Page 15 of Indulgence
So much factored into how successful a gallery was in attracting top-quality art and potential buyers. We maintained a website, created post cards publicity announcements, and bought advertising. We had employees and maintained the physical gallery. Any gallery worth a damn was doing all those things. Metro was worth a damn. I loved my job, and I cared about art. For artists not to want to pay for all my work to help their careers was a major hot button for me.
My button was already pushed before this call. The tension I thought I left at the gallery crept back into my shoulders as I resisted the urge to smack my head off the front door as I entered the house.
Nigel Beckman was a sculptor who made brilliant assembly sculptures. We had several of his bronze works on display—a pair of which sold just this morning—but he wanted to get mad about fees. “Nigel, whenever an artist complains about paying gallery commissions, I tell them the same thing: you’re viewing the commissions as money we’re taking out of your pockets. But that isn’t how this is. You’re paying Metro to market your art. You know to expect the fees when you agree to work with us.”
He huffed and interrupted my speech. "Fifty percent is too high, and you know it. What are you doing besides allowing my sculpture to sit on a column in your building? Thirty is sufficient for that kind of service. It isn’t like you held an event in my honor.”
“We help your work stand out in a sea of beautiful art all over the world,” I remind him as I hung my coat and bag in the hall closet and resisted the urge to slam it shut. I maintained my cool when what I really wanted to do was scream at the top of my lungs and punch Nigel Beckman in the throat. “If the gallery is selling your work for you, we earn our commission and you know it.”
It costs money to market work, hold events, and get people in to buy pieces.
Every time I had this conversation with an artist, which was at least five to six times a year, my blood boiled. I respected and appreciated their work, but they didn’t respect mine.
“I didn’t say you didn’t deserve to be paid.” He scoffed indignantly. “I said fifty is robbery. You gave me the bare minimum of work so thirty is more than enough.”
I yanked my scarf off and tossed it on my bed. Thirty percent to a gallery was the equivalent of leaving a server ten dollars on a hundred-dollar check. He was also forgetting that for every piece that didn’t sell, we didn’t profit either.
Do not snap at a client. Do not snap at a client. No matter how ignorant they are acting.
The front door closed, alerting me that someone was home. It was quiet, though.
He signed a contract with us to show his pieces. He could go elsewhere if he was no longer happy. I was done with this conversation “You are more than welcome to try a consignment gallery if you are unhappy with our agreement. Just keep in mind, sales are never easy and the tighter the economy gets, the more difficult it becomes. Let me know what you decide, Nigel. Have a good night.”
I disconnect the call and grabbed a pillow from the head of the bed. Smothering my face in it, I screamed in attempt to release some of the tension overtaking my body. I flopped down on the bed and screamed again.
A body brushed up against my bent-over ass, and his fingers gripped my hips. “What’s wrong, love?” Matteo asked as his hands quickly abandoned their spot on my hips and drifted down to the apex of my thighs. “You seem stressed.”
His voice was full of sarcastic mirth.
“You think?” I guffawed into the pillow. His finger stroked down and rubbed over my clit. I turned my head back to look at him.
God, he looked amazing.
His tie was loosened, hanging down. The top two buttons of his dress shirt were undone. The arms of his jacket seemed a bit snug, but it looked good on him. His eyes were mischievous and empathetic. He was sorry I was having a bad day, but he also wanted to play.
“Where are the kids?”
He massaged my mound with the pads of his fingers.
“Scotty’s mom is dropping them off.” He pulled his tie from his neck with his free hand. “She asked to switch days with me earlier. Tomorrow, she has an appointment. Emma is catching a ride from student council with them.”
His ministrations were starting to draw all the stiff tension in my body toward my core. He dropped the tie on my back and grabbed one of my wrists. His fingers left my clit, and he grabbed the other arm. With scary quickness, Matt had my hands bound behind my back.
From what I could tell from over my shoulder, Matteo was just staring down at me. Probably enjoying the view of his handy work. Stepping back, he unbuttoned my slacks and yanked them down before his finger played between my lips, toying with me. “I can probably relieve some of this stress for you. At least twice if we hurry.”
It was too hard to stay still. I squirmed, trying to get more from him. Excitement moved through me, and no matter how much I tried to temper the anticipation, it was as though my subconscious was bypassing my conscious. It wanted a break and Matteo was offering it.
“Please,” I whimpered as he skirted around my entrance, rubbing up and down but never slipping a finger inside.
“Please what?”
“Please put your fingers inside me.”
His pinky was resting on my nub, barely moving as his two fingers dipped into me. “Like this?”
My moan echoed off the walls in response.
“Have you been a good girl?” he asked, rubbing along my front wall. He yanked on the tie around my wrists as if he knew I would try to move them.
