They hadn’t spoken for weeks after that. Tristan had been irate; they created the Guild for a specific purpose, and to maintain their life and their sanity, their identities needed to stay concealed and Pierce had jeopardized that. If he wanted to go public, Tristan told him, that was his choice, but he would be doing it alone. Begrudgingly, Pierce had apologized, admitting that he was getting bored with their auction routine, that he wanted something to change. That was months ago.
This evening, Pierce had approached him before he even made it in the gallery, deviousness glinting in his eyes.
“What did you do?” Tristan exclaimed on seeing his partner striding purposefully towards him, immediately fearing the worst.
If Tristan was a golden God, Pierce was a dark Devil. Always dressed in all black, the fitted tux accentuated his jet-black hair and his even darker eyes. The high collar on his silk black shirt hid a scar that ran down the side of his neck onto his collarbone; he always wore high collars to any event. Even though, if you asked him about it, he would say that he ‘doesn’t give a fuck’ who sees it; when you’ve been to enough social gatherings with him, it was clear that the high collars were chosen for a specific purpose.
He liked to test the limits and push Tristan’s buttons. He was always plotting something, craving endless sources of entertainment to distract him from his fucked-up past. Most times, those somethings turned out to be harmless jokes or pranks, but sometimes there was an edge to him, a darkness that he kept inside, kept hidden from the rest of them and that is what usually got him into trouble.
“Nothing!” Pierce insisted, throwing his hands up in mock innocence.
“I know that look…what do you want?” Tristan questioned his friend again, the skepticism in his voice ringing loud and clear demanding to be answered.
“Well, I just happened to come across something on the way in that I thought would be fun for the three of us to do,” Pierce began, a sly smile creeping onto his face. “Sloane already agreed to it…”
“Of course, he did. Sloane will do anything that you tell him to,” Tristan responded a little too harshly.
The third member of their group was the quietest and most easily swayed out of all of them. Sloane was brilliant when it came to real estate and he was a master sculptor, but socially, he wasn’t as outgoing or controlling as either of them; which is why it was usually Tristan and Pierce who butted heads, and Sloane just tried to stay out of their way.
“Don’t be a Negative Nancy before I even finished telling you,” Pierce scolded. “The Met is hosting a competition.” Tristan cut him a sharp glance as they began to walk slowly into the gallery, not wanting to miss the start of the auction. “In six weeks, they are hosting the travelling exhibit called the Art of Love. Fifteen artists, fifteen pieces. Exhibit opens for a Saturday for visitor voting and winner gets $5 million.”
“No,” Tristan replied flatly, “we don’t do competitions.”
“Says who?” he countered. “Just because we haven’t before doesn’t mean that we can’t. C’mon Tris, we need to branch out. People are going to start becoming bored if we keep doing the same thing every year.”
Well that was true.
His jaw clenched, he hated it when Pierce had a point. He’d begun to wonder if they needed to do something out of the ordinary; if their yearly exhibits, while still doing well because of the hype and secrecy surrounding them, had begun to feel stagnant. Maybe it was all in his head, then again, Pierce was quite skilled at getting inside his head.
“We don’t produce art for money,” Tris countered, “and no matter how much you whine, that is part of our mission statement.”
“So then just give the money away! Or back to the museum! Who gives a shit?” he argued. “We just need to do something different, fuck. Remember how we got started? Shock-and-awe is what got us noticed; we need to bring some of that back.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Pierce,” Tristan replied firmly.
“Why? Afraid I’ll win again?” Pierce taunted.
That got Tristan to stop in his tracks and give Pierce a cold stare. That was another thing that happened between Pierce and him – a healthy rivalry on good days…a fight to the death on bad ones. Since Sloane was a sculptor, he worked in a different medium than them and it was probably for the better. Pierce and Tristan, on the other hand, both worked on sketches, drawings, and paintings – all the same mediums; it was hard to not compare them and their talents.
Over the years, they’d fought over restorations that museums had requested the Guild to perform, each claiming that they could do the job better, and over reproductions as well. They’d battled to the point where they had begun to each send their own version of the masterpiece to see which one the museum liked better. When that got to be too time-consuming and petty because naturally, whosever’s version got picked held it over the other’s head for months, Morgan finally stepped in and began making the decision as to who would handle each request. It had cut down on most of the arguments and the time spent not talking to each other. Their competitiveness is what had made them so successful in their respective industries, and was so deeply engrained in their personalities that it was impossible to extricate it from their artistic work.
“What happens to the pieces?”
A slow smile spread over Pierce’s face, knowing that he’d won the argument. “Nothing, it’s still yours to keep or to donate or whatever you want.”
“I’m only agreeing to this because I know I will win,” Tristan clarified calmly, trying not to seem like he was just easily caving to Pierce’s persistence.
Pierce let out a bark of laughter, “Well, I’ve already signed us up so there’s no backing out. I should point out though that that’s what you said the last time, and we all know how that turned out,” he then responded with a wink.
Fucker.
The last time they had both submitted paintings to a museum, which was probably at least five years ago, the museum had picked Pierce’s work. Although, Tristan knew there was a reason it had ended up that way.
