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.Theseare 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 itAnguish 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.
