Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
“Sounds like an interesting read,” I comment as I step into the kitchen. Cold coffee from this morning still in the pot, I grab a mug from the cabinet beside the sink, fill it up, and pop it into the microwave while she’s talking.
“Oh, it was very interesting,” she agrees, and the snippy tone of her voice does not hide her anger. “Bennett, what in the hell happened?”
Beatrice Bishop—aka my sister Breezy—is three years older than me and a total shark when it comes to business. Nothing gets by her. And when I say nothing, I truly mean nothing.
“I think the bigger question here is how did you get a Red Bridge newspaper?”
I know for a fact that Eileen Martin still hasn’t managed to get it online. Apparently, it’s something she’s been working on for a few years now with no success, and because the woman is a stubborn old mule, she refuses help from anyone, even if that means her precious newspaper is stuck in the Stone Ages of delivery.
“Nope,” she refutes. “That is definitely not the bigger question. Seriously. What happened, Ben?”
“Don’t stress,” I tell her as the microwave beeps. “I’m not in any legal trouble. No criminal charges. My record is still squeaky clean in Red Bridge.”
“I’d like to remind you that you moved to Red Bridge to stay out of trouble.”
“And I am.” Mostly. I’ve sworn myself away from CAFFEINE and anything else that could have anything to do with Norah Ellis for the foreseeable future, so I don’t see any reason why I’d find myself in trouble again.
“You promise this isn’t anything I should be concerned about?”
“Breeze, I stepped in to help a woman out of an ugly situation. That’s it.”
Anyone else, and I would tell them to fuck off. But Breezy was the one person I was able to count on during the roughest part of my life, and I know she doesn’t want me to hit rock bottom again—knows I can’t afford to. For that, I’ll be forever grateful to her, even though most days she is a total pain in my ass.
“All right. But just know I get the paper mailed to me, so I’ll know if there are any more crime-ridden heroics.”
I snort.
“Now, for the real reason I called.”
“Oh boy. Here it comes…”
“You need to get an assistant.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t need an assistant, Breeze.”
“Yes. You. Do,” she states firmly. “Trust me, Bennett, I love being your agent and I’ll always be your agent, but my real job is to run our family’s galleries. And if you recall, that’s quite a big task. So, I need you to get an assistant because I can no longer do all of your dirty work.”
Bishop Galleries has been our family’s business since our grandfather founded it sixty-five years ago in Uptown Manhattan. After starting as a single location, Bishop Galleries has since expanded to two other New York spots, one in Chelsea and one in Brooklyn, and has dabbled in the Chicago, Miami, and Paris markets as well.
If my family’s gallery chooses to represent you as an artist, it will undoubtedly certify your success.
All things I should probably be thankful for, being an artist myself.
Eight years ago, with our grandfather having passed away, our parents went through a nasty divorce and switched their priorities from business to one-upping each other with younger and younger spouses.
Our mom is now on her third marriage and currently living with some twenty-eight-year-old surfer in the Bahamas. And our father is still based in New York but spends a lot of time jet-setting around the world with his twenty-five-year-old supermodel trophy wife.
Saying our family has turned into a dysfunctional mess would be the understatement of the century.
Knowing there was a desperate need for actual leadership, Breezy took over.
“If I do recall, you’re the one who wanted to be my agent,” I interject. “And I also recall you making a shitload of money in commission doing it.”
“But that was when our parents were still capable of running the galleries and you were willing to sell your art,” she claps back. “You haven’t sold a piece for over two years, Ben. At this point, I’m doing my job for free.”
I start to open my mouth to remind her that my priorities are way more important than selling fucking paintings to rich assholes, but her voice is in my ear again.
“And so are you.”
“Breezy—”
“I know you’re going to say you don’t need the money, but you do,” she says gently, interrupting me. “The medical bills pile up every month. Your savings and investments are getting smaller by the day. And your insurance stopped covering home health six months ago.”
“Breezy, my finances are fine.” Sort of.
“Ben, you know as well as I do that now is the time to get as much financial security as you possibly can. Or else…”