“Yes, and we all know why she chose yours,” Tristan replied, sarcastically. “It’s a little sad that you were so sure that you were going to lose that you needed to sleep with the curator in order to secure your win. I mean, she was pretty, but still – definitely not your usual type. Don’t worry, there’s no doubt that I’ll win this one. Unless you decide to sleep with Bernie, that is…” He returned his friend’s mocking wink.
Tristan watched with pleasure as the black depths of Pierce’s eyes flared in rage at his insinuation that he would sleep with Bernard Park, the curator of the Met, to win this competition too. Pierce could be so easily provoked sometimes; it was almost too easy to be fun.
“I think I’ll just submit the portrait I brought of my mom; if that doesn’t show true love, I don’t know what does,” he mused out loud, blindly enjoying the irritation growing over his friend’s face. “Plus, you wouldn’t know love if it came up and punched you in the face,” Tristan concluded with a sarcastic laugh. After a moment, he stopped, wondering if he had gone a little too far. Pierce still hadn’t replied and it looked like Tristan was the one who was about to be punched in the face.
“We’ll see,” Pierce finally said, his voice clipped and harsh, as he turned and stalked away. Tristan just stood there for a moment, watching him go.
This was not a good idea.
He wasn’t as bad as Pierce when it came to letting his emotions get the best of him, but he was still far too easily susceptible to them. Pierce didn’t care about winning, Tristan knew that. All he cared about was the thrill, the competition, the strategy of outsmarting the other person. Tristan, on the other hand, cared about winning, about being the best, and Pierce knew just what to say to get Tristan to play right into his hand.
At this point, he wasn’t concerned about the competition; he was more concerned about the white-hot rage that had flared in Pierce’s eyes when Tristan called him
out for rigging the competition in his favor, and then proceeded to tell him that he had no knowledge of what love was. It was a low blow, he knew that; he’d been annoyed at himself for giving in to Pierce’s game and had wanted to just poke him in the eye a little bit for playing the competition card. But he might have poked just a little too hard.
Tristan began to move through the crowd trying to find him and offer a semblance of an apology. He was concerned that Pierce was going to take that rage and do something stupid to level the playing field; that’s what Pierce did, he acted on emotion with no forethought and rarely any regret. Most of the time, what he did was essentially harmless but, with that edge, you just never knew.
He shouldn’t have told him about his mother’s portrait; he’d given Pierce the upper hand with that information. Tristan’s mother, Viola Black, had died ten years ago from leukemia. Not long before she passed away, just before she’d gone into the hospital for the last time, she’d asked Tristan to draw her – at home and happy, just how she had wanted him to remember her. She’d told him that when he looked at it, he would remember just how much love she had for and wanted to give him.
He hadn’t had much formal training at that point, but even to this day, he was pleased with how well his younger self had done. For several years after her death, he couldn’t bring himself to pull the portrait out; it was too painful because she’d been his biggest supporter in everything that he’d done. Finally, a few years ago, he’d managed to open the drawing and hang it in his studio. Looking at it, it hadn’t felt complete, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to alter it until recently. This year, he’d fine-tuned the drawing, adding in all the finishing touches to make his mother’s memory complete. It had been truly a work of love and that is why he had no doubt it would win a competition focused on the art of portraying that emotion – one he had only this singular experience with.
Pierce had never, to his knowledge, created anything of that caliber, anything that personal. He was a player is every sense of the word. The excitement, the competition, that’s what held his interest. They all had gone through things in their respective pasts that shaped them, but Pierce, well, he had just gone through a little more than most and it made him come off as callous. Deep down, Tristan believed that he cared, just about very few people, and it took a long time for him to let you in that deeply.
Which is why what he had said struck a nerve with Pierce, not that Pierce wouldn’t forgive him, but there was definitely going to be some sort of retribution involved first.
He scanned the crowd again, but Pierce was nowhere to be seen. Finally, he spotted Sloane standing off to the side of the room, watching the announcer make his way up to the podium to begin the auction. That was typical Sloane, always off to the side, in the background, never wanting to draw attention.
Of the three of them, Tristan and Pierce definitely had the most striking features – light and dark. Sloane, on the other hand, was neither; his hair was wavy and a nondescript light brown. He kept it longer than theirs, to the point where he needed to pull it back when he was working. Without Tristan or Pierce to be compared to, he was very good-looking; when they were around, he tended to fade into the background, although that could have been on purpose. The only thing striking about him was his eyes; they were the clearest, most brilliant blue you’d ever seen.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you so much for coming tonight. On behalf of the Gentlemen’s Guild, I’d like to welcome you…” Tristan ignored the auctioneer’s booming voice, making his way swiftly over to Sloane.
“Have you seen Pierce?” Tristan leaned in and said into Sloane’s ear so that he could hear him.
“Earlier, why? Did he talk to you about the competition?”
“Yes. I’m surprised you agreed to do it before talking to me,” Tristan responded.
Sloane’s crystal blue eyes widened for a moment before he let out a laugh. “You should know better than to believe everything that Pierce says,” he responded wryly. “I told him I would do whatever you two decide.”
“That fucker,” Tristan spat, not truly angry; it was his own fault for believing him.
“The first piece that we have for auction tonight is by Mr. Titian, from the Guild…”
Tristan looked up at the mention of his pseudonym just as the auctioneer paused, looking momentarily flustered as the audience watched Morgan come up behind him and hand him a piece of paper.
Tristan and Sloane shot each other confused expressions. Looking back to the podium, Tristan glimpsed Pierce standing well-hidden, off to the side of the stage, a satisfied smile on his face; and that’s when Tristan realized that Pierce’s revenge was beginning to unfold right in front of him before he could do anything to stop it.
“Sorry, everyone, just making sure I have all of the correct information here. As I was saying. Mr. Titian’s piece for auction this evening, is something very dear to him…” Tristan began to shove his way through the crowd, even though there was no way he would make it over there in time to have Morgan stop the announcer. His heart was pounding, rage making his vision blur. “This piece is entitled ‘Mother,’ we will start the bidding at two million, going once…”
Tristan’s hands fisted.
He was going to kill Pierce for this.
Chapter 2
The sound of the mallet cracking down halted Tristan dead in his tracks. It was over. Just like when he had lost her the first time, the feeling of helplessness began to suffocate him. The drawing wasn’t the only thing that he had of her, but it was certainly the most valuable, the most meaningful to him, and out of anger and spite, Pierce had switched it for the piece that was supposed to be auctioned off today. All to level the playing field.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he quickly spun around coming face-to-face with Sloane. “What happened?”
“Pierce happened. That sonofabitch switched my mother’s portrait in for the piece I wanted to be auctioned today,” Tristan spat, his jaw clenching forcefully.
“Why would he do that?”
“Because I told him that I was going to submit it to this stupid fucking competition that he wants us to do and I told him that, with it, there was no way I could lose.”
“So, he did this just to win?” Sloane asked in disbelief.
“I also might have told him that he could never win because he has no idea what love is…” Tristan trailed off, frustrated at having to admit his role in what had just transpired.
“Shit…” Sloane responded, “let me talk to him.”
“Yeah, whatever. I don’t even give a damn about him right now. I need to find Morgan to find out who the fuck won my drawing and tell him that there’s been a mistake.”
“I’m sure whoever won it will be fine taking the other work,” Sloane tried to calmly reassure him. Tristan just acknowledged his friend with a barely perceptible nod before turning and stalking towards Morgan who was standing off behind the stage.
“Woah, buddy, what happened?” Morgan asked as Tristan approached him, seeing the anger written all over his face.
“Who won the drawing of my mom?” Tristan demanded, not even bothering to answer Morgan’s question.
“Ahh, shit. I should have known Pierce was up to no good. Dammit,” Morgan replied in frustration, “I don’t know why I trust that ass sometimes.”
“Because he’s a friend, that’s why; he might be a terrible one at the moment, but it’s who he is. I just need you to point me in the direction of the guy who purchased my drawing.” Even though Tristan was pissed off as fuck at Pierce, he knew that Pierce had only done this in a darkly entertaining form of retaliation, under the complete assumption that whomever won the piece would be more than understanding enough to switch it with the one that was supposed to be auctioned.
“Yeah, of course. Do you want me to talk to him? Seemed like a nice enough guy. I can explain that there was a mistake,” Morgan kindly offered.
“No. In the off-chance that
he decides to be a pain in the ass, I want him to know who I am, and why it’s important to me,” Tristan answered impatiently.
“Alright, well his name is Jack Carter and, let’s see…” Morgan trailed off as he scanned the crowd just in front of the stage to try and spot their target. “Alright, there he is,” Morgan nodded towards an older gentleman, garbed in a very expensive suit watching the auctioneer finish up the bidding on the last piece.
“Thanks.” Tristan barely got the word out before he was off again, heading towards the man who had just mistakenly won one of the most important things in his life.
Tristan took a good look at the man who was now the proud owner of his mom’s portrait. Jack Carter. This better be as easy to get back as Pierce was expecting it to be, otherwise he really might have to murder the bastard.
“Excuse me, sir, are you Mr. Carter?” Tristan addressed the older gentleman cordially, with his most people-pleasing smile.
“Yes, yes I am. Who is asking?” the gentleman responded, his eyebrows raising in question.
“I’m with the Gentleman’s Guild, if I could speak to you in private for a moment about the painting that you have just won,” Tristan explained as he motioned towards the gallery exit, for where this conversation could take place. Mr. Carter nodded, looking intrigued, yet pleased to be speaking with someone from the Guild; he followed Tristan through the crowd and out of the gallery where they could speak privately.
“Mr. Carter, I do apologize for any inconvenience, but it seems that there’s been a misunderstanding about the drawing that you just won,” Tristan began his explanation, watching the other man’s face alight with surprise. “In fact, that piece was not the one that was supposed to be up for auction tonight. There was a miscommunication and there is actually another drawing should have been auctioned in its place.”
The Artist's Touch (The Gentlemen's Guild Book 1) Page 2
