King Perry Read Online Free Page A

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    “ Four hundred.”
    “ Five hundred.”
    On the plus side, Perry’s bolting counts as proof enough my arrow found its mark. He doesn’t need to know any more about a King Weekend; I wouldn’t have explained much anyway. And I was totally right, he does have a great ass. Those corporate guys hang out at the gym.
    I should get a gym membership.
    “ Eight hundred.”
    The bids climb higher and higher, everyone eager to see who first quits this expensive game of leapfrog. My new banker friend would undoubtedly frown on spontaneous art investments, but he’s not here to stop the outcome. Folks across the room notice and cross over. Who’s that lady with the scarf?
    I see a few individuals, possibly savvier, considering Mangin’s two remaining paintings in a new light, wondering if this is one of those ground-floor things you hear about in the art world: someone who is nobody suddenly becomes somebody.
    Cute Twink looks flustered. Arms crossed and keeping his distance, he’s still cool. But I’m sure he didn’t think anyone would actually purchase tonight with such dramatics. An older man, casually but meticulously dressed, accepts Cute Twink’s nods to let this unfold. That must be him, the gallery owner. Shame on me for not noticing Scarf Woman. She knows what she’s looking at when it comes to art; she’s into this.
    The first bidder looks at me desperately and says, “Two thousand dollars over.”
    “I will pay double the asking price.”
    Art gallery patrons gasp because, hey, big drama. It’s fun watching stuff like this: spilled wine, dramatic bidding war. All that’s missing is a super-hard face slap and a big exit. Well, Perry made the big exit; check that off the list. I wonder if I could manage to get my face slapped? Probably.
    At last, the bidding war is over. We have a winner!
    I’m tempted to shake hands with the man who lost and compliment him on his good taste, but he shoots me a dark look. Maybe he already planned to buy this painting prior to my little show. Sorry, dude.
    Crap. I’m going to have that word stuck in my head all week.
    A few folks chatter and move to the other Mangin paintings, saying, “Yes. Right there. The Golden Curve.”
    Scarf Woman nods at the Mangin painting to the right and says, “I’ll take this one.”
    Well, good. I knew she had taste.
    I shake some hands as people compliment me and ask me what gallery I work for, and I have to explain that I’m no art dealer, I’m a Realtor from the Mission who is showing a two-bedroom condo with a ton of early afternoon light.
    Someone nearby asks, “What are the cross streets?”
    Shit.
    Ignore that. Smile and ignore. Get out of here.
    My voice sounds mournful as I hear the words pop out of my mouth. “I can’t believe I don’t have any business cards.”
    Shut the fuck up!
    Business cards? What is wrong with me? I’m drunk. What if there’s an actual Realtor in this crowd? Get out of here, you moron.
    I think I’m drunk on Perry.
    I extricate myself and take a moment or two to think things through. I step away to the glass-topped desk in back.
    Our caterer friend appears in my peripheral vision; she looks forlorn, glancing toward the front door. I bet she thought Perry liked her. Well, I’m sorry about this one, Amanda, but he plays for my team. I think Perry and I are going to spend the weekend together having great sex. But much gratitude, my Queen, for bringing us together.
    The gallery will call him to inform him of the two paintings purchased; I’ll confirm that. I’ll tell them what to say; I have to make sure they say “Mr. Mangin, your friend left you a note. He believed you might want it right away.” Those exact words. How much to tip for something like that? Twenty dollars? Forty dollars? Too much might seem creepy.
    I chat with the still-surprised Cute Twink, breathing a little king energy into him, congratulating him on creating an event certain to be discussed tomorrow in Castro wine bars. He