Two influential Art Critics and a prominent Gallery owner make a bet that they can make an unknown artist famous. The artist they choose is dedicated and talented with an eye to spotlighting the injustices of American society. He is also a serial ki...
Wilson opened his eyes to the relentless brilliance of morning. It had been a night of overindulgence and mild debauchery. The price was now being paid. His head throbbed and his muscles ached. At least he didn't have to suffer alone, as a groan filled the bedroom. He looked to his side and managed a smile. Bertram lay curled in a fetal position with his head resting on Wilson's chest. The older man stirred and looked up into the young artist's eyes.
"Bloody hell, Willy, it's so fucking bright in here! I don't remember a damn thing."
"We must have had a good time then. Less alcohol next time I think." Wilson offered.
"Fair enough," Bertram chuckled, "I don't believe it would be possible to consume more. Damn, it's times like these I wish I had a man-servant to bring me breakfast so I wouldn't have to get out of bed."
"I'll play man-servant, Bertie. Give me a minute to rejoin the living and I'll rustle up some omelets for us."
"Bless you, my boy," Bertram sat up, "I can't remember the last time you overindulged like you did last night. Is there anything I should be worried about?"
"Just blowing off some steam. I've been pretty focused on Jager."
"You do seem to be overdoing it a bit. Have you had any time for your own work."
Wilson sighed loudly, "I haven't been able to start a new piece in months. Brick wall. I think this change of focus will do me good. The money I might make is good motivation too."
Bertram put on a concerned look, "Willy, you don't need to worry about money, you know that."
"I appreciate all that you do for me. I know I can only afford my rent because you pretty much pay for half of it, but it makes me feel like a failure. If this bet works out, I stand to make in the six figures, not to mention other artists that might want me to represent them if I'm successful."
Bertram gave Wilson a gentle kiss, "Listen to you, my budding capitalist. I just don't want you to abandon your art."
"Don't worry Bertie, I just consider myself on sabbatical. It'll be good for me. Now, how about that breakfast? The opening at the Armory is only a few hours away and we both need to be presentable."
"Omelets and coffee sounds excellent. I'll wait here till my limbs function again. These bones need time at my age."
Wilson got up and put on a bathrobe. He looked at Bertram and laughed before heading to the kitchen. "You got it, old man."
"Be so good as to go fuck yourself, young man!"
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Devon was enjoying his lunch with Elaine despite the sunburn he'd acquired on his trip to Miami. "Fucking Florida, what a waste of swamp. Nothing but old Jews, angry Cubans, and crazy white people."
Elaine laughed brightly, "Poor, dear Devon. That's what you get for leaving the city."
"It's not like I had a choice," he protested, "My magazine sends me, I go. In any case, I'm here now. From what you told me, the bet is going full speed ahead. I can't wait to speak with Bertram tonight. Are you going to the opening?"
