The air conditioning in the Bergamot Station gallery was set to sixty-two degrees, yet the back of my neck was slick with sweat.
15 min read·2,830 words·4 views
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[DIRECT MESSAGE: SLOANE TO ELIAS / OCT 14, 8:44 PM]
You’re standing too close to the Ruscha. You’re going to set off the proximity alarm and then I’ll have to watch a bored security guard tackle you in front of the Gagosian crowd. Which, to be fair, might be the most interesting thing to happen tonight.
[DIRECT MESSAGE: ELIAS TO SLOANE / OCT 14, 8:45 PM]
It’s a print, Sloane. They’ve got three more in the back. And you’re across the room behind a pillar, drinking something that looks like battery acid. How do you even know where my feet are?
[DIRECT MESSAGE: SLOANE TO ELIAS / OCT 14, 8:47 PM]
I’ve been tracking your movement since you walked in. You have a very specific gait. Like you’re constantly scouting for a camera angle that doesn't exist. Also, the battery acid is a Gin Basil Smash. It’s terrible.
[DIRECT MESSAGE: ELIAS TO SLOANE / OCT 14, 8:48 PM]
Turn around. Look at the sculpture behind you. The bronze one that looks like a crumpled fender.
[DIRECT MESSAGE: SLOANE TO ELIAS / OCT 14, 8:50 PM]
I’m looking.
[DIRECT MESSAGE: ELIAS TO SLOANE / OCT 14, 8:51 PM]
If you move three inches to your left, the light from the track-head hits the curve of your shoulder exactly the same way it hits the bronze. It’s a nice composition. High contrast. Very noir.
[DIRECT MESSAGE: SLOANE TO ELIAS / OCT 14, 8:53 PM]
Is that your version of a pickup line? Compositional analysis?
[DIRECT MESSAGE: ELIAS TO SLOANE / OCT 14, 8:54 PM]
You responded to my first email three weeks ago because I told you your collection was 'thematically inconsistent.' I think we’re well past traditional pickup lines.
***
[EMAIL: ELIAS VANCE TO SLOANE THALBERG / SEPT 22, 10:14 AM]
Subject: Re: Thalberg Collection - Inquiry regarding 'The Desert Series'
Ms. Thalberg,
I appreciate the spreadsheet. It’s rare to see a collector so organized. However, I’ll be blunt: your acquisitions from 2021 to now feel like they were chosen by a committee trying to please a board of directors. There’s no friction. You’ve got three Diebenkorns that are technically perfect but emotionally inert.
You asked for my consulting services to 'bridge the gap' in your portfolio. The gap isn't in the inventory. It’s in the risk profile.
Best,
Elias Vance
[EMAIL: SLOANE THALBERG TO ELIAS VANCE / SEPT 22, 2:30 PM]
Subject: Re: Thalberg Collection - Inquiry regarding 'The Desert Series'
Mr. Vance,
'Emotionally inert' is a bold choice for a first email to a prospective client. Most consultants spend the first hour telling me how visionary I am while trying to figure out which of my watches costs more than their car.
I buy what I like. If that makes it a committee of one, so be it. But if you’re as bored as you sound, perhaps you should tell me what 'friction' looks like to you. Or is that something you only charge for in person?
S.T.
[EMAIL: ELIAS VANCE TO SLOANE THALBERG / SEPT 22, 6:12 PM]
Subject: Re: Thalberg Collection - Inquiry regarding 'The Desert Series'
Friction is the moment you see a piece and it makes you feel like someone just walked over your grave. It’s the discomfort of not knowing if you’re looking at something beautiful or something violent.
I checked your LinkedIn. You’re in private equity. You spend your day looking at EBITDA and risk-mitigation. Art shouldn't be a hedge. It should be a wound.
And no, I don't charge for the philosophy. Just the execution.
E.V.
