The Barrett Brothers Collection

by K B Cinder

  “Probably from work.” I had no clue, but with his job, he’d likely met the right person at the right time to land them.

  “I thought you said he works in tech? How would he get tickets to a Lorelei event?”

  I pulled out the only semi-passable option, a dress leftover from cousin Kim’s wedding but the chiffon gave it away as a bridesmaid frock. Dangit.

  “Maybe he bought them. I don’t know.” All I knew was that it looked like I was waking up early on a Saturday to run around shopping.

  “Relax. You’d look great in seaweed, Keely.”

  I studied my closet, spying a few pairs of work slacks. Maybe a dress wasn’t the way to go. “What do I wear to something like that? A pantsuit?” Yeah, that would say power.

  “God no! It’s an art auction, not a damn political debate! Don’t wear a pantsuit! Think airy! Artsy…” A commotion on the other end cut him off, Mom barging into the conversation as usual. “Hold on, your mother wants to give her two cents…rather, her half dollar,” Dad grumbled.

  “Keely Eileen, why would you call a man for advice on what to wear?” she shrieked. I could picture her snatching Dad’s phone away, a French-manicured hand on her hip while she chewed me out. It was a sight I’d seen hundreds of times, whether he was talking to my sister, Bridget, or one of his friends.

  “He works in art!” I defended, bracing for an earful.

  “He works in a dusty old suit with even dustier old men, Keely! He’s not in tune with fashion!”

  And she lounged around in track suits with sexy across the butt like it was 2002. Neither parent exactly screamed fashionista.

  “What do you suggest?” I sighed, dreading what was to come. I continued to shuffle through folded clothes on the top shelf, wishing a miracle dress would appear out of thin air. After a long workweek, the last thing I wanted to do was critique every angle of my body in a dressing room mirror that somehow made my butt look huge and flattened my already barely-there boobs.

  “Class, Keely! Class! When you brush elbows with the elite, you need to ooze sophistication. You need a gown!”

  I rolled my eyes, having seen that one coming a mile away. I didn’t want to ooze anything, and a gown seemed like the last thing people wore to an outdoor gallery. It was exactly the thing women wore at the stuffy parties she’d shuffled me to growing up.

  My silence must’ve been a dead giveaway that I wasn’t taking her advice, a breathy huff overpowering her end. “You have to, Keely. People know you’re our daughter. Besides, you could meet someone looking for a pretty, little wife.”

  And the other shoe dropped. Every woman on her side was wed and bred by the time they were twenty until I came along. I was two years past my expiration date in her eyes and well on my way to becoming a spinster. When I told her I signed up for grad school, I thought she’d disown me, college degrees nothing but a wall decoration for women as far as she was concerned.

  “Okay, Mom.” There was no point arguing. As long as I let her think she was right, she’d give it a rest.

  “Make sure it has a cinched waist. Corsets are in again, honey.”

  Ha. As if. I wouldn’t be caught dead in a corset. Bodice boning was bad enough. I couldn’t imagine intentionally squishing myself like a sausage. I’d end up passing out before I got there.

  “Are you even listening to me?” she groused. “You never listen to me!”

  I closed my closet in defeat, mentally preparing myself for the fashion assault on my senses in the morning. “I’m listening, Mom.”

  “Are you going with someone? Are you dating? Why didn’t you tell me?” she fired off, each question exploding like a rocket.

  “Slow down!” Good Lord. “We aren’t dating!” For all I knew, it wasn’t even a date.

  “Honey, he invited you to a Lorelei event. That isn’t something you invite a friend to.”

  Of all the friggin times for her to be eavesdropping, of course it had to be then. With the Lorelei bit out of the bag, I was done for. “Mom, relax.”

  “Don’t relax me, Keely Eileen! This is serious stuff! Why are you keeping secrets from your mother?”

  Buckle up. A Marjorie Doyle guilt trip was about to kick off if I wasn’t careful. “Can you stop, please? This isn’t some grand conspiracy against you.”

