6 Baz
6
Baz
“Going on a date?” Mrs. Dunwoody leans over her balcony railing. The length of her balcony, like my porch, faces the siding of the neighbor’s house. The short end overlooks the pencil-thin driveway and the postage-stamp square of front lawn. Yet for some reason, despite the lack of any worthwhile view, she’s out on her balcony all the time, rain or shine, hot or cool.
I resist the urge to tug down the hem of my black ruched dress. It’s working its way up higher with every step, determined to skate right across my crotch instead of staying just above my knees where it’s supposed to be.
“Not a date, just dinner,” I reply.
“You be good now.” She waggles a finger at me.
“Yes, Mrs. Dunwoody.” I give her a little mock curtsy and take the opportunity to subtly pull down my hemline. A pointless effort, which I keep having to repeat as I stalk down Wentworth Street in my Dolls Kill heels—strappy things with enormously tall platform soles. A little indulgence after I got my inheritance. They add about four inches to my height, which should be useful when I attempt to intimidate Dorian Gray.
I’m ten minutes late on purpose. I read once that’s a power move. Also I’m half hoping Dorian will have left before I arrive, but no such luck.
A low fence encircles the gardens of the Wentworth Carriage House, which houses the restaurant, and a short colonnade leads up to the entrance. Dorian Gray is lounging against one of the square green pillars.
He’s impeccably dressed, of course. I can’t see any labels today or identify the designers, but the crisp shirt cups his broad shoulders perfectly, tapering down to his waist, and his slacks fall in neat lines. Everything he’s wearing has been tailored just for him.
Dorian is on his phone, so I give my skirt a final tug before striding up to him.
For a moment, he keeps flicking his thumb, spinning through his Instagram feed. I clench my teeth, pissed because he’s making me wait now. He’s reclaiming the little edge of power I took.
Then his blue eyes snap to mine. “Baz. Short for Basil?” His voice curls around my name in liquid layers, like honey and whiskey. I want to paint his damn voice . “A name inherited, perhaps, from an ancestor?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Explanations can wait. You must be hungry—I know I am.” He gives me a suggestive grin and a wink.
The hostess recognizes Dorian the moment we enter and guides us into a booth. Our server appears immediately, and Dorian orders a bottle of some wine whose name I don’t quite catch, but it sounds French and fancy.
“Is that all right?” He turns his blue eyes on me.
“It’s fine. A good choice.” I nod coolly, trying to look as if I always drink Whatchumathingy wine.
The dimple pops into Dorian’s cheek as he smiles. Not a calculated, performed smile—this is a real one, paired with a genuine spark of humor in his eyes.
And my damn stomach flips.
I haven’t had a stomach flip like that in months—maybe longer.
The server suggests either the duck breast or the tenderloin before going to fetch the wine. When he leaves, Dorian leans toward me.
“You have no idea what kind of wine I just ordered, do you?” he murmurs.
“Nope.” I wince. “I’m not so much the sit-down-to-dinner type. More the grab-a-sandwich-and-go type.”
“Sometimes I am, too.” He straightens, sipping from his water glass. “What kind of sandwich?”
“Really?” I lift my eyebrows. “We’re going to talk about sandwiches?”
“We could talk about portraits instead, if you prefer.”
“Roast beef and caramelized onions on a sourdough bun,” I say. “With au jus on the side.”
“Nice.” He tilts his head back, thinking. “For me, the smoked salmon from the Sandwicherie of New York. Cream cheese, tomatoes, cucumber, capers, red onion, and a touch of wasabi, on pumpernickel. Oh, and you haven’t lived until you’ve tasted La Bandiera from Pino’s Sandwiches in Florence.”
“I’m guessing you mean the Florence in Italy, right? Not the one here in South Carolina.”
He smiles. “Yes, Italy. I lived there for a while.”
“Right, because you hop from city to city whenever you’re bored.”
“And you despise me for that.” He sets his elbows on the table and leans in again, interest narrowing his eyes. “No…not for the traveling… You despise me for the wealth that allows me to uproot myself whenever I like. You despise that wealth, that freedom, because you crave it yourself.”
Thing is, I could have freedom. I could sell my aunt’s house. Take the money and leave. Pursue my dreams elsewhere. But I don’t want to, not yet. That house is the only piece of my family I have left. It’s mine. I want to try to make things work, right here in Charleston. Selling feels like giving up something more than just a deed with my name on it.