[EMAIL: SLOANE THALBERG TO ELIAS VANCE / SEPT 24, 11:05 PM]
Subject: Re: Thalberg Collection - Inquiry regarding 'The Desert Series'
It’s late. I’m staring at the Diebenkorn in my study. You’re right. It’s perfect. It’s also incredibly smug. It’s sitting there on the wall, mocking me with its balance.
I’m going to the opening at Bergamot on the 14th. It’s a solo show for a sculptor who works primarily in industrial waste and gold leaf. If you want the job, meet me there. Don't bring a resume. Just tell me which piece makes you want to start a fire.
S.T.
[EMAIL: ELIAS VANCE TO SLOANE THALBERG / SEPT 25, 08:15 AM]
Subject: Re: Thalberg Collection - Inquiry regarding 'The Desert Series'
I'll be there. I'll be the one not wearing a tie.
E.V.
***
[DIRECT MESSAGE: SLOANE TO ELIAS / OCT 14, 9:02 PM]
You're still not looking at me. You're looking at the wall.
[DIRECT MESSAGE: ELIAS TO SLOANE / OCT 14, 9:03 PM]
I can see your reflection in the glass covering the charcoal sketch to my right. You just took a sip of that drink and winced. Your lipstick is darker than it looked in your headshot. It’s almost black.
[DIRECT MESSAGE: SLOANE TO ELIAS / OCT 14, 9:05 PM]
It’s called 'Film Noir.' Appropriately enough.
[DIRECT MESSAGE: ELIAS TO SLOANE / OCT 14, 9:06 PM]
You’re wearing a silk slip dress that’s cut on the bias. Every time you breathe, the fabric shifts about a millimeter over your hips. It’s incredibly distracting. How am I supposed to evaluate the art when you’re standing there looking like a cinematic trope?
[DIRECT MESSAGE: SLOANE TO ELIAS / OCT 14, 9:08 PM]
Maybe I’m the 'friction' you were talking about, Elias.
[DIRECT MESSAGE: ELIAS TO SLOANE / OCT 14, 9:10 PM]
Go to the back gallery. The one with the heavy velvet curtain. There’s a series of small-scale maquettes in there. Nobody is looking at them because they’re tucked behind the catering station.
[DIRECT MESSAGE: SLOANE TO ELIAS / OCT 14, 9:12 PM]
And if I do?
[DIRECT MESSAGE: ELIAS TO SLOANE / OCT 14, 9:13 PM]
Then we stop talking through our thumbs.
***
The air in the back gallery was heavy, smelling of expensive floor wax and the faint, ozone-sharp tang of the industrial air purifier tucked in the corner. Sloane pushed through the velvet curtain, the weight of the fabric dragging across her bare shoulders like a slow, heavy hand.
Elias was already there. He was leaner than he’d looked in the grainy Zoom calls they’d had for ten minutes last week. He was wearing a charcoal jacket over a black t-shirt, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He didn't look like a consultant. He looked like a man waiting for a getaway car.
'You’re late,' he said. His voice was lower than the digital compression had allowed for. It had a rough, gravelly texture, like a dry road in the canyon.
Sloane stopped three feet away. The light here was dim, filtered through a frosted glass ceiling. 'I had to finish my battery acid. It’s bad luck to leave a drink unfinished.'
'You’re lying,' Elias said, stepping closer. The space between them vanished. He didn't touch her, but she could feel the heat radiating off him, a stark contrast to the refrigerated air of the gallery. 'You were waiting to see if I’d follow you.'
'I already knew you would. You’re obsessed with the 'composition' of things, Elias. And right now, the composition of this room is just us and a lot of expensive scrap metal.'
Elias reached out. It wasn't a tentative movement. He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her head back. His skin was warm, slightly calloused. He looked at her mouth, his eyes tracking the dark line of her lipstick with the same clinical intensity he’d used on the Ruscha.
'Film Noir,' he murmured. 'It’s a good color on you. Smudges easily, though.'
'Is that a challenge?' Sloane’s heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic, syncopated rhythm.
'It’s an observation.'
