She remained silent at my side, her elbow looped in mine with her other hand resting on my forearm. Every so often I swore she squeezed it, but I refused to look down to confirm. I stayed still as can be, realizing with each passing auction that not bidding would draw eyes, too.
Rock meet hard place.
The Lorelei’s pop-up gallery was innovative, though destroyed by basic styling, a series of hedges brought in for backdrops ushering the country-club feel inside and clashing horribly with the art. One would think they would’ve brought in artists to design the space for an art auction.
Piece by piece, Kee looked on quietly, clearly overwhelmed. Celebrities fluttered about - an A-list actor with his newest fling, a Broadway babe in an out-of-place evening gown, a reality television star whose romp with a married politician catapulted her from her knees to rubbing elbows with the elite. Exactly the kind of people I loathed.
At long last, the moment came, the Ever piece sliding on to the auction block. Armed guards stood on either side, the venue not taking any chances with millions at stake. Swarms of attendees gathered close, the last of the Greed series guaranteed to go for at least $50 million according to the papers.
Kee’s eyes were wide as saucers as people crowded around, her arm rigid in mine. “You good, Plum?” I asked, pulling her closer to my side.
She nodded, shooting me a nervous smile. “I’m fine. It’s just a lot to take in.”
“Yeah, a bunch of douchebags, I know.” I stepped aside to let a woman in head-to-toe crystals pass, not wanting to risk temporary blindness if someone snapped a photo of the walking disco ball.
Kee’s cheeks flushed that glorious shade of red again. “Eth! Quiet! They can hear you!”
I shrugged. “It’s the truth.”
People walked around the space like they owned the world, likely getting there on the backs of others. If I’d had a choice, I would’ve avoided the night entirely, but there was nothing more satisfying than flipping it to the man in person while hopefully throwing off the trail of countless dunce detectives.
A cluster of critics flocked together like vermin to our left, a redheaded leader taking charge. The pretentious creature had tits that could poke an eye out thanks to a bullet bra that had somehow escaped the 1940s, her nose tilted high in the air as she surveyed my work, hours of labor glanced over in seconds.
Painfully thin, with an elongated neck like a roadside vulture, she wore a dress of carrot and fuchsia, fluffy tulle and velvet mashed together in a gaudy lint trap look. Every pass of her eyes narrowed them further, her darkened lips curled in thought. “Based on the brush strokes and detailing, Ever is a female. Men can’t produce such work. This is likely out of New York based on the temperamental color palette and themes. Notice how the corner blends from red to black like she’s angry about something. Pollution? The homeless? Who knows? Maybe the press should start asking us to search for her. We’ll have more luck!”
And with the world’s most incorrect assessment, Ms. Vulture became the next target of an upcoming series. Those around her nodded in agreement, believing the poorly informed guess without trepidation. It was fascinating how cerebral critics could be, trying to analyze every inch instead of enjoying the painting for what it was. The corner smeared from red to black because I fucked up a stroke-not because I felt a certain way.
"I disagree," Kee blurted, all heads spinning toward us, every pair of eyes for a dozen feet focused on the woman on my arm, the one who dared to question the Vulture.
Goddamnit.
The Vulture smirked, her brown-lipstick stained lips looking every bit like the shit-eating grin they crafted. "I'm sorry? And who are you?”
"Keely Doyle.” She stood tall, not showing an ounce of discomfort despite the leering bird who scavenged a career from other people’s hard work.
"Hello, Keely. Oh, that’s such a cute name!” It didn’t take a genius to pick up on the disdain in her voice. “Just in case you’re unaware, I’m Ofelia LeBlanc - critic and art historian. I’m afraid we haven’t met. What is your background, dear?”
Kee looked to me nervously, and I nodded, unsure why she was looking for permission. As much as I disliked the attention drawn to us, my dick hardened at her speaking up. I loved that fire, that conviction to always say what was on her mind regardless of the audience.
“I don’t work in art, ma’am, but I think you’re selling men short. I know plenty of detail-oriented males.”
Eyes bounced between Kee and the vulture like pinballs racking up points, the rarity of the occasion obvious.
Vulture didn’t even bother to hide her dramatic eye roll. “It’s a known fact that men are less observant than females, dear. Haven’t you studied basic psychology?”
Kee didn’t miss a beat, plastering on one of her famous smiles that melted negativity where it stood. “Yes, in part for my degree, but I wouldn’t accept that fact in all cases. Take Ethan, for instance.” She gestured to me, everyone’s eyes following her hand. “He is more observant than most men. He sweats the details. I think he’s just as capable of doing something as intricate. Plenty of men are.”
For fuck’s sake.
Vulture’s face stretched into a sneer as her head snapped toward me. “What do you do for a living? Are you two art hobbyists?” she bristled, saying hobbyists as if she were dropping the f-bomb in front of Jesus himself.
“I work in tech,” I stated simply,
