3. Kael #3
“Marcus? Could I have a quick word with you? In private?”
Marcus presses a hand to his bare chest, playing at surprise, then follows Alistair out.
The message is clear enough. Showing up shirtless to an Alistair Blackwood party signals one thing: you’re open to taking the patronage to the next level. Tabloids love whispering about the “inner circle” of supposedly beautiful men playing some dangerous game.
To the champagne dignitaries, it’s salacious, even laughable. To the guys who linger until dawn, eager to bask in Alistair’s glow, the logic doesn’t need much twisting.
I stayed late after my first party out of politeness and naive wonder. I’d seen the hot tub make-outs, the naked figures drifting through the sauna, the zombified dancing. Alistair disappeared for long stretches. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn he spent them with one, or several, willing guests.
Is it illegal? No. Is it strange? Absolutely. That first night, I realized no one cared whether I was there. I could let the auto-deposited checks hit my account, show up just enough to remind him I exist, and leave before the night turned feral.
That became my approach to all things Alistair Blackwood.
And now that this party’s done its damage, it’s time to follow my own rules.
As the room empties, I make for the exit, blank canvas pressed to my chest, almost to the cover of the main dance floor’s bass and sweaty bodies waiting to swallow me up.
“One moment, Kael.” Alistair’s voice reaches through the music to hook me before I reach the stairs.
Marcus stands beside him, Alistair’s hand resting possessively on his shoulder, both of them lit by swirling rainbow lights.
Shoulders slumped, I try not to skulk as I cross to them.
“Hey, Alistair. Uh, thanks again for inviting me. What’s up?”
Marcus starts to step away, but Alistair stops him with a single finger on his arm.
“You brought a blank canvas,” Alistair says.
My stomach drops. “I thought it might be a joke. Like… the ultimate photorealism. Can you believe this movement?” I flick a desperate glance at Marcus, but he pointedly looks away.
“Your joke was dangerously close to an embarrassment.” Alistair’s voice is low, barely audible over the music. “You’re lucky.”
Lucky he didn’t drop me. Lucky to be here at all. From a billionaire, that statement could mean just about anything.
I swallow. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry. It was poor taste.”
Marcus, apparently my sexy guardian angel, finally looks at me and offers a single word. “Ballsy.”
I nod like that’s what I’d been aiming for all along.
Alistair’s expression softens. “It did take balls,” he agrees, idly gliding a finger over Marcus’s stomach.
“No more photorealism,” he declares, flicking away my life’s work with three words.
“Pursue this… Future Whatever movement. Study it. Go on a retreat. Enlighten us all.” He grins. “Knowledge itself is power.”
“Ha,” Marcus chuckles. “G.I. Joe.”
My insides churn. Alistair’s smiling now, thanks to Marcus’s intervention, but the smile doesn’t change the order.
No more photorealism.
Is this punishment? A whim he’ll forget by morning? Does he have any idea what he’s just taken from me?
I don’t dare ask. One thing is clear enough: people like me do whatever people like him say. We don’t have the money or the options to do anything else.
Alistair leans in, and I turn my ear toward his mouth.
“Never embarrass me again,” he growls.
I nod before I can stop myself, already backing toward the stairs. One night in his world and I’ve earned a brand-new leash.
When I finally recover my phone from its security pouch, the small weight of disconnection lifts. I set my pickup pin at the bottom of the hill. There’s no way I’m waiting around to watch this party curdle. One last drink from a tray held by a shirtless booze-boy, and I’m gone.
This is fine.
Alistair’s growl rattles around my skull as I walk. No more photorealism. He couldn’t have meant it. But rent needs paying, and the studio doesn’t run on dreams.
This is fine.
He’d latched onto that art movement. What did Marcus call it again? I tip my drink too fast, and ice smacks my nose. I’m drunk, but far enough from Alistair to at least slow down and think.
Futurist Illusionism. FI.
My phone buzzes. Rideshare’s here. Climbing into the back seat sheds more weight, until only the biggest remains: Alistair’s money.
Without it, I’m waiting tables or leaving the Bay for someplace I can afford.
My measly social media income won’t stretch far.
If FI keeps me funded and lets me keep pretending I’m a full-time artist, I can fake some new age bullshit for a weekend.
In the back seat, I thumb “FI retreat San Francisco” into the search bar. The top result has a slick logo, The FI Escape, and photos of nature with people journaling in circles. Retreat, FI, North Bay this weekend. I hiccup. That’ll do.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I book a spot.
I raise my phone like a glass in the dark car. Cheers to FI, whatever it turns out to be, and to paying the rent.