The Bottom Club

15 | basorexia

THE PETROVA MANSION was as stunning inside as it had been out, and Wyatt, ambling through one of its empty corridors, could not bring himself to focus on any one thing, from the family portraits and paintings (yes, paintings) hung along a length of wall to the vaulted ceiling, which featured a higher central arch that drew his eyes up and along a stretch of wooden scaffolding.

The floor to ceiling windows showcased the lamp lit courtyard on this side of the yard, dotted at intervals with a profusion of potted flowers, an orange tree and a single stone bench that Wyatt would not have noticed if he hadn't been looking so hard.

Everything his eyes set on hinted at a largesse far beyond his wildest imaginings. The whole thing called to mind a study he'd read once on the one percent, and how too often they were out of touch with reality.

Wyatt stopped by the painting of an unsmiling woman, though the twinkle in her wideset dark eyes seemed to say that the world was a joke that only her was in on. She was dressed simply, in a bright yellow frock that seemed to set off the sun-kissed honey blonde curls which tumbled over her shoulders, and she sat barefoot, with legs curled up into her chest and her arms wrapped up around them.

He'd seen it before. Of course he had.

Entire Reddit threads had been dedicated to this particular painting of the ever so enigmatic Tatiana Petrova, whose story read like that of some tragic Shakespearean heroine that it would've been laughable if every word of it had not been true.

The attention to detail was stunning, so much so that Wyatt felt like he was being watched at that very moment, and he turned his head to find that the hallway was as empty as it'd been when he walked into it―a fact he found slightly unnerving.

Just how big was this place?

Wyatt groaned, resting his head on the empty span of wall beside the painting when he started to feel the buildup of what was making itself out to be a spectacular specimen of a headache, and he groaned lowly, shutting his eyes until it'd passed sufficiently.

When he next looked up, it felt like Tatiana was looking directly at him and Wyatt squinted.

"You know," he began conversationally. "I bet you had that designer pussy."

She said nothing, and so he continued.

"I mean, you've been dead for over ten years―RIP, by the way―and your husband hasn't remarried. And that's on what? Your impact, Miss Tatiana."

At first nothing happened, and then the woman in the portrait blinked as her gaze turned to fix on him. Wyatt felt the blood rush out of his body and remained fixed to the spot, feet rooted in place so that even if he'd wanted to run he wouldn't have been able to.

"I've got two words for you," the painting of Tatiana Petrova said serenely, and when it became evident that she wouldn't be jumping out of the painting to eat off his head soon, Wyatt gave an unsure nod.

The moment felt sacred, almost like the morsel of information that she was about to dispense was the most important thing he would ever hear in his life.

"Blow jobs," she said, gazing beatifically at him.

Wyatt frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Blow jobs," Tatiana's painting intimated. "Get good at them, take a MasterClass if you have to."

A long moment passed in which the two of them studied each other, and Wyatt was readying himself to answer that he wasn't sure that MasterClass offered blow job courses when Tatiana settled back into her painting, features closing up.