The Bullion Brothers: Billionaire triplet brothers interracial menage by Tania Beaton Page A
Authors: Tania Beaton
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Juliette, his willowy blonde assistant, towards the clusters of potential buyers. At gallery events, most of Petroc’s energy went on cultivating agents and journalists, but this time he spent an unusual amount of his evening with the artist.
I was out among the throng and flying the flag for Petroc’s blog and twitter feed. That involved pretending that I knew what the art was about, which in Krac’s case wasn’t hard. Not compared to pretending that I cared.
Mi is an adorable person, and gorgeous, and she’s making a heroic transition from a shy, geeky boy to a sassy and admirable woman, but her deconstrictivist nihilism – meaning she broke stuff into very tiny pieces then stuck the pieces on cardboard – it went a long way under my whelm.
I was looking at a piece that consisted of sparse, shimmering dust entitled, Manic Monday , when a dark, rumbling voice behind me said, “I don’t know much about art, but that’s what I call crap.”
The force of the voice felt directed to me. I spun around so fast, the front of my breasts pressed through my bra and silky top into the crisp white linen on the huge chest of a devilishly handsome man. Tall, with golden brown hair and beard. The beginnings of a wicked grin tugged at the edge of his wide, full lips. His gleaming brown eyes shone into mine and made my stomach drop. The look in his eye was somehow familiar but I couldn’t place him.
Unexpectedly he took my hand. I felt tiny in his grasp. The touch of his fingers sent a shock all the way down to my knees and my hips tilted involuntarily towards him. He said, “Do you call this garbage ‘Art’?”
His challenge was direct and forceful, as though I were there to defend Mi’s work. Perhaps the whole ReVengineer movement. I didn’t know why I felt myself so much on the spot, under his harsh gaze.
I shook inside as I told him, “I think that Mi is a fresh and energetic talent.” That’s not quite the perfect art-biz playbook response, but it’s a fair approximation. The PR trick is to say something that is peppered with cutting-edge buzz terms and sounds like it could be appreciative, but without giving away any actual opinion of your own.
The time that I have been helping out on Petroc’s blog has taught me that nobody in the art business actually knows anything at all, and the only opinion that really matters at an opening is the one that’s expressed in the little red stickers.
He wasn’t prepared to be thrown off by my evasive answer.
“You think that grinding commonplace objects to dust is modern post-Dadaism with a touch of Warhol? A little Cornelia Parker, maybe?”
“With a strong seam of garbage running through it.” I said.
His mouth twitched towards a smile once again. “You could say that it’s a heap of trash.”
“I’m not sure that isn’t what I said.”
“Either way, I’m not really interested in art.”
“So, why are you here at all?”
“Oh, my interest is purely in the property. We’re thinking about buying the block.”
“You’re not interested in art but you want to buy a block of art galleries?”
“We’d pull most of it down. It’s the footprint we want. We’re looking to build retail, commercial space and a high-end hotel. Zoning might insist that we keep the façade but we’d totally gut it.”
As he looked around the gallery, I saw the way that his eyes assessed the people there. It looked as though he were assigning values to them, pricing them. Singly and in groups. It struck me that they wren’t very high prices. Not by his standards at least.
He sighed wearily. “Who needs all this, anyway?”
He looked at me a moment. “A golden, fairy-tale beauty. You certainly are a rare find.”
Pretty talk. I’ve heard it before. It’s usually one kind of malarkey or another. Some guys can’t help themselves, they spot a willing victim for some charm and they just pile it on. Forceful flirting, played in a low
I was out among the throng and flying the flag for Petroc’s blog and twitter feed. That involved pretending that I knew what the art was about, which in Krac’s case wasn’t hard. Not compared to pretending that I cared.
Mi is an adorable person, and gorgeous, and she’s making a heroic transition from a shy, geeky boy to a sassy and admirable woman, but her deconstrictivist nihilism – meaning she broke stuff into very tiny pieces then stuck the pieces on cardboard – it went a long way under my whelm.
I was looking at a piece that consisted of sparse, shimmering dust entitled, Manic Monday , when a dark, rumbling voice behind me said, “I don’t know much about art, but that’s what I call crap.”
The force of the voice felt directed to me. I spun around so fast, the front of my breasts pressed through my bra and silky top into the crisp white linen on the huge chest of a devilishly handsome man. Tall, with golden brown hair and beard. The beginnings of a wicked grin tugged at the edge of his wide, full lips. His gleaming brown eyes shone into mine and made my stomach drop. The look in his eye was somehow familiar but I couldn’t place him.
Unexpectedly he took my hand. I felt tiny in his grasp. The touch of his fingers sent a shock all the way down to my knees and my hips tilted involuntarily towards him. He said, “Do you call this garbage ‘Art’?”
His challenge was direct and forceful, as though I were there to defend Mi’s work. Perhaps the whole ReVengineer movement. I didn’t know why I felt myself so much on the spot, under his harsh gaze.
I shook inside as I told him, “I think that Mi is a fresh and energetic talent.” That’s not quite the perfect art-biz playbook response, but it’s a fair approximation. The PR trick is to say something that is peppered with cutting-edge buzz terms and sounds like it could be appreciative, but without giving away any actual opinion of your own.
The time that I have been helping out on Petroc’s blog has taught me that nobody in the art business actually knows anything at all, and the only opinion that really matters at an opening is the one that’s expressed in the little red stickers.
He wasn’t prepared to be thrown off by my evasive answer.
“You think that grinding commonplace objects to dust is modern post-Dadaism with a touch of Warhol? A little Cornelia Parker, maybe?”
“With a strong seam of garbage running through it.” I said.
His mouth twitched towards a smile once again. “You could say that it’s a heap of trash.”
“I’m not sure that isn’t what I said.”
“Either way, I’m not really interested in art.”
“So, why are you here at all?”
“Oh, my interest is purely in the property. We’re thinking about buying the block.”
“You’re not interested in art but you want to buy a block of art galleries?”
“We’d pull most of it down. It’s the footprint we want. We’re looking to build retail, commercial space and a high-end hotel. Zoning might insist that we keep the façade but we’d totally gut it.”
As he looked around the gallery, I saw the way that his eyes assessed the people there. It looked as though he were assigning values to them, pricing them. Singly and in groups. It struck me that they wren’t very high prices. Not by his standards at least.
He sighed wearily. “Who needs all this, anyway?”
He looked at me a moment. “A golden, fairy-tale beauty. You certainly are a rare find.”
Pretty talk. I’ve heard it before. It’s usually one kind of malarkey or another. Some guys can’t help themselves, they spot a willing victim for some charm and they just pile it on. Forceful flirting, played in a low
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