19 Baz
19
Baz
The path seems interminable, and every second, I’m expecting another monster to leap out at me.
A skittering and rustling over my head warns me just in time. I jump to the side just as a spidery skriken drops from above, crashing onto the path. It must have separated from the big skriken so it could follow me. At first, it looks a bit crumpled from the fall, but it snaps its joints back into place and scuttles toward me on stick-legs.
Shrieking, I spray it with everything I’ve got. Pain licks at my hands again, and I almost drop the can and the lighter, but I manage to hang on and keep spraying until the creature crumples, sinking into smoldering embers at my feet.
I wait for a handful of seconds, poised to stream fire again, jumping at every tiny rustle in the gloomy forest.
A soft beat of feet on gravel—Dorian explodes from the dark, his eyes wild. “Keep going. I slowed it down.”
On we run, rounding a few more bends in the path before we break out into the parking lot. Dorian’s Tesla has never looked so welcoming.
As we race toward it, something scrabbles on the gravel behind us. We lunge forward, throw ourselves into the Tesla, and slam the doors, just as a wolf-shaped skriken leaps for my side of the car. The instant it impacts the metal, it screeches and recoils, some of its branches and twigs tumbling loose before reassembling again. Still squawking, it limps away into the night.
“Iron,” Dorian says. “It interferes with arcane energies. Remember, Lloyd said iron, machinery, and pollution work against the old magicks. Creatures like this are stronger when nature is pure and unfettered.” He wrestles the beach bag into the back seat and then glances over at me. “Shit, Baz.” He takes the can and lighter from my stiff fingers. “You got burned.”
I stare at the backs of my hands. Tiny blisters are beginning to rise in a few places, but otherwise the spots are red and a little swollen.
“First-degree burns,” I say. “I’ll be all right.”
“I’m taking you to a hospital.”
“Overreact much?” I vent a trembling laugh. “I can’t be in a hospital waiting room right now. I’d lose my mind sitting there trying to act normal after what just happened. We can get some stuff from a drugstore. I’ll have to go in and buy it, since you don’t have shoes. How are your feet?”
“Healing.” He grimaces and starts the car. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
It’s a twenty-minute drive to get off Hunting Island and into the town of Beaufort. By then, I’m shaking and I can’t stop, no matter how hard I try.
Dorian swerves into the parking lot of a Walgreens. The instant the car is in park, he turns to me, picking up my wrist and feeling for my pulse. “It’s a little fast. You could be going into shock.” He reaches over and presses the button to tilt my seat until I’m basically lying flat on my back. “I should call you an ambulance.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Then you lie here and try to breathe slowly. I’ll be back in a minute. Stay in the car, Baz. I mean it.”
“You can’t go in there. You don’t have shoes or a shirt,” I protest.
“Nothing money and a smile can’t fix.” He slams the car door and jogs into the building.
He’s back in a handful of minutes with a plastic bag of stuff, flip-flops on his feet, and a flower-print blanket, which he tucks carefully around me. “We’re going somewhere safe where I can fix those burns for you and get you warm. Stay with me, all right?”
“I’m honestly fine,” I tell him. “Just shaky and a little cold. Stop acting like I’m going to pass out or die.”
I’m scoffing, but then I look at his face—the part I can see from my recumbent position. His jaw is tight, a muscle flexing at his temple. His fingers clutch the steering wheel, muscles rigid in his forearms.
“Dorian.” I tip the seat up a little. “I’m really okay.”
He doesn’t answer, just turns into the parking lot of a nearby motel. The place is packed, and I’m almost certain we won’t get a room, but Dorian comes out with a pair of key cards. He grabs the beach bag and the sack of drugstore supplies, then takes my overnight bag out of the trunk. Lucky I had it along after my sleepover at Lloyd’s penthouse.
Minutes later, Dorian is shouldering his way into the motel room with the bags while I follow, holding my flower-print blanket around my shoulders. My burns hurt, but fortunately the injuries are all on the backs of my hands.