I take a swallow of water, hoping it will cool my face. “Is this how you talk to all your dates?”
“Is this a date?”
“Absolutely not. This is business.”
“So you’re considering my offer.”
“No! Never.”
His mouth twists with dry humor. “‘Never!’ she says, so firmly. So honorably. But honor always has a price. Ten thousand clearly isn’t yours, so I’ll amend my offer—after dinner. Until then, let’s get to know each other, shall we?”
For the next several minutes, in between the arrival of the wine and the ordering of dinner—duck breast for him and beef tenderloin for me—we chat about the weather, Charleston, and the art scene in the city, carefully skirting the topic of portraits. I dip into the cauliflower and mushroom soup, which Dorian recommended, and though I was skeptical, it’s fucking divine.
When my main course comes, it’s a tiny portion, artfully arranged. Dorian watches me take a bite of my tenderloin. It’s all I can do not to let my eyes roll up in bliss as the delicate meat melts in my mouth. “God, this is good.”
He gives me a catlike smile and murmurs, “You look as if you’re about to come.”
I nearly choke on the food. Dorian laughs, pushing my water glass toward me across the creamy tablecloth.
“Don’t die on me, Baz,” he says with a teasing lightness in his voice. “I need you.”
“Shut up,” I wheeze.
“Judging by that reaction, you’re in a bit of a dry spell. I assume you don’t have a partner, since you’re here with me.”
“You shouldn’t be assuming any such thing, since this isn’t a date,” I counter. “What about you? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”
“I have as many lovers as I want, whenever I want, of any gender I prefer in the moment.”
“But no one special?”
“Special?” He crooks an eyebrow. “You mean love? Love is nothing but a lie, first to yourself and then to others. There’s nothing more dull or more deadly.”
Like a sparkler on a dark-blue night in July, my interest flares. That’s the most intriguing and genuine thing he has said all night. He’s been coolly playing a part this whole time, but with those words, he lifted the heavy curtain and let me glimpse what’s behind it—something philosophical, jaded, maybe a little twisted.
“You’re young to be so cynical,” I say. “Heartbreak, I’m guessing? True love has a way of making people unromantic.”
“Am I young?” Dorian takes a large swallow of wine instead of sipping it. “I’d forgotten.”
“You avoided my question.”
“If I loved anyone romantically, it was long ago, and I don’t remember it.”
“Liar.”
He sets down the wineglass, his lips shining scarlet. “Look in my eyes and tell me if I’m lying.”
I place another bite of beef tenderloin on my tongue, and while I’m chewing, I look deep into his eyes. Wide, honest eyes, with an expression so soft and innocent I wonder if I imagined the predatory look he gave me in the studio. Those eyes can’t possibly be concealing any deceit, not in that beautiful, godlike face. Not with the exquisite, symmetrical perfection of every feature, the straight line of his nose, the masculine strength of his jaw, the softness of his lips—the top one temptingly arched, the lower one full and smooth and kissable.
When I see something beautiful, like the cosmic expanse of the ocean, or delicate lichen on weathered gray wood, or the bright, sunlit emerald of trees against a stormy blue sky, the sight pierces my soul like a lance, like the sweetest pain. I want to seize the shaft and drive the spear in deeper, hold it in myself forever, pin that beauty to my psyche with a spell of blood and breath.
I’ve been resisting Dorian’s charm. Fighting against what I thought was fakery, makeup, and a carefully cultured persona.
But there is more here. Right now, there’s not a trace of makeup on his face, and yet he’s divinely, impossibly beautiful, with that glow of harmless sincerity in his blue eyes.
He’s so pretty I want to cry.
And I want to paint him.
His lovely lips move, and I watch them, mesmerized.
“I need your help, Baz,” he murmurs. “You’re the only one who can save me.”
His mouth is scarlet, wet with wine, red like—
A scene flashes before my eyes—a cream-and-brown paisley-patterned sofa, soaked in blood. Chunks of flesh and crushed bone.
I straighten in my seat, jolted back to reality.
Dorian’s eyes narrow slightly, irritation and disappointment flickering through them.
He almost had me. Damn, he’s good.
But two people can play the charm game. Clearly this guy likes sex, and he’s wide open to all possibilities. And while I may not be model material, I’m pretty damn hot.