  “She’s hiding stuff from us, Sean! I told you this would happen!” A sniffle on the other end confirmed that the crocodile tears were coming. The same tears that led me to live on campus at a college less than a half hour away, eager to breathe.

  I sat on the edge of my bed, a knot forming in my gut. As usual, everything was my fault. I’d long outgrown my purpose. “I want to talk to Dad.”

  “No, no! We’re not finished here! Why are you acting like this?”

  I counted to five in my head, a little trick I’d learned from one of the many therapists I’d seen over the years. The people that knew the ins and outs of the Doyles like no one else. Mom would be thrilled if one ever threw ethics to the wind and wrote a tell-all about us.

  “I already said I’m not dating anyone. I’m single. Happily so.” Maybe the last bit wasn’t true, but my private life would remain just that - private.

  “You’re impossible.” The phone dropped then, a loud bang on the other end.

  “She stormed outside in a huff,” Dad murmured a moment later. “Congratulations.”

  “Good,” I muttered, leaning back to sink into my bed, the comforter cool from the window air conditioning unit blowing down. “Not everything is about her.”

  He chuckled, always serving as a buffer between us, stepping in when things got too hot. “You’re both spitfires, honey. You learned it from her.”

  I closed my eyes, refusing to think I’d learned anything from her other than how not to parent. “Am I okay to wear a cocktail dress? I’m not buying a gown.” Not only could I not afford it - I didn’t want to.

  “You’re fine with that. The Lorelei isn’t as stuffy as you’d think.”

  “Mom always talked them up to be the Illuminati of Boston’s social scene,” I laughed, reaching out to smooth the rumpled comforter beneath me.

  “Probably because they’re the cool kids in town that wouldn’t let us at their table,” he sighed with a smile in his voice. “But don’t worry yourself over that or your mother. Go there and have a great time.”

  I felt the tension run out of my body, all the answers I ever needed delivered in the deep voice that always made things right. “Dad?”

  “Yeah, baby?”

  “I love you.” I could never say it enough, my father’s support meaning more to me than anything.

  “I love you too, Kee.”

  Ethan

  Bright lights beamed overhead while camera bulbs flashed, the park packed with hordes of celebrities, socialites, and paparazzi. The city’s finest were flanked by bodyguards, an ocean of eye candy on the arms of crusty, old men.

  I was among them, though I was hardly crusty, inching towards old, and my arm was hopelessly empty because for the first time ever, Kira let me down.

  More specifically, she ditched me.

  I clutched my champagne flute as I scanned the crowd, wishing it was something stronger than the fizzy disappointment. A bottle of it likely cost more than a year of Ivy League tuition and proved to be an utter waste of grapes and time. I’d take a shot of cheap cinnamon whisky over it any day.

  A string quartet played in the distance, a calming backdrop before the storm. All hell was about to unfold, the civility deteriorating into madness. Nothing compared to a big money art auction where millions would fly without care. Paintings would soon sell for obscene amounts, ones that could change the lives of thousands, only to hang forgotten in some fuckwit’s parlor.

  It would be criminal not to take advantage of them.

  I was tempted to call Kira, but I’d stand out more if I did, and I couldn’t afford to. I needed to blend in. Especially now that fuckers were sniffing around again, every release inspir
ing wannabe detectives to crawl out of the woodwork. One slip-up would be the death of the life I’d built, and I’d die before I let it happen.

  “Sorry, I’m late!”

  I flicked my head toward the rasp I assumed to be Kira, only to see Kee loping over in stilettos with the grace of a Clydesdale, a one-shouldered bronze dress and chandelier earrings shimmering under the lights. The color brought out the golden undertones of her skin as she seemed to glow with each stride. Her curls were slicked into a low chignon, cat eye makeup framing her hazel eyes.

  She was the last person on Earth I needed coming toward me like Godzilla in a dress. A beautiful Godzilla, of course, but destructive as all hell.

  What the fuck?

  “Kee, what are you doing?”