The heavy door to the room swings shut behind me with a satisfying click, and I exhale. Tension eases from my shoulders.
The room smells faintly of bleach, but it looks clean enough. I hesitate, eyeing the one king-size bed.
“They didn’t have any more rooms with two beds,” Dorian says. “I figure we can take care of your burns, let you rest a bit, then head back to Lloyd’s if you want.”
“Or we can stay the night,” I say. “There’s plenty of room for both of us. Do you snore?”
He smiles. “I have excellent sinus health. If I do snore, it’s rare.”
“Perfect. Nightmares?”
His smile drops immediately, and he turns away, setting the bags on top of the bureau. “Of course not. Only people with guilt or anxiety have nightmares, and I push all that away, remember?”
“Hmm. Right.”
“Come here, little fighter.” He beckons me into the bathroom and flips on the harsh white light. “Give me your hands.”
He rinses my hands, then applies the gel he got at the pharmacy. Gently, he places bandages over the injuries, using smaller ones for a couple little burns on my fingers.
It’s new for me, seeing him like this. Sure, the rings on his fingers look priceless and I’m pretty sure the stud in his ear is a real diamond. But he smells like the beach, like sweat and sand and the salty air of the ocean, with a lingering odor of paint. He smells like a regular guy, and as he bends over my hands, his blond hair flops over his forehead in the most ridiculously charming way.
“We should have done this after I showered,” I say. “I’m still kind of sandy, and my shorts are wet.”
“Damn it. I didn’t think of that.” He puckers his lips, staring ruefully at my newly bandaged hands. “I guess I’ll have to redo all that after you clean up. Or…I could help you shower.”
A storm of moths erupts in my chest, wings catching on my lungs, making my breath stutter.
Dorian lifts his blue eyes to mine. “It’s practical, Baz,” he says softly. “Nothing sexual about it. Just a friend helping another friend get comfortable.”
“No,” I say, breathless. “I can manage on my own. I’ll just rinse off.”
“Do you need help using the bathroom?”
“No!” I exclaim.
“Suit yourself. If you need me, I’ll be right outside.” A smirk plays over his mouth as he leaves, closing the door.
After I take care of business, I leave my shorts and panties on the floor, and I worm my way out of the tank top and the thin bra. I turn on the shower and stand under the spray, holding my hands up and out of the way to keep the bandages dry. I manage to get all the sand off, near as I can tell. I showered this morning anyway, so I don’t need to soap down or shave tonight.
Afterward, I dry off clumsily with a towel. I don’t have extra underwear along, but I’ve got the silky pajama set I wore at Lloyd’s last night—one of the things Dorian bought me. It’s in my overnight bag, so I wrap myself in one of the thin motel towels and exit the bathroom.
Dorian is smoking on the balcony. He stabs out the cigarette when he sees me and slides open the balcony door, waving away the last curls of smoke.
My god, he’s obscenely beautiful. He should be illegal.
“All done,” I say faintly. “Your turn.”
“Yeah.” He tugs at his lip with his teeth, his heated gaze traveling over me from top to toe.
If there’s one thing I know about him, it’s that he’s insatiable when it comes to physical lust. I’m honestly surprised he hasn’t been pushier about it, since he’s clearly attracted to me. I half expect him to come to me, pluck the towel from my grip, and run his hands over my bare skin.
But he only says, “How are you feeling? Dizzy? Cold?”
“I’m fine.”
He shuts the sliding glass door and pulls the curtains after one more cautious look outside. “I think we’re safe. Stay put, okay? I’ll be quick. If anything happens, we’ve got some leftover paint in those cans, and the lighters are still good.”
“I don’t think the skriken will come for us here.”
“Can’t be too careful. Seriously, Baz—don’t leave the room.”
“I do what I want,” I retort.
He releases an exasperated sigh. “Fine.”
The minute I hear the shower start, I pull on my pj’s, grab my purse, and hunt for my credit card. I saw a vending machine on the way in, and I’m starving. I guess fighting for your life works up an appetite.
