The women looked impressed. I’d rather be talking about something real, something I actually made. But whatever Futurist Illusionism is, it might be enough if Alistair shows. It just isn’t enough to make me meet the other artists’ eyes. They don’t say anything, though I can practically hear them telling themselves that when Alistair doesn’t buy it, I’ll be first on the chopping block.
A server who looks like he walked off a runway opens the door to offer drinks, unknowingly popping the pressure bubble. I take two.
As the night wears on, awkwardness dulls into background discomfort. After several drinks, I’ve trotted out “Futurist Illusionism” for a few small groups and nearly convinced the last one I invented the movement myself.
That may be too convincing, considering I still have no clue what it actually is.
“Where’d you hear about Futurist Illusionism?” I ask Marcus.
“My friend told me about it,” he says, and though the room’s not particularly hot, he’s glistening. “Real cutting-edge shit. I’m impressed. Takes balls to come in here with that.”
Yes, it’s my big balls. Not stupidity. Not creative block.
By midnight, I’m pleasantly buzzed and the party is in full swing. Any minute now, the door will open, someone will announce we’re free to leave or join the main party, and I can escape with my canvas to finally start work on something real for next time I’m ambushed like this.
On cue, the door opens, and the thumping bass of techno bleeds into the room as Alistair Blackwood steps inside.
Postures straighten. I plaster on a smile as my heart starts pounding. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“My boys! Sorry I’ve neglected you all night!” Alistair announces.
“You didn’t neglect us!” one of the artists gushes, earning a long hug. Alistair’s eyes skim the room over the man’s shoulder, appraising the lineup like a buffet.
“I do hope you’ve had some guests,” he says. “I told several people to come down here.”
“We’ve had plenty,” someone says.
“And plenty of drinks, I hope!” Alistair giggles, a light, airy sound. “I’m eager to see what you’ve brought. The party’s just getting started, and you’re, of course, free to join in.”
Okay. Futurist… what was it? Futurist Illusionism.
Alistair moves with an easy, fluid sway, tastefully intoxicated, liberal with his hands but never quite crossing a line. A pat on the shoulder, a lingering breath during a hug, a brush against someone’s back. Down here, he isn’t the CEO of Query; he’s a wealthy bachelor holding court in a little universe that orbits him.
It’s… creepy. That’s the price of patronage.
“This… is not what I’d imagined.”
His comment cuts through the room. All eyes follow his gaze to a long-haired artist a few people down from me.
“I can do something else,” the man blurts, scraping a hand through his hair. “What would you like? Anything?”
Alistair studies the canvas.
“The artist dips his brush into his own soul,” he says at last. “Is yours empty? Or so pliable it bends to every passing whim?”
The long-haired artist looks around for help. “I, uh… not to any whim. To… to yours. If you please.”
The work isn’t bad. He’s attractive, talented, and trying, but none of that matters if Alistair decides he’s bored.
Alistair presses a finger to his temple like the conversation is giving him a headache.
“I’m sorry. No.” He turns, smoothing his face back to neutral as he approaches the next piece.
“Please,” the artist whispers, hands trembling at his sides. “Please, I need more time.”
Alistair’s mouth twists. “Ugh.”
“One more month,” the artist manages. “Please.”
