Next time.

When we walked into Charboneau Gallery in La Jolla, it was a much different atmosphere than the Contemporary Artists Show a month ago. It was still early, and no guests had arrived yet.

Standing right inside the glass front doors was a huge brass easel with a large card that read simply, “Manos.”

Everything in the room was done in black or silver. It instantly felt more upscale than Christos’ previous solo show. Waiters in black with long black ankle length aprons were busy setting things up.

The string quartet from Christos’ solo show was nowhere in sight. Instead, a DJ was already behind a mixing board, playing mellow ambient dubstep soundscapes. Much hipper than a bunch of guys with violins.

The room was filled with little round cocktail tables covered in black tablecloths. The center piece on each table was an elegant black and silver metal sculpture.

Dozens of delicate silver mobiles hung from the ceiling, rotating languorously in the slight breeze coming through the front doors. The mobiles consisted of swirling shapes of metal that seemed to fold in on each other in infinite spirals. They were beautiful.

Black silk streamers draped down from the center of the ceiling, curving toward the corners of the gallery. Each painting along the walls was covered by a sheet of black silk. The gallery was filled with them.

I paused. I didn’t remember so many paintings around the studio at home. Were all the covered paintings painted by Christos? That seemed unlikely, but where had they all come from? Was I missing something?

“What up, C-Man!” Romeo said.

“Hey guys,” Christos smiled as he came walking up, wearing a short sleeve black shirt and tight black jeans over his boots. His muscled arms and razored tattoos were the first thing I noticed. Then I noticed his incredibly handsome face and stunning blue eyes.

“Your tattoos are showing!” I blurted. “I thought you had to keep them covered so you didn’t offend potential buyers who are too conservative?”

“That was the old me,” Christos said. “That was Brandon’s idea. This is my show now. I’m introducing my art to the world, my way.”

“I like,” I said, looking around. “Why are all the paintings covered?”

“There’s going to be an unveiling at eight o’clock.”

“That’s awesome!” Kamiko said. “I love a bit of mystery.”

“How come everything is in black and silver?” Madison asked.

“So the only color in the room is in the paintings on the wall,” Christos said.

“Smart,” Madison winked.

“Where’s Jake?” Christos asked.

“He’s coming later. He’s still surfing up at Trestles. He’ll be late,” she grinned.

“Samoula!” Spiridon said as he walked toward us. “So glad you’re here. We couldn’t have a Manos family event without you.” He wrapped his arms around me in a huge hug.

After the hug, Spiridon said hello to the rest of the gang.

“Holy shit!” Romeo blurted, looking behind me. “There’s three of them!”

Nikolos came walking up behind me.

“Everyone,” Spiridon said, “this is my son, Nikolos Manos. Christos’ father.”

Romeo’s eyes were bugging out. He turned to me and whisper wheezed, “He’s so hot, Sam!” I think Romeo was about to cry with joy. I couldn’t blame him. Nikolos was a slightly older, equally hot version of his son.

Nikolos chuckled at Romeo, “You must be Romeo. I’ve heard all about you,” he grinned while shaking Romeo’s hand.

Romeo appeared ready to faint. After the handshake, he squeed, “I’m never washing this hand again!”

“Just don’t use it to wipe, and you’ll be okay,” Nikolos chuckled. “If you ever do end up wiping with it, don’t eat with it.” He winked at Romeo.

No one had been expecting such a dirty joke to come out of the mouth of someone who was all our parents’ ages, so everybody busted up laughing, even Spiridon.

Over the next few hours, people filed into Charboneau Gallery until the place was packed. Everyone wore tuxedos and black dresses. A lot of them were older, some of whom I recognized from Christos’ solo show last year, including rich Mrs. Moorhouse.

Christos’ attorney Russell Merriweather showed up and he chatted with Spiridon and Nikolos like they were old pals. Probably because they were.

As we neared the official start time of the show, Christos pointed to one couple walking into the gallery. A beautiful middle aged blonde woman and a handsome salt and pepper haired man. “Guess who that is,” Christos said.

“I don’t know, the Prince of Monaco and Grace Kelly?”

“Nope,” he chuckled, “Close. That’s Westin-Conrad Kingston-Whitehouse and Gwendolyn Kingston-Whitehouse. Tiffany’s parents.”

I frowned, “How many names does her dad have?”

“At least thirty,” Christos chuckled.

“I can see where Tiffany gets her beauty. Her mom is gorgeous. Although she looks a bit…severe.”

“That’s an understatement,” Christos smirked.

“Really? How?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Oh, come on. Now I have to know,” I begged.

“Do you have about four hours? I can’t even begin to do justice to all the shit I could tell you about the Kingston-Whitehouses in any less time.”

I bugged my eyes, “Wow. Is it that bad?”

“That family is a prime time soap opera,” Christos said. He almost sounded, I don’t know, sad? He had known Tiffany for years. I’m sure he would fill me in some other time.

“I have to go say hi to them,” Christos said. “Care to join me?”

I said sarcastically, “I’ll let you handle that. Tiffany’s mom scares me.”

“You and me both,” Christos said over his shoulder as he walked toward them. He talked to them for a bit before greeting other guests.

I hung out with Madison, Romeo and Kamiko near the door. A short while later, Jake came walking in.

“What the fuck are you wearing, Jake?” Madison demanded, her brows knit together.

Jake wore one of those black T shirts with a tuxedo silk-screened on the front in white. At least his shirt was long sleeved and hugged his tan, muscled body flatteringly. He also wore black jeans and black Vans tennis shoes. His blond hair was golden and naturally feathered and weathered. It draped across his forehead in this way that probably made anything with a double X chromosome want to run their fingers through it.

“I don’t have a tux,” Jake hissed apologetically. He thrust his hands into his pockets. He looked like a giant kid out of his element.

Madison rolled her eyes and smiled at him. She tip-toed up to kiss his cheek. “I still love you, you big surf bum.”

The lights overhead faded down suddenly and the DJ softened the volume on the dubstep until it was a murmur.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Brandon said over a microphone from somewhere in the room.

The chatter of conversation around the room quieted. All eyes turned to Brandon, who appeared near the DJ booth. A spotlight shone on him.

“We have a very special event here tonight at Charboneau,” Brandon continued, “and I want to welcome everyone to a once in a lifetime experience. This is a first, ladies and gentlemen. You may have noticed that the placard out front read simply, Manos. All of us in the art world know there are three Manos men. How could I, Brandon Charboneau, have made such an oversight?” He paused and smiled expectantly.

The crowd chuckled.

“I assure you, it was no oversight.”

I saw Christos, who stood with some of the older patrons, grin and roll his eyes at Brandon.

“Because tonight, ladies and gentlemen,” Brandon said mysteriously, “we have all three Manos men in attendance. Spiridon? Nikolos? Christos? Will you please join me?”

The three Manos men worked their way through the crowd into the spotlight next to Brandon while the crowd murmured.

It only took a second before people started clapping. I mean, loudly. Soon, people were cheering. I had never appreciated how famous the Manos men really were until now. But I didn’t know then that this was only the tip of the iceberg.