He leaned in, and for a second, Sloane thought he was going to kiss her, but he stopped just short of it, his breath ghosting over her lips. He smelled like espresso and something sharp—sandalwood or cedar. He moved his hand from her chin to her neck, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw down to the pulse point. He pressed down, just slightly, feeling the thud of her blood.
'Your heart rate is way too high for someone who's bored,' he said.
'I'm not bored anymore,' she whispered.
He kissed her then, a hard, demanding collision that tasted of gin and salt. Sloane let out a small, jagged sound—not a moan, more of a sharp intake of air—as she grabbed the lapels of his jacket, pulling him flush against her. The silk of her dress was a thin, useless barrier between them. She could feel the hardness of his chest, the buckle of his belt pressing into her stomach.
Elias backed her up, his movements efficient and certain. Her heels clicked against the polished concrete until her back hit the side of a heavy wooden crate—an unopened shipment, probably. The wood was rough, snagging slightly on the silk of her dress, but she didn't care.
He pulled away for a second, his eyes dark, his breathing as wrecked as hers. 'I’ve been thinking about this since your second email,' he admitted, his voice a low growl. 'The one where you told me to stop being so precious about the Diebenkorn.'
'I hated that painting,' Sloane said, her hands sliding up to his hair, gripping the short, dark strands at the base of his neck. 'I only bought it because I thought I was supposed to. I hate being told what I’m supposed to do.'
'Good,' Elias said. He dropped to his knees in front of her.
Sloane’s breath hitched. The shift in power was instantaneous. He looked up at her, his face level with her waist, his hands reaching out to bunch the hem of her slip dress. He moved slowly, deliberately, sliding the silk up her thighs. The air hit her skin, cold and jarring, but his palms followed right behind, hot and steady.
He pushed the fabric all the way up to her hips, pinning it there. Sloane wasn't wearing much underneath—just a pair of black lace thongs that felt like a joke in the face of his focus. He looked at her, truly looked at her, his eyes scanning the pale skin of her stomach, the curve of her hips, the dark triangle of lace.
'You’re perfect,' he said. It wasn't a compliment; it was a verdict.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of the lace and pulled. Sloane leaned back against the crate, her head hitting the wood with a dull thud as he stripped the lace down her legs. She kicked them off, her legs trembling.
Elias didn't waste time. He leaned forward, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, biting down gently. Sloane gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
'Elias,' she warned, though she didn't know what she was warning him against.
'Shh,' he muttered against her skin. 'The security guard does a lap every fifteen minutes. We’ve got twelve left.'
He moved higher, his tongue tracing the seam of her labia. She was already wet, a slick, honeyed heat that coated his tongue as he licked upward, from the base of her opening to the tight, sensitive bud of her clit.
'God,' she choked out, her hips jerking forward instinctively.
He used his hands to hold her steady, his thumbs spreading her wide, exposing the pink, glistening folds of her center to the dim light of the gallery. He was thorough, his tongue working with a rhythmic, punishing pressure that made Sloane’s vision blur at the edges. He swirled his tongue around her clit, then flicked it sharply, catching the nerve ending just right.
Sloane’s hands found the top of the wooden crate, her nails scratching the unfinished pine. She was losing her grounding, the world shrinking down to the sensation of his mouth and the cold air on her breasts. He slipped two fingers inside her, his knuckles rubbing against her clit as he pulsed his hand.
She was tight, squeezing his fingers as he pushed deeper, hitting the ribbed ceiling of her vagina. He found the spot that made her back arch, and he stayed there, his thumb and tongue working in tandem.
'Look at me,' he commanded, his voice muffled.
Sloane forced her eyes open. He was looking up at her, his face smeared with her own moisture, his expression one of intense, focused hunger. He looked like he was cataloging her reaction, memorizing the way her muscles corded in her neck, the way her lips parted.
'You're... you're a bastard,' she panted.
'And you're about to come in a room full of people who think you're a cold-blooded venture capitalist,' he countered, increasing the speed of his fingers.
