14 Baz
14
Baz
One week later
A thick towel lies beneath me, collecting the water that trails in delicate rivulets from my legs. I’m leaning back on a lounge chair, eyes closed, blissfully conscious of the soft flow of warm late-afternoon air over my bare skin. The murmur of voices, an occasional shout or laugh, and the sloshing gurgle of the water in the Chandler’s elevated pool blend with the limpid air.
I’m exactly the right temperature, with just enough champagne trickling through my veins to relax me completely.
I have never been this comfortable or peaceful in my life. Which is why I’m trying to ignore everything that is not this moment.
The slap of bare feet nearby prompts my eyes to open. Sibyl settles herself onto the lounge chair next to mine, its upper section creaking as she tips it farther back. She’s wearing a one-piece today, though she rocked a bikini last time we were here. Dorian kissed her when he saw her in it. I couldn’t fault him for that. She looked damn kissable, and it’s not as if I have any real claim on him. I’m just along for this ride.
And what a ride it has been. Six days of yachts and restaurants, galleries and museums, nightclubs and lounges, live music and private movie showings. Six days of being showered with gifts and introduced to influencers; six nights of gaining a whole new tolerance level for alcohol. Six days of getting cozier with Sibyl and passably familiar with Vane, too. Six days of Lloyd’s absence—which is fine by me, since his perpetual silent watching unnerves me a little.
Six days of the lovely and talented Dorian Gray. When we toured the workspaces of local clothing designers, he spoke eloquently about fine fabrics and sewing techniques. On visits to local museums, he showed a deep and broad knowledge of history and art. In a jeweler’s shop, he discussed the minutiae of the process for resetting stones and determining the value of certain gems with such expertise that the shop owner asked his opinion on two pieces. At a jazz concert, he told me about his personal encounter with the composer of one of the songs, decades ago. Lovingly he listed his collection of rare instruments, housed at his home in Nashville—zithers and lutes, priceless violins and antique drums. He has a tapestry collection, too—probably worth millions—and a carefully preserved array of ritual vestments from various religions.
He’s trying to prove to me that his life hasn’t all been drugs, mayhem, and orgies. Although judging by Sibyl’s whispered stories, there have been a lot of orgies. And a lot of drugs.
Dorian Gray has been selfish with his wealth, except where his posse is concerned. There’s no denying it. He told me he was used to a certain standard of living, and this is it. This perfect comfort I’m enjoying right now.
“This is the life,” murmurs Sibyl.
I chuckle. “It’s like you read my mind.”
We sigh in unison, then giggle before relaxing into the vibe of the moment.
“He sucks you in like this,” says Sibyl after a few minutes. “Lures you in, winds silk threads around you like a gorgeous fucking spider. Until you’re addicted to him. Until you would give him whatever he wants just to be able to stay.”
My eyes fly open again. I stare up at the deep blue of the sky, darkening with the oncoming sunset.
I can’t think of anything to say. Every word she just said resonates with truth.
“What does he want from you?” Sibyl asks.
I almost say “nothing,” but that would be unfair when she’s being so honest with me.
“It’s something I can’t give him,” I reply.
“You’re like a no-sex-until-marriage type?” She raises her eyebrows. “No judgment. Just asking.”
“No, it’s not that.”
“Wants you to paint him nude?”
She’s hitting way too close to the mark, so I laugh it off. “Yup, that’s it. You got me.” In an awful imitation of Dorian’s voice, I intone, “‘Oh, Baz, please paint me like one of your French girls.’”
Sibyl bursts out laughing, hearty peals that draw Vane’s attention. He’s been sitting with his legs in the pool, watching Dorian swim laps.
“What’s so funny?” he calls.
“Not a thing,” Sibyl replies.
“You girls talking shit about me?”
“No, babe. We would never.” Sibyl gives me a wink.
“Fuck you,” Vane throws back. Before he can say anything else, Dorian plants both hands on the side of the pool and pulls himself up in one fluid motion, a glistening bulk of wet male muscle. His swim trunks are barely hugging his hips. One finger tucked in his waistband, one good strong tug, and I’d get to see what his OnlyFans subscribers have seen.
I really, really want to know what kind of equipment Dorian Gray is packing.
And I’m not the only one. Literally every pair of eyes at the pool is trained on him as he stands there, a casually posed monument to masculine beauty.
“Vane. Towel,” he says, and Vane scrambles to fetch a dry towel.
Dorian’s gaze travels the length of my legs, halting at the tiny scrap of cloth protecting my privates.
I don’t cross my legs or shift my position. I stare him down. “Objectify much?”
“It’s only objectification if that’s all you see,” he says. “And don’t pretend you weren’t doing the same thing.”
“Ooh, burn,” mutters Sibyl, adjusting her sunglasses.
Dorian takes the offered towel from Vane while maintaining eye contact with me. “I’m going up to the balcony of the penthouse to smoke. Come with me.”
It’s barely a request. I narrow my eyes at him, because I’m a feminist and no man is going to—
“ Now , Baz.” He’s walking away, and I jump up to follow him, hating myself for it.
Dorian Fucking Gray. Asshole. Piece of gorgeous, entitled shit.
