Page 73 of Devoured By Peace

“You bet. You sexy thing.” He kissed me again.

The elevator arrived, and when the door opened, he was groping me. A couple looked at us in horror, and in return, Lachlan, wearing a cheeky smirk, saluted them.

When we hit the sidewalk, he said, “Dinner. Tonight. Somewhere special. We’ll have to celebrate.”

His contagious sunny smile radiated so much inspiration and hope that I wondered how one could bottle it. “Can’t wait,” I said.

Lachlan walked in the opposite direction with an athletic stride befitting a sports star or even a superhero.

When I arrived at the Artefactory, I found Ethan sharing a joint with an artist about to exhibit with us.

Sylvester Cavallo looked more like a soldier than an artist. His work was extraordinary and so sellable that I regretted not arranging commission rather than a hire fee.

Ethan started to pass me the joint, but I shook my head.

Three of Sylvester’s abstract canvases lay on the floor on their stretchers. How he worked color was what made the magic happen.

When Sylvester headed out to buy a six pack, I said, “This is turning into party central.”

“Hey, it’s business.”

I reminded myself that we were dealing with artists, who were known to be lushes. As long as great work is produced, who am I to judge?

I pointed at the art. “These are amazing. He’s set to become a name.”

“He already is. He’s got thousands of Instagram followers. And he’s already sold these.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. I watched. He posted them online, and within a minute, they were sold.”

My mouth watered at that kind of effortless efficiency. “How much?”

“Ten thousand each.” Ethan shook his head. “I’m fucking jealous.”

“Your work’s great,” I said. “You just need to get a little more productive.”

He sighed. “Speaking of which, that’s exactly what I’m going to do today. Get to work.”

“Good. Your latest series shows lots of promise.” I couldn’t stop thinking about Sylvester Stallion’s popularity. “We need to start charging commission.”

“I agree.”

“We’re covering rent and costs, but there’s little left, and I need to make a living somehow. Why’s he hanging here, anyway? I mean, he could be killing it in New York.”

“He’s an LA boy. We went to college together. We’re buddies.”

“We should offer him the whole space for a solo show.”

Sylvester returned a few minutes later, and I smiled. He was wearing an outlandish, paint-splattered jumpsuit with a horse’s head printed on the back. He set the beer down on a table. His black curly hair was wild, and with his big, dark eyes, he reminded me of a pirate.

Then he ripped a bottle from the six-pack, handed one to Ethan, and offered me one.

With a business deal to discuss, I accepted.

“I have a proposition,” I said then removed the beer top and took a swig.

His lips curled up at one end. “I’m happily married. But thanks.”

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