Devon Hartford - Reckless

“Anyone want to look around the rest of the boat?” I suggested.

“Totally,” Madison agreed.

“I can’t wait to snoop through Tiffany’s medicine cabinets,” Romeo said impishly. “She’s probably got lots of drugs.”

“I’ve got to hit the head,” Jake said, standing up.

“Make sure you don’t break it,” Madison quipped. “Tiffany’s toilet probably costs more than you’ve earned all year.”

Jake smiled at her. “If I win Mavericks this March, then I’ll have plenty of extra cash.”

“Dude,” Christos gawked, “did you finally get invited to surf Mavericks? Why didn’t you tell me?!” He flung his arms around Jake, clapping him on the back.

“Cool your jets, bro,” Jake laughed. “I’m number seven on the alternates list. Wanna go break some kneecaps, make sure I get on the invite list?” he joked. “We only gotta put seven guys out of commission, and I’m totally in.”

“Give me the list of names,” Christos smiled, “and I’ll make it happen.”

Everyone laughed while gravitating toward the staircase leading down to the main deck, except Brandon.

“Christos?” Brandon asked. “Do you mind if I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure,” he said to Brandon. To me he said, “I’ll catch up with you in a second.”

“All right,” I said. “Let’s go, you guys.”

I followed Madison, Jake, Romeo, and Kamiko down the ladder to the main deck, leaving Christos alone with Brandon.

CHRISTOS

Samantha waved at me as she and everyone else left the upper deck.

It was just me and Brandon.

We walked casually to the railing on the back of the upper deck and looked out at the open water.

As long as I’d known the guy, he was never what I’d call a true friend. My family knew his family and we did business together. I didn’t dis like the guy. But did I genuinely like him? It changed by the minute, depending on his agenda. He could be a decent ally one second, or that thorny thistle in your sock when you’re trying to run a marathon the next.

“Christos,” Brandon smiled warmly, holding up his wine glass, “I have to congratulate you, the sales at your first solo show were nothing short of astounding.” He clinked wine glasses with me.

“Thanks, man,” I said, sipping my wine, wondering where he was going with this. Brandon always had an angle.

“Now I’m getting calls from new buyers almost daily. Celebrity clients, famous collectors, many of them international. You’re hot right now, Christos. The influential buyers who dictate the art market want your paintings, and they want them now. How soon do you think you can have a new solo show ready? I’m confident we can double your prices from the last show, and sell everything.” Brandon’s eyes flickered dollar signs.

There was the angle. Me busting my ass to churn out new work. I had no doubt Brandon was in love with the idea.

I smeared my hand across my stubbled cheeks and sighed heavily.

Reality check.

This was exactly the same shit that had turned my dad from an artist into an alcoholic. He got caught up in catering to a bunch of rich shitheads who didn’t give a fuck about him. They just wanted to say they had an original Nikolos Manos hanging in their mansions. Almost like they wanted a piece of him, like his hand or his foot, spiked to the wall over their fireplaces like a human sacrifice.

Look, everybody, they’d all wanted to be able to say to their snooty friends, here hangs the body of Nikolos Manos, and I own it.

Shit. I could cut my own head off, have it mounted on a wood plaque, and have Brandon sell it for a hundred million bucks. I’d be the most famous artist in history for a stunt like that. All Van Gogh had to do was lose an ear. Imagine what my whole head would bring.

I sighed heavily.

“Let me know what you need, Christos,” Brandon said warmly, like he would do anything for me, like it wasn’t about the money, like all he cared about was little old me.

“Supplies?” he continued, “I’ll make sure you have whatever you need delivered directly to Spiridon’s house. Art models? I can call some modeling agencies up in L.A. and get you some fresh faces. Fresh faces always sell paintings.”

What I needed was a break from his sales pitch. It was making my head spin.

“But there’s one face I think you need to paint more than any other,” he said deviously.

I knew where this was going. “Yeah, who’s that?” I smirked.

“Samantha.”

I arched an eyebrow. I hated it when he called her Samantha. He knew I was the only one who called her that.

“I’ve said it before,” he continued, “you need your Mona Lisa, your Girl with a Pearl Earring. Samantha is that girl.”

Why did I get a bad feeling all of a sudden?

“I don’t think she’s going to want to sit for a painting,” I said.

Brandon scrutinized me shrewdly. I saw the dollar signs cash-registering behind his eyes.

“No matter,” he said calmly. “I’ll call L.A. We’ll find faces for you to paint. The main thing is that we keep your momentum going.”

I chuckled. “Gotta keep the animals fed.” Before they chewed my fingers off.

Why did I feel like the golden handcuffs of my art career had become a golden noose around my neck? Oh yeah, because my dad was a famous artist, and it tore my family apart and nearly killed him with drink.

Question was, would I be next?

Amend that. At this rate, with Brandon breathing down my back, the only question was:

When?

Man, I thought I’d had problems when my ass had been hauled to jail three months ago.

Turned out, the shit was just getting started.

I threw back my wine glass and emptied it in one swallow.

I needed another fucking drink.

SAMANTHA

For the next few hours, everyone had a good time on the boat. The buffet on the dining room table was replaced with an elaborate collection of scrumptious desserts. Me, Madison, and Kamiko had eyes bigger than our stomachs and wanted to munch on each one. Fortunately, Christos and Jake were happy to gulp down what we didn’t finish. Romeo avoided the desserts despite his desire, citing the maintenance of his girlish figure.

We circulated amongst the people on board, and it turned out that not all of Tiffany’s friends were snooty bitches like she was. I had way more fun than I’d expected.

When the hour approached midnight, everyone gathered in the living room on the main deck.

Gold and silver balloons now decorated the room. Foil-covered letters reading “HAPPY NEW YEAR” hung from the ceiling in several places. People passed around bags of noisemakers containing classic paper blowout whistles, glitter-covered party horns, plastic knockers, and those plastic champagne-bottle confetti poppers.

I snagged one of the confetti poppers. They were always my favorite. Romeo grabbed two golden party horns and put them up to his nostrils.

“You don’t sneeze in them!” I joked.

He winked at me. “What do you mean, I thought that’s how you worked them!” He gave them a quick snoot-blast and they wheezed weakly. “That was lame. I think I need to blow harder.” He sucked in a big breath, ready to blow.

“No don’t!” Kamiko pleaded.

“Kidding,” Romeo grinned.

Madison and Jake had an arm around each other and were busy dueling with plastic clackers, laughing hysterically. They were so into each other.

Christos slid his arms around me. “Did you grab me a noisemaker? I totally want one of those air-horn cans.”

“You’re such a guy,” I smiled. “You always have to have the biggest, loudest thing in the room, don’t you?”