I’m not gone from the room for five minutes, but when I hip-check my way back through the door, with the room key card and the credit card clamped in my teeth, Dorian is already there, his skin steaming and damp, a towel knotted around his waist. He’s glaring, and his arms are crossed, which only makes his biceps more enticing.
I drop my haul of snack food on the dresser, pushing aside the bags to make room. Then I pluck the cards from between my teeth.
“There and back again.” I throw him a smirk. “And nothing bad happened.”
He doesn’t respond, but his glare deepens. “I told you to stay in the room.”
“And I decided to get food. You hungry?”
“No.” More glaring.
“Oh my god, would you chill? I’m fine.”
“Your safety isn’t just about you,” he says.
Of course he’s not worried about me because he cares. In this, as in everything, he is supremely selfish. The realization stings, and I let venom seep into my voice as I reply. “I know. It’s also about ensuring I stay alive to paint your precious portrait.”
“It’s about my fucking sanity,” he explodes. “Do you think I could forgive myself if you died?”
My stomach flips. “It wouldn’t be your fault. And you could just push it away, right? Refuse to feel it.”
“I’d feel it.”
“Because I’m the last of my kind. Your only chance.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move.
Slowly, I approach him. “It’s hard for you, isn’t it? Finding something you can’t control with your beauty or money?”
His teeth are gritted, bared.
“You can’t make me do anything. You can’t make me stay in the room, and you can’t make me paint you. And that’s driving you wild, isn’t it?”
He scoffs and looks away. “I could make you do anything I want.”
“Not true.”
“Beauty and money aren’t the only ways to get a thing done,” he says darkly. “There are other methods. Unpleasant ones. Don’t force me to go there, Baz.”
It’s the first time he has openly threatened me or hinted at how he’ll react if my final answer is no. I’m not an idiot; I’ve considered the possibility that he might try other ways of convincing me to paint him. But he hadn’t mentioned any such thing, and now that he has, I feel as if I’ve lost something precious. As if the sweet, tentative connection we’ve been weaving has been abandoned, hanging frayed and useless in the wind.
“I’m not forcing you to go there,” I say quietly. “You always have a choice. To be the person you think you are or someone better.”
He wavers a moment, then strides to the bag of pharmacy supplies and takes out a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a bottle of painkillers, the last of which he tosses to me. He disappears into the bathroom, and when he returns, I ask, “Do you really have to brush your teeth? Or does the painting take care of that decay too?”
“I don’t get cavities,” he says curtly. “But surface bacteria can affect how I smell, so yes, I shower and I brush my teeth. Now I’m going to bed, and since I don’t have any other clothes, I’m sleeping naked. I’ll stay on my side of the bed, don’t worry. Put pillows or towels down the middle if it makes you feel better.”
I’m speechless, and I don’t look away even though he pauses, giving me a chance to do so.
Then his towel drops, and holy shit.
I want to paint him. Scratch that—I want to sculpt him, including all the beautiful inches of that dick. I don’t miss the fact that he’s half-erect or that his ass, when he turns away to climb into bed, is damn gorgeous.
That gorgeous ass just threatened me with violence if I don’t do what he wants, yet I still crave him. What does that say about me?
Our argument unsettled me, but it was weirdly reassuring, too. Aside from the subject matter, it felt oddly normal, like something a regular couple would do. Maybe we both needed that conflict, not only to talk through some stuff but to release some of the tightly coiled tension from our epic battle.
Dorian has his back to me, his body half-draped by the sheet and his rigid posture declaring that he’s still royally pissed off. Which doesn’t bode well for kisses or anything else between us tonight.
I’m still too wound up to sleep, so I sit in the armchair and nibble on cheese crackers while watching the TV on low volume, and then I brush my own teeth before climbing into the right side of the bed and switching off the lamp. I left the light in the bathroom on and the door cracked, so the room isn’t entirely dark. If any monsters do manage to get into the building, I want to be able to see them coming.
The air conditioner kicks on, a loud hum in the shadowed room. Somewhere down the hall, a door bangs and someone laughs, loud and shrill. Drunk, probably.