He was right. The thought of the crowd just twenty feet away, sipping their lukewarm wine and talking about brushstrokes, made the tension in her lower stomach coil even tighter. She felt the first wave of it—a sharp, electric snap that started at her clit and radiated outward through her thighs.
'Elias, wait—'
'Don't wait,' he said, his voice a vibration against her skin. 'Give it to me.'
He buried his face against her, his tongue going flat and heavy over her clit, his fingers driving deep. Sloane shattered. She didn't scream—she couldn't afford to—but a long, low moan tore out of her throat, muffled only by her hand as she bit down on her own knuckles. Her internal muscles clamped down on his fingers, pulsing in long, rhythmic throbs that seemed to last forever.
Elias stayed there until the last of the tremors faded, his forehead resting against her damp thigh.
He stood up slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked entirely composed, save for the wildness in his eyes and the flush on his cheekbones. He reached out and smoothed her dress back down, the silk whispering as it fell over her cooling skin.
'The composition is ruined now,' he said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. 'Your hair is a mess.'
Sloane took a shaky breath, trying to find her legs. 'I think I can live with that.'
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, white business card. He didn't hand it to her; he tucked it into the neckline of her dress, the card resting against the swell of her breast.
'That’s my personal cell,' he said. 'The consulting fee is going to be astronomical.'
'I’ll pay it,' Sloane said, her voice finally steadying. 'But I want a full report on that sculpture by Monday.'
'Which one?'
'The one that makes you want to start a fire.'
Elias looked at her, his gaze dropping to the dark, smudged line of her lipstick. 'I think I already found it.'
***
[DIRECT MESSAGE: SLOANE TO ELIAS / OCT 14, 11:22 PM]
I’m in the back of a Town Car heading toward the Hills. I still have the taste of you on my tongue. Or maybe it’s just the gin.
[DIRECT MESSAGE: ELIAS TO SLOANE / OCT 14, 11:24 PM]
It’s not the gin. I’m sitting in a diner in West Hollywood, and I can’t stop looking at the back of my hands.
[DIRECT MESSAGE: SLOANE TO ELIAS / OCT 14, 11:26 PM]
I found a splinter in my hip from that crate.
[DIRECT MESSAGE: ELIAS TO SLOANE / OCT 14, 11:27 PM]
Consider it a souvenir.
[DIRECT MESSAGE: SLOANE TO ELIAS / OCT 14, 11:30 PM]
You were right about the Diebenkorns. I’m having them taken down tomorrow. I think the walls in the study need something more... violent.
[DIRECT MESSAGE: ELIAS TO SLOANE / OCT 14, 11:32 PM]
I have a few ideas. But they require an on-site consultation. A long one.
[DIRECT MESSAGE: SLOANE TO ELIAS / OCT 14, 11:35 PM]
My house has very high ceilings. And very thick walls.
[DIRECT MESSAGE: ELIAS TO SLOANE / OCT 14, 11:37 PM]
I'll bring my own lighting. I want to see exactly how the shadows fall.
[DIRECT MESSAGE: SLOANE TO ELIAS / OCT 14, 11:40 PM]
See you tomorrow, Elias. Don't be late.
***
[EMAIL: ELIAS VANCE TO SLOANE THALBERG / OCT 15, 02:14 AM]
Subject: Preliminary Report - Thalberg Collection Phase II
Sloane,
I’ve spent the last three hours sketching out a plan for the study. We’re going to start with the lighting. It’s too soft. It hides the texture. And if there’s one thing I learned tonight, it’s that texture is everything.
I’m also attaching a list of pieces that I think will 'friction' you properly. One in particular—a charcoal and ash study by an artist in Berlin. It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s exactly what’s missing from your life.
Also, for the record: the lipstick was better smudged.
E.V.
[EMAIL: SLOANE THALBERG TO ELIAS VANCE / OCT 15, 03:05 AM]
Subject: Re: Preliminary Report - Thalberg Collection Phase II
Elias,
Send the Berlin piece over. And bring yourself.
I’ve decided I’m done with balance. I’d rather have the fire.
S.T.
