Chapter 8 #3
Oh, no. It’s not funny. What about bringing a blank canvas to a billionaire’s party is funny? My feet drag me closer, almost close enough to reach over and pull Kael out of the deep end.
“Ah,” Alistair says. “And where did it come from?”
Shit. Maybe Marcus Wilder does help twice.
“Local movement,” I interject. “They do… retreats.”
“Marcus!” Alistair’s hand beelines for my bare shoulder before sliding down my chest to linger, and I can smell his citrus cologne. “And look what you’ve brought!”
It was a good transition. Saving Kael loosens something tight behind my ribs, and I recite my lines while draping my arm around Alistair and flexing my abs for his fingers to explore.
It’s encouraging, almost funny, how predictable he is. Even if I don’t find the inner circle tonight, I’m making progress. I’ve read enough Hunter S. Thompson to know an undercover journalist doesn’t bring down the kingpin on the first night.
Alistair completes the circle and, with more jazz hands for himself, addresses the room.
“You all never cease to impress,” he says.
“Thank you,” we sing in key.
“Aw. I’m simply glad to see real art in this city. Now, please, enjoy yourselves! Marcus? A quick word, in private?”
My heart skips. Kael conquered his blank canvas, and my half-nakedness has gone conspicuously unmentioned.
Alistair gave me that suit. Maybe he’s upset I didn’t wear it. Or maybe he’s about to invite me into the inner circle.
“Of course,” I say, stepping quickly to his side.
The dance floor is mobbed with men well-lubricated by hours of drinks, drugs, and music. They’re smiling, laughing, shouting, and to Alistair’s credit, it’s clear he knows how to throw a party.
Alistair pulls on my shoulder, and I lean down for his hand to cup around my ear.
“You aren’t wearing a shirt,” he says, stern and serious. “I knew I recognized you at the park. You’ve been following me.”
Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Marcus Wilder does not have the brainpower for this.
“What do you want?” Alistair growls.
The art gallery doors hover in my peripheral vision, promising sterile lights and the comfort of less direct games. Cornered like this, I—
“One moment. Kael!” Alistair keeps his hand on my shoulder as he hooks Kael with his voice before he can disappear into the crowd.
“Hey, Alistair. Thanks again for inviting me,” Kael says, sheepish. “What’s up?”
I try to give them some privacy, to give me a chance to think, but Alistair’s hand resists my departure.
“You brought a blank canvas,” Alistair says.
“I thought it might be a joke, like… the ultimate photorealism. Can you believe this movement?”
Why can’t Kael see how simple Alistair is? Money. Power. Reputation. Pulling a “joke” on someone like that is about the most damaging thing you could do.
“Your joke was dangerously close to an embarrassment,” Alistair says. “You’re lucky.”
“Yes, sir,” Kael says, appropriately deferent, and again, there’s so much me in this kid’s bad luck. “I’m sorry. It was poor taste.”
I really should stay out of it, but my shirtless stunt has clearly distracted Alistair. Maybe there’s still something I can do to help.
“Ballsy,” I risk saying, as vapid as I can manage.
“It did take balls.” Alistair’s expression softens, while his hand brushes my stomach. “No more photorealism,” he decrees. “Pursue this… future whatever movement. Study it. Enlighten us all. Knowledge itself is power.”
He thinks it’s real.
A chuckle escapes my lips, and I bury it with a stupid-Wilder cover. “GI Joe.”
I can’t hear Alistair’s last words to Kael, but the clueless artist escapes with his shoulders hunched and his head bowed.
Alistair turns to me, and if I’m lucky, I’ll be next to scurry away. Who knows what he’s capable of? I keep my mouth shut, pretending to have forgotten his direct question.
“You wanted to be here,” Alistair says. “Why?”
I assess my options based on what I know about Alistair.
Money. Who wouldn’t want to be here?
Power. I’ve always looked up to you.
Reputation. Every artist knows Alistair Blackwood.
But something makes me hesitate, the way his fingers aren’t just tracing my abs; they’re trembling against my stomach. He can’t keep still. The most obvious part of Alistair, the one Evie never put on her whiteboard, is screaming at me to seize the moment.
Sex. It’s hovering between us like heat off asphalt.
“I want to take it to the next level,” I say, keeping my voice from wavering even as something inside me does.
Alistair inhales through his nose, smiling like that’s what he was waiting for.
I’ve never wanted to be wrong more as he slides his arm around my waist.
Evie’s “hall pass” flashes in my mind: her permission to kiss a guy for a story if I had to. A kiss. That wouldn’t come close for a man like Alistair. The same control he wielded over the artists now coils tightly around me.
My brain fires off rationalizations like flares. This is just performance. A con. I’m straight. I can do this. But my skin’s hot, and my heart’s pounding.
I lean down, trying to hide the panic in my eyes as he leads me through the crowd, hand in hand, left reading his lips through the layer of techno.
This way.