“What do you mean?” I asked, turning around impatiently.
“You sold two fucking paintings, dude.”
I stared at him for a moment. “Are you serious?”
“There are two little ‘sold stickers’ on two of your paintings,” Zack told me. “Unless I’m mistaken, I think that means you’re a little richer.”
I headed over to where my collection had been displayed, and I saw that Zack was right. Two of my paintings, ‘The River’ and ‘The Dreamer,’ had apparently been sold, and both were had been priced at five thousand dollars each. I did a little quick math in my head and realized that I would be taking home eight thousand dollars. It seemed slightly surreal. Was this really happening to me?
I headed straight for Gordon and had to interrupt an animated conversation he was having with a well-dressed middle-aged woman with a shaved head.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Gordon asked. “That was Clarissa Meyers I was talking to.”
“The art critic?” I asked.
“Yes,” Gordon nodded pointedly.
“Introduce me to her later,” I said unapologetically. “I need to ask you something.”
Gordon groaned. “It is true what they say about artists… so difficult.”
I ignored that and went on. “Have two of my paintings been sold?”
“They have,” Gordon nodded.
“Really?”
“Those ‘sold’ stickers are no joke,” Gordon said impatiently. “I should have negotiated a fifty percent cut for myself. I just didn’t think you’re work would sell.”
I ignored that too. “The Muse is not for sale,” I said.
“What?”
“The Muse,” I said. “The painting of the beautiful woman… it’s not for sale.”
“Then why the fuck did you want it on display?”
“Uh… because I wanted people to see it… but it’s my painting.”
“And it will still be your painting even after it’s sold.”
“Please, Gordon… it hasn’t been sold yet. Just put a sticker up there next to it, and no one can actually buy it.”
“Not a chance,” Gordon said. “I’ve priced that one at six thousand. It’s staying up until someone actually buys it.”
I gritted my teeth together. “Fine, put the sticker up, and I’ll give you your twenty percent.”
Gordon narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re taking it back?”
“Yes, and you’ll still get your cut,” I said. “Fair enough?”
Fine,” Gordon harrumphed. “Seems like a silly decision to me. You could be making several grand out of that painting.”
“It has… sentimental value to me.”
“Next time I’m not going to be so accommodating,” Gordon warned me.
“Next time?” I asked.