I just obeyed him without question like Vane does. And Vane is standing alone beside the pool, staring after us with a look of acidic pain on his face.
Shit, shit, shit.
A wave of pity for Vane fills my heart, but it’s too late to do anything about it. We’re already in the elevator, riding up, with a full view of the marina, the bridge, and the orange-streaked sky.
“You treat Vane like a servant, you know,” I snap, knotting my towel around my waist.
Dorian glances down at me. “I pay him well. And he gets other benefits.”
“Like…”
“Not benefits like that , Baz.” His lip curves, a slight mockery. “I used to sleep with him. Not anymore. I’m talking about benefits like living in this place. Like me picking up the check everywhere we go. He knows the deal.”
“Does he? Because I think he’s in love with you.”
“Isn’t everyone?” Still with that sly smirk. What that smirk does to me he must never, ever know.
“God,” I seethe. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“I’m the fairest in the damn land, sweetheart.”
“Fuck you!” I gasp, and he laughs.
We leave the elevator, enter the penthouse, and cross to the balcony. On the way, Dorian grabs a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from a coffee table.
Outside, I breathe deeply of the sea air, reveling in the view of the beautiful blue inlet and the strip of land beyond, its fluffy green trees interspersed with pale hotel buildings and white church spires.
“What I wouldn’t give for some sweet heroin right now.” Dorian tosses the towel aside and thumbs his lighter. “This will have to do.”
“Because you don’t want to risk too much damage to the portrait?”
“Bingo.” He hauls at the cigarette, filling his lungs and holding the breath for a few seconds before exhaling. “F-u-u-u-ck.” The word spirals out on the smoke. “That’s the stuff.”
I pucker my lips, struggling with the urge to ask for a cigarette. Or vape stuff, though I’ve heard that can be bad for lungs too.
“Why is everything fun bad for your body?” I grumble.
“The unfairness of human existence,” he mutters, lifting the cigarette to his mouth again. “You want to smoke?”
He has asked me that a few times over the past week, and I’ve said no every time. For some reason, I’m desperate to say yes right now.
“You’re a bad influence.” I lean on the balcony railing, trying not to think about the tingling warmth of the inhale, the slight downtick in anxiety I always feel from smoking. But I don’t like the physical effects or the stale smell left behind afterward.
I’m turning to tell Dorian “no” to the cigarette. But he’s right there, towering over me. The haze of his damp, heated body is an electric lure, a layer of magnetized space between my skin and his. His paneled chest is nearly brushing against my breasts, and the thin material of the bikini top can’t conceal their pronounced response to his nearness.
Dorian takes a pull at the cigarette. Cups my chin. Bends down, slotting his mouth to mine. My lips are slightly parted, and as his close over them, he breathes into me…warm, spicy smoke.
I inhale out of sheer surprise, drinking his breath into my lungs.
His soft lips leave mine, but his mouth hovers, his head still angled for a kiss. Waiting for me to close the tantalizing distance.
When I don’t, the hand holding my chin moves to my shoulder, cupping, caressing.
“Baz,” he breathes. “You stubborn, exquisite woman. Kiss me.”
“This is what you do,” I whisper. “You tempt people to indulge in things that are bad for them. You use the friends who care about you. You facilitate addictions, and you feed apathy. You hurt people, Dorian. You wreck their lives, and then you just retreat back into that void where your soul should be.”
He pulls back, straightening to his full height. “God. It was just a little kiss.”
“No. It wasn’t, and you know that. I told you I quit smoking, and I told you why. But you keep pressuring me to smoke. I indulged when I had the panic attack, but now…”
He blows out a frustrated breath. “Fine. You want an apology?”
“I want you to admit that it was wrong of you to do that without asking. The smoke thing, not the—the kiss.”
“So you don’t mind a surprise kiss?” The corner of his mouth lifts.
“No, I don’t mind that. But the smoke…”
“Maybe I should surprise you again.” He moves closer, but I sidestep, my body burning with a desire so strong it terrifies me. But I’m burning with anger, too—or maybe a pained kind of grief.
“You’re better than you behave,” I tell him.
“I’m not, though,” he says. “I’m so much worse. What you’ve seen of me—that’s me on my very best behavior. Me trying not to die before I can convince you to save me.”
“And you want to be saved just so you can ruin another portrait.”
“I’ll be more careful this time, I swear to God.” He crosses himself with the hand that’s holding the cigarette, his half smile more devilish than devout.
He’s so fucking cute , dammit. The image of him begging me on his knees that first night we had dinner—it rushes back into my mind full force, and the craving to paint him is so powerful it’s like a physical hunger, an itch in my fingers, a roaring need in my blood.
If I can’t paint him, maybe I can possess him. Just a little. Just for a few minutes. I want him burning like a hot coal on my tongue. I want his essence anointing my lips, my forehead; I want him gasping my name like the most potent of prayers.
He can see it on my face. He must, because his eyes widen and he drops the cigarette, crushing it out with his bare toes. A muscle flexes along his jaw, another at his temple.
The shape of his arousal is obvious, prodding against the fabric of his swim trunks. It’s as long and thick as I hoped it would be.