  I made a point to ask if she’d had plans that evening, worrying she might be there with her parents. The Doyles weren’t nobodies in our town, and as an art curator, Sean wasn’t someone I wanted in my orbit. Of course, I found it all out after I was whacked over the head with the sledgehammer of inspiration that was their daughter one rainy night. The same girl I’d hired soon after to do bullshit blog writing for me to keep her close. I was in too deep to run once we became good friends.

  She was out of breath by the time she reached me, cheeks flushed a gorgeous rouge as her chest heaved. “I’m so sorry I’m late! I came in at Beacon and had to sprint! I didn’t realize it was down this way!”

  Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. No wonder Kira hadn’t shown up.

  “Kee…” I began, but she cut me off, doubling over with her hands resting on her bare knees.

  “I’m sorry! I’m such an idiot!”

  People were beginning to take note of the breathless beauty, so I grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her to the side, handing her my champagne as I did. “I’m not mad,” I murmured. “There seems to have been a miscom-”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us for the annual Lorelei Celebration of the Arts!” the voice boomed overhead, a speaker behind Kee making her squeal in surprise, which earned glares from those around us. I subtly flipped a few off, linking my arm in hers as I did.

  I’d sort everything out later. It was showtime, and the stakes were too high to falter.

  We made our way into the event space arm in arm, a series of tents connecting in one massive web. Thousands of lights twinkled all around, their glow softening as we approached the moat of hungry bidders clamoring for elbow room and good seats.

  I grabbed a bidding paddle as we stepped in, Kee’s brow arching as I did. I shrugged it off, and she seemed to accept it, all smiles while I tried to keep my cool. She easily filled the role as the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, and I wasn’t sure if I was nauseous over the fact that she was on my arm or that one wrong step would lead to my undoing.

  I could kiss her goodbye. My life goodbye. My family goodbye.

  Not an option.

  I couldn’t lose her. She was the one behind it all, the spark who’d created an inferno that engulfed the art world.

  I had to withstand two hours, and I’d be golden. I could explain it all away later.

  The Ever painting was the main attraction, so we were forced to sit through a multitude of stiff auctions for small pieces from up-and-comers. I wouldn’t mind a few of them hanging in my place, but bidding a few grand in front of Kee was a no-go. I wasn’t sure what she thought she knew about my career, but I doubted she thought I could toss around that kind of money.

  She remained silent at my side, her elbow looped in mine with her other hand resting on my forearm. Every so often I swore she squeezed it, but I refused to look down to confirm. I stayed still as can be, realizing with each passing auction that not bidding would draw eyes, too.

  Rock meet hard place.

  The Lorelei’s pop-up gallery was innovative, though destroyed by basic styling, a series of hedges brought in for backdrops ushering the country-club feel inside and clashing horribly with the art. One would think they would’ve brought in artists to design the space for an art auction.

  Piece by piece, Kee looked on quietly, clearly overwhelmed. Celebrities fluttered about - an A-list actor with his newest fling, a Broadway babe in an out-of-place evening gown, a reality television star whose romp with a married politician catapulted her from her knees to rubbing elbows with the elite. Exactly the kind of people I loathed.

  At long last, the moment came, the Ever piece sliding on to the auction block. Armed guards stood on either side, the venue not taking any chances with millions at stake. Swarms of attendees gathered close, the last of the Greed series guaranteed to go for at least $50 million according to the papers.

  Kee’s eyes were wide as saucers as people crowded around, her arm rigid in mine. “You good, Plum?” I asked, pulling her closer to my side.

  She nodded, shooting me a nervous smile. “I’m fine. It’s just a lot to take in.”

  “Yeah, a bunch of douchebags, I know.” I stepped aside to let a woman in head-to-toe crystals pass, not wanting to risk temporary blindness if someone snapped a photo of the walking disco ball.

  Kee’s cheeks flushed that glorious shade of red again. “Eth! Quiet! They can hear you!”

  I shrugged. “It’s the truth.”

  People walked around the space like they owned the world, likely getting there on the backs of others. If I’d had a choice, I would’ve avoided the night entirely, but there was nothing more satisfying than flipping it to the man in person while hopefully throwing off the trail of countless dunce detectives.