It’s time to turn the tables on him.
“So you haven’t been in love. Good for you.” I shrug, curving my shoulders inward a little as I lean forward. It’s a pose I’ve practiced on guys before, one that highlights my collarbones and cleavage. “I had a few relationships in high school, a few more in college. They were okay. I like the idea of sex, but honestly, when it comes down to the nitty-gritty of it, it’s not that great. More awkward, messy, and disappointing than fun. Not as aesthetically pleasing or enjoyable as it looks in movies.”
He takes the bait instantly. “Maybe you’ve been watching the wrong movies. Or sleeping with the wrong people.”
I hold back a triumphant smile. There’s nothing people like more than the chance to prove they can rock your world and demolish the memory of every other sexual encounter you’ve had.
“Sleeping with the wrong people, huh?” I run my fingers down the stem of my wineglass. “And you’d be one of the right people?”
“Why not? You’re attracted to me.”
I vent a little mocking scoff.
“You are.” He gazes at me smugly. “Everyone is.”
“So what are you, God’s gift?”
He chuckles. “No. The Devil’s, maybe.”
“Devils make bargains, don’t they? I think you mentioned a better offer.” I put the last forkful of meat into my mouth, careful to chew slowly, my lashes half hooding my eyes.
Dorian’s tongue traces his lips.
I’ve made him want me. He’s interested in showing me a good time, if only to prove his skill in the bedroom. And I’ve hinted that I might, maybe , be persuaded to paint his portrait.
Power regained.
“I’ll commission you for one hundred thousand,” he says, and I nearly tumble out of my chair. “You paint a portrait of me, under the conditions that I dictate, without questioning me about said conditions. And I’ll throw in a night with me, guaranteed not to be awkward or disappointing. As for messy…well, there’s a good kind of mess.” The dimple carves into his cheek again.
“Let me think.” I tap my chin, frowning. “Um…hmm, well…no. But thank you for dinner. It was the best I’ve ever had.”
I rise, loop the thin strap of my handbag over my shoulder, and step out of the booth, not bothering to adjust my skirt, knowing Dorian will have a full view of my long tattooed legs from ankle to upper thigh. My cool demeanor is a brittle shell over the frantic thunder of my pulse as I stalk out of Circa 1886 into the dark night.
I didn’t gain as much insight as I’d hoped, but I learned enough to know that I need to stay far away from this man, with his murky past, vague answers, and ridiculously high offers. No amount of money is worth breaking the vow I made.
Wentworth Street glimmers with warm golden lamps, and I inhale deeply of the breeze blowing in off the ocean while I walk quickly away from the carriage-house restaurant. I’ve just made it across Smith Street when quick steps scuff the pavement behind me.
I reach into my little handbag, pushing aside my phone and curling my fingers around a small can of pepper spray. I whirl around, holding it ready.
“You don’t need that, Baz,” Dorian says, irritation edging his voice. “I just want to talk.”
We’re in the shadow of a yellow four-story house, in a dark, unlit part of the street. No pedestrians around at the moment.
“So talk,” I bite out.
“Why won’t you accept my commission?”
“Maybe I just don’t like you.”
He scoffs. “You dislike me so much you won’t take a hundred thousand dollars? I know you could use the money. It’s one painting, Baz.”
“Stop saying my name,” I hiss.
“Basil,” he murmurs, pacing nearer. “Such a strange name for a girl. You never did tell me where it came from.”
My lips part, but I can’t make myself speak. A dread certainty tightens my chest.
“So we’re pretending neither of us understands the real reason you won’t paint me,” he says softly. “I wasn’t sure you knew, but obviously you do. Which makes this both easier and harder.”
Silent comprehension prickles in the air between us. Urgency plucks at my nerves, a tugging compulsion to yield or to run.
But I won’t give in yet. “What do you think I know?”
He’s closer now, looming over me in the darkness despite my platform heels. I retreat until my spine hits the concrete wall of the house.
Dorian opens his mouth to reply, but I’m distracted by movement behind him.
On the curb sits a yard-waste bag full of sticks and leaves—the trimmings of nearby trees and bushes, waiting to be hauled away.
The sticks in the bag are…moving. Pushing, tenting upward, as if something is burrowing up from the bottom of the bag toward the air. A low, garbled sound emerges.
