us offering the usual answers about our work.
My canvas stays wedged against my chest, the empty hooks on the wall behind me ringing like little alarms.
“And this is Kael,” Marcus says.
“Heyyy, Kael. What have you got there?” The drunkest of the group leans hard on her friend’s shoulder.
I did want practice explaining it. A drunk girl is as good a test audience as any. I flip it and hide behind it while they double take, bracing for stunned silence, confused frowns, and raised eyebrows.
“Oh, oh, oh!” Marcus says, ever the attentive host. “I’ve seen this. Um… um…” He snaps his fingers, then stomps his foot. “Futurist Illusionism!”
“Yes,” I say, trying not to sound too shocked.
“What is it?” one of the women asks.
“You tell them, Marcus,” I deflect.
“You’re the artist.”
I look at the canvas, then back at him, feeling the thread between us pull tighter. “I’m honestly shocked you’ve heard of it. Go on. Impress these beautiful ladies. Tell them what you know.”
Without missing a beat, Marcus gestures toward the canvas. “It’s, uh, about the collision between futuristic technology and traditional art, right?”
“Exactly,” I say, and start improvising before anyone notices Marcus just dropped my work into an art movement I’ve never even heard of.
“People look at a blank canvas and think nothing’s there, but that’s not true.
The materials are already doing half the work.
Fabric, wood, tension, labor, all of it shaped by machines and systems and the invisible structures holding the thing together.
” I step closer, hearing the idea sharpen as I say it.
“Then the canvas gets stretched almost to breaking over a frame. That’s the illusion.
The violence disappears, and what’s left is something pristine enough to hang on a wall. ”
“Damn, boy!” one woman exclaims.
Another leans closer, squinting at nothing like she might suddenly see something.
“I don’t get it,” a third whispers, before her friend shushes her.
“To each their own,” I say lightly.
Marcus seizes the opening to pivot to Anguish in the City, and my body unclenches as they turn away.
Once the women drift back into the hallway, the room’s attention settles on me.
These artists actually brought work made of watercolors, oils, and acrylics. A glass mosaic catches the light. Their silence feels hot on my skin, but this is also where Alistair likes us: shoulder to shoulder, measuring one another, wondering who he’ll favor next.
It’s disgusting. It’s also my rent, and I muzzle the voice in my head that’s screaming that an empty canvas is the same as admitting defeat.