My nerves are a choir of yes , and my skin hums a fervent yes . I lick my lips and tense, ready to fling myself into this. Into him.
Not painting but possession. Yes…
But an outcry from far below the balcony catches my attention and Dorian’s.
“The hell?” he mutters, leaning over the railing.
The pool is several stories below us, a blue glowing rectangle. Except it’s not blue anymore. Inky swirls of black spiral through the clear water, fouling it quickly as people scramble to get out. Within seconds, the entire pool is an opaque, glittering black.
“What the fuck?” I breathe, gripping the balcony railing.
Something soft touches my knuckles—a flutter of black—and I scream, flailing my hand and throwing myself backward.
Dorian catches me, holding me to his chest. “It’s okay, Baz, it’s okay! It’s only a moth…” But his voice trails off as more moths begin to settle along the railing. They’re jet-black, velvety and soft, large as my hand.
“Dorian,” I say warily. “What’s going on?”
“Hell if I know.”
Another moth flies toward me, then another. A shiver runs over me as their feathery feet perch on my skin.
“Some of them are clustering around the pool,” Dorian says, still gazing downward.
“Dorian.”
“Vane and Sibyl are coming up. They’ll tell us what happened. Probably some dye or ink got spilled in the pool.”
“Dorian!” I say more sharply.
He turns, his eyes blowing wide as he sees the dozens of black moths that have landed on my stomach, my arms, and my legs. One of them flies toward my mouth, and I cringe away.
“Get them off, Dorian! Gently. I don’t want to hurt them.”
He tries to wave them away, but finally he has to resort to flicking them off, one by one. More try to land on me while he’s shooing the others, and I crowd backward against the glass door, waiting until he finally gets them all off me and we can rush inside.
He slides the door shut, and I gasp, shivering again at the thought of those little crawly feet. Moths cluster against the glass, wandering in circular paths, midnight wings quivering.
“This isn’t just the universe burping or farting or whatever Lloyd-Henry said.” I look up at Dorian, my heart pounding. “Something strange is going on. And I—this is going to sound really self-centered, but—I think it’s connected to me.”
He nods. “The skriken was after you that night.”
“And the moths seem drawn to me now.”
“So they’re interested in your powers, your energy. Which means Lloyd’s story about an ancient magical relic might be true.” Dorian swipes a hand over his face. “The question is how are you connected to it?”
“I don’t know! I have this ability, this ancestry. Maybe it’s like the One Ring in The Lord of the Rings . This thing can tell I’m nearby, and it wants to be found. And maybe our proximity to each other has something to do with it. You don’t have an ability like mine, but you definitely have supernatural connections.”
“Somehow I don’t think the skriken plan to take you there safely,” Dorian mutters. “They’ll tear you apart on the way. Or there’s no relic at all, and they’re simply determined to swallow your energy.”
His logic is good, but I can’t help feeling there’s more to this than manifestations of cosmic energy looking to drink me dry or a relic itching to be unearthed. My whole body buzzes with a sudden memory—standing at the door of the abandoned Coast Guard building, pressing my hand to the door. Hearing that voice in my mind… Let me out.
“I think I did something,” I whisper. “Without meaning to. I think I woke something up or started to. And it wants me to come back and finish the job.”
Dorian hooks an eyebrow. “You know this sounds a little far-fetched, right?”
“Oh, I’m aware.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions before we talk to Lloyd-Henry again. I’ll call him tonight. He’s had days to wrap up whatever business he had with Gatsby. I’m sure he can come back and help us figure this out.”
“Good, because I can’t worry about anything else right now.” I sink onto the couch.
“I’ll get you a drink.” Dorian heads for the bar.
“I could definitely use one.” I massage my temples, trying to stave off the building tension headache. “I have so much more to think about than the supernatural crap we’ve been dealing with—like filling a million orders and fielding commission requests. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled that my art has been ‘discovered,’ but I didn’t realize how much work it would be. I’ve got two art shows coming up in the next several months, and people keep messaging me, informing me that my shop is sold out and wondering when I’ll have more pieces in stock.”
“Scarcity drives demand,” says Dorian, uncorking a glass decanter.
“Sure, but I’ve got to produce more art soon, or I’ll lose this momentum. But the pressure of needing to make the art is blocking all my ideas. Not to mention the fact that I’ve been too busy hanging out with you assholes.”
“Like that’s a bad thing.” He saunters over to me, carrying a glass with ice and three fingers of whiskey.
“God,” I murmur. “Can you put on a shirt?”
“Can you put on a potato sack?” he counters. “Never mind. That wouldn’t help.” As he bends to hand me the drink, his other hand trails up my thigh. I gasp, startled. A swift glow travels from his fingertips straight to my core.
Dorian smiles, his eyes sultry and hooded.
Sibyl and Vane tumble out of the elevator and into the penthouse at that moment, talking over each other about the inky pool and the cloud of black moths swirling above the grounds of the Chandler. Dorian quietly fixes more drinks while they hypothesize, but neither he nor I mention the whole “wakeful ancient relic” idea.
Far-fetched, my ass—it sounds downright insane.