Page 74 of Third Time is the Charm (Passion and Perseverance #3)
This was not a good idea.
Tristan’s mouth thinned into a hard line as he immediately regretted his decision.
He knew better than to entertain a wager with Pierce and yet here he was, standing at the Met, absorbing the energy of their annual charity exhibition.
He would have rescinded his answer if Pierce hadn’t disappeared so quickly into the crowd that had grown around them.
It had been seven years since they’d first displayed their art here, and they hadn’t been back since.
A chill crept up his spine. He wanted to believe it was caused by nostalgia from his memory of the place but instinctively knew better; tonight marked the beginning of the end.
Walking through the crowd, Tristan observed in silent anonymity the excitement and speculation unfolding around him.
The musings of a smile broke on his face as he heard two women discussing a piece of his from last year’s auction, speculating as to the cause of the young woman’s expression of extreme pleasure.
Oh, he’d given her good cause.
It had been won by an older gentleman in Florence, the second piece of Tristan’s – or Titian’s – that the gentleman had purchased.
He paused when the two women abruptly stopped their conversation catching sight of him.
It never even crossed his mind that they realized he was eavesdropping on them; he knew how he looked and how far his striking good looks had gotten him in the past, his wavy, golden hair tamed back away from his face, emphasizing his strong jawline and warm hazel eyes.
Plus, he cleaned up well in a jet-black tux.
Tristan gave them a dazzling smile, waiting exactly one and a half seconds for their jaws to hit the floor before moving forward further into the crowd.
He furrowed his brow thinking about what he was going to do about Pierce.
The last few years, their auctions had become predictable and gone off without a hitch.
Tristan was grateful for the continuity and control of routine, but Pierce, well, he was always looking to liven up their time together, always looking for a little bit of adventure.
At last year’s auction, he’d snuck in the model from his painting; he’d had her stand next to it to see if anyone would realize that it was her.
Thankfully, Tristan had realized who she was the moment he walked into the gallery and spotted her, quickly telling Pierce, in no uncertain terms, that she needed to leave immediately or he was out of the Guild.
If she was there, there was a chance she could lead someone back to one of them.
Or worse, if she was there, attendees might realize that the artists themselves were there as well.
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 into 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 stated firmly. “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 types of art; 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, whoever’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.