Two minutes later, another door bangs, and there’s the grinding roll of a wheeled suitcase.
Five minutes later, raised voices arguing.
I thought Dorian was asleep, but he vents a frustrated sigh and rolls over stormily in the bed. “Fuck motels.”
“Did you text Sibyl and Vane so they know where we are?” I whisper.
“Yes. I texted while you were in the shower. Sibyl said she would check on your cat for you.”
“Should I text Mrs. Dunwoody?”
“No.”
“She might worry about me.”
“Who the hell cares?”
“You’re very grumpy,” I tell him.
“No shit. The perfect day I planned for you went to hell, you got hurt, and now I’m stuck in this shithole for the night.”
“We could still drive back to Charleston.”
He mumbles something unintelligible into the pillow, but he doesn’t get up.
“At least you were prepared for the skriken,” I say. “Without those flamethrowers, we might both be dead. They would have dragged me away to be sucked dry of all my magical energy or whatever. You might have survived, but who knows how much more damage your painting can take.”
“Thank you for the reminder.”
The dark pathos in his voice stings my heart.
“I want you to know that I’m not just stringing you along,” I say quietly, staring at the dark ceiling. “I am thinking about painting you. I just… I vowed not to do this, Dorian. Vowed it on my father’s grave, the day he was buried and again with my hand on his tombstone every year afterward. That means something to me. I guess by now you know I’m kind of a spiritual person—not in a religio-Christian way, but I believe in the mystic. I believe promises have power. Hell, I believed in the supernatural even before this.”
I pause, but he doesn’t say a word.
“What happened to my father wrecked me,” I continue. “And even without my vow, I’m not sure it’s my place to give you another portrait, if it’s even possible.”
He’s silent for a moment. Then, softly, “So you want me to die.”
“I don’t want anyone to die. But tell me this. The girl who died of an overdose at your party… Was she the only death for which you’ve been responsible?”
A long pause. “No.”
“How many?”
“I’ve lost count.”
My chest tightens. I expected there to be a few more, but so many that he lost count? That can’t be true. That would make him a sociopath, a callous, unfeeling monster. “Bullshit. You’d remember.”
“Why should I? None of them were important. Cogs in the wheel of humanity, worms writhing on the hot pavement of the world. Fools screaming toward their own destruction. They deserved death. Everyone does.”
“Even you?”
“Of course. I know I don’t deserve immortality, Baz. But I want it. I’ve lived more, done more, experienced more than anyone else, so I want it harder than anyone else. I have to believe that I can achieve it by sheer force of will.”
“What about karma?” I retort. “What about suffering the consequences of your actions?”
“A weak concept circulated by pompous religious leaders, a threat devised to pin the lower classes under the grinding heel of the oppressive rich, to make them fear going after what they really want.”
“You sound like Lloyd-Henry. He thinks conscience is cowardice.”
“I won’t lie. I’ve learned much of my personal philosophy from him. Or perhaps we’ve shaped each other’s viewpoints.”
“And you want to shape me. To make me believe that living the life I want, full of the pleasures I enjoy, is the ultimate goal of existence. That other people don’t matter, as long as I’m beautiful, young, happy, and rich.”
“Exactly.”
“You can’t believe that, Dorian. I don’t think that’s how you really feel at all. As much as you pretend not to, I’ve got to believe that you do care.”
“You want me to be deserving of the gift you can give me, when I know I never will be.” His voice is hard now. “I’ll never live up to the ideal you imagine, Basil. I can’t, and I won’t try. The most I can be is myself, and if that’s not enough for you—”
“Yourself?” My laugh has razor edges. “But you won’t show me your real self, Dorian. You’ve been acting a part since I met you. Playing the role you’ve designed, keeping all your layers carefully in place. You’ve given me a few glimpses underneath, always by accident—and that’s who I want to see. The real you, not the fake one you serve up to everyone else.”
I can hear him breathing heavily and quickly in the dark. “You think you want to