Business and pleasure do not mix for Jacob Bixenman. Men and women from all walks of life, throw their dirty selves at him. Wanting his body, to feel the wonders of his charm but most importantly his money.
A trivial thing many could obtain but only few succeed with. There's a difference between being rich and being as rich as Jacob Bixenman. His father, a stock man was killed by his very own mother, a small women with delicate hands.
He cheated, multiple times with prostitutes, maids basically any women whose skirt could be lifted and flung to the side in a hurry. His mother whom obviously married him for his money shot him right in the head. Clearly, she was charged with murder and thrown in jail leaving the family fortune to their 19 year old son, Jacob Bixenman.
Your typical rich, gold digger wives tale. The one your parents hear and swear to god they won't turn into. But his mom, went off in handcuffs and his dad went 6 feet under and Jacob was left as the richest teenager on the earth.
He slept around, did his fair share of drugs, got arrested twice, but easily bailed himself out. Girls threw themselves at him, boys threw themselves at him, old, young, legal, not legal. Everyone wanted a piece of the golden boy.
He was in France now, Paris to be exact, visiting museums and getting back in touch with his artist side, something he once loved but now lost. His vulgar attitude and demeaning actions taking up too much of his precious time.
Jacob fanned himself lightly, the sun beamed down on his skin, water droplets forming under his hairline. The museum ahead, air conditioned and clean now seeming like a little slice of heaven.
He didn't see the boy with blue eyes and feathery brown curls as he bumped into him. The boys eyes glared his way, he yelled something In French, something Jacob assumed was rude.
He shrugged it off as the boy pulled his bag closer, a pink fabric almost dangling off the edge of his black satin bag. He stuffed it back in as Jacob watched him cross the street and enter the motel. The same one Jacob checked into just this morning.
He stayed in motels when he traveled, less chaotic, the people bitter for different reasons from himself. He liked the change, the discomfort of the mattress, the ugly rugs and the grimy people that lurked through the halls.
The dirty thoughts of rugs and 40 year old mattresses vanished under the quiet white walls of the museum. He purchased his ticket online, the process already painfully slow. He handed off his ticket, not bothering to say Good Morning, hello or thank you. A mannerless man who stood higher than you and made sure you knew he had better things to do.
The first floor held magnificent paintings, the human form taken to a new level of involvement, new realms opening up with every glance. Jacob enjoyed museums, the quiet, the calm. A group of strangers standing in a still room admiring one thing, together.
His favorite part was not being the center of attention, the artwork, working their way to center stage, casting a grateful shadow over Jacob.
No one looked at him here, hungry eyes on paintings. No one asked about his bank account, how many hundred dollar bills he carried or where his clothes came from. And that's why Jacob liked museums.
He explored further leaving the first floor, moving to the second. A much more playful floor. Whimsical colors and creativity really blossomed on this floor. Younger people circulated the room. Boys in sweater vests, girls in tight skirts. The perfect mixture of people brought together by art.
The third and final floor of this small museum held sketches. Unfinished, not cleaned and unperfected. They didn't feel naked or unfinished in any way though. As Jacob stared at a sketch of a boy, eyes colored in blue, an untold story behind the eyes, scribbled in by what looked like unfamiliar hands.