“Oh my god.” I grab Dorian’s sleeve and pull him toward me, away from the bag. “There’s something in there—like a possum or a raccoon—”
He turns to look, then recoils. “ Shit! ”
The sticks in the bag rise higher, hitching upward, collectively elongating into something like a neck, then a head—two broken sticks like ears, a muzzle of twigs and thorny vines. Shoulders emerge, then a body assembled from sticks, trailing Spanish moss. Then hindquarters, twitching and jerking, as the thing pulls itself free of the bag and stumbles onto the sidewalk.
It’s a dog, or maybe a wolf—entirely made of branches and twigs.
“What the hell is that?” Dorian’s voice is ragged. He’s pushing me along the wall of the house, away from the thing.
“It’s—it’s a dog who rolled in sap or glue, then crawled into the bag and got sticks stuck all over its body,” I gasp.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know that!” I’m clutching his sleeve, still gripping the pepper spray with my other hand. “What else could it be?”
But I already know.
Monster.
It’s a monster. Ergo, the proof I’ve been looking for my whole life. Evidence that I’m not the only screwed-up supernatural thing in this world.
The dog-wolf cocks its head sharply, a broken jerk. Its twig-nails scrape against the sidewalk as it steps forward.
“I think we should run,” I say. “People in movies never run until it’s too late. Run!”
I flee up the sidewalk, with the staccato of Dorian’s footsteps close behind. The rapid scratch of sticks on concrete tells me the wolf-monster is running after us.
“Maybe it’s not evil,” I theorize aloud. “Maybe it wants company or an owner, or it’s like this benevolent nature spirit—”
I glance back just in time to see the creature leap, thorny jaws wide, emitting a strident, echoing shriek. Its front paws tear down Dorian’s back, stripping his shirt into ribbons.
“ Fuck! ” I screech.
But Dorian puts on a burst of speed, waving me forward. “Keep going!”
Panic roars through my body, and I run faster. Of all the times for literally no one to be around in this neighborhood… fuck, fuck …
A rasping snarl, and Dorian cries out, followed by the thud of a body on pavement. I spin around. He’s down, pinned by the stick-monster while it claws frantically into his back like it’s digging down to his heart.
With a faint scream, I aim my pepper spray at the thing’s face and squeeze the trigger. The monster recoils, backing off Dorian’s body, so I advance, still spraying, emptying everything onto the sticks.
Blood saturates Dorian’s shirt, but he’s moving again, fingers diving into his pants pocket. He pulls out a lighter, scrambles to his feet, and flicks it.
A metallic whir. A quiver of light, of heat. Then Dorian tosses the lighter in a gleaming arc.
The flame hits the stick-wolf, and fire roars up, licking across the areas I sprayed. The monster utters a scratchy howl of agony, shuddering and crumpling. Its limbs wobble, and then it collapses, losing form entirely and tumbling into a pile of burning sticks on the concrete.
Dorian steps forward and kicks his lighter away from the flames. He picks it up, blows it off, and tucks it back in his pocket.
“We got lucky,” he says. “Not all pepper spray contains butane as a propellant.”
“Lucky?” I choke on a half sob, covering my mouth with my fingers. “You’re torn to shreds. Just…lie down or something, and I’ll call 911—”
“No!” He catches my wrist as I’m pulling my phone out of my bag. The movement must pain him, because he winces. “Don’t call anyone. I’ll be fine. You live near here, right? We can go there. Just for a bit, so I can get cleaned up.”
“Dorian, you’re in shock. You’re not thinking clearly. You need a hospital—”
“I don’t. And I promise you I’ll explain why, but right now, we need to get moving. I have never seen anything like that creature before, and I’ve seen a shit ton of weird, trust me. Anything that surprises me after this fucking long can’t be good. It’s damn unsettling.”
He’s shaking, which confirms to me that he’s going into shock.
“Sure, okay,” I croon, patting his shoulder. “We’ll go to my place.” Meanwhile I’m surreptitiously pressing my thumb to my phone screen, preparing to dial 911 anyway.
Or I thought it was surreptitious. Dorian’s fingers close around my wrist, and he plucks the phone right out of my hand. “I’ll just hold on to this for now.”
“Asshole!” I grab for it, but he holds it high out of my reach, grimacing as the motion stretches his torn back muscles.
“Walk, Baz. I’ll give it back once you’ve heard what I have to say.”