  A cluster of critics flocked together like vermin to our left, a redheaded leader taking charge. The pretentious creature had tits that could poke an eye out thanks to a bullet bra that had somehow escaped the 1940s, her nose tilted high in the air as she surveyed my work, hours of labor glanced over in seconds.

  Painfully thin, with an elongated neck like a roadside vulture, she wore a dress of carrot and fuchsia, fluffy tulle and velvet mashed together in a gaudy lint trap look. Every pass of her eyes narrowed them further, her darkened lips curled in thought. “Based on the brush strokes and detailing, Ever is a female. Men can’t produce such work. This is likely out of New York based on the temperamental color palette and themes. Notice how the corner blends from red to black like she’s angry about something. Pollution? The homeless? Who knows? Maybe the press should start asking us to search for her. We’ll have more luck!”

  And with the world’s most incorrect assessment, Ms. Vulture became the next target of an upcoming series. Those around her nodded in agreement, believing the poorly informed guess without trepidation. It was fascinating how cerebral critics could be, trying to analyze every inch instead of enjoying the painting for what it was. The corner smeared from red to black because I fucked up a stroke-not because I felt a certain way.

  "I disagree," Kee blurted, all heads spinning toward us, every pair of eyes for a dozen feet focused on the woman on my arm, the one who dared to question the Vulture.

  Goddamnit.

  The Vulture smirked, her brown-lipstick stained lips looking every bit like the shit-eating grin they crafted. "I'm sorry? And who are you?”

  "Keely Doyle.” She stood tall, not showing an ounce of discomfort despite the leering bird who scavenged a career from other people’s hard work.

  "Hello, Keely. Oh, that’s such a cute name!” It didn’t take a genius to pick up on the disdain in her voice. “Just in case you’re unaware, I’m Ofelia LeBlanc - critic and art historian. I’m afraid we haven’t met. What is your background, dear?”

  Kee looked to me nervously, and I nodded, unsure why she was looking for permission. As much as I disliked the attention drawn to us, my dick hardened at her speaking up. I loved that fire, that conviction to always say what was on her mind regardless of the audience.

  “I don’t work in art, ma’am, but I think you’re selling men short. I know plenty of detail-oriented males.”

  Eyes bounced between Kee and the vulture lik
e pinballs racking up points, the rarity of the occasion obvious.

  Vulture didn’t even bother to hide her dramatic eye roll. “It’s a known fact that men are less observant than females, dear. Haven’t you studied basic psychology?”

  Kee didn’t miss a beat, plastering on one of her famous smiles that melted negativity where it stood. “Yes, in part for my degree, but I wouldn’t accept that fact in all cases. Take Ethan, for instance.” She gestured to me, everyone’s eyes following her hand. “He is more observant than most men. He sweats the details. I think he’s just as capable of doing something as intricate. Plenty of men are.”

  For fuck’s sake.

  Vulture’s face stretched into a sneer as her head snapped toward me. “What do you do for a living? Are you two art hobbyists?” she bristled, saying hobbyists as if she were dropping the f-bomb in front of Jesus himself.

  “I work in tech,” I stated simply, the line I’d dropped thousands of times coming out effortlessly. “No interest in art. I like looking at it, but I prefer to stick to what I know.”

  Vulture cocked her head, lips twisting in a mocking smile. “Oh? What company?”

  Son of a -

  “What we have here is a treat! This is the debut night of Ever’s final piece in the Greed series, You Own This.”

  I turned my attention from the scavenger to the man at the podium, pulling Kee even closer to my side, closing ranks in the face of attack. I didn’t owe Vulture a name. I didn’t owe her time. I didn’t owe her attention. She’d taken enough from me and other artists by carving a job out of the carcass of our work.

  “We’ll start the bidding at…” the man began, his sentence cut short as the room went black.

  Keely

  A scream flew out of my mouth as we fell into darkness. Ethan wrapped a protective arm around my shoulders in response, a blanket of warmth covering my bared shoulders as he pulled me flush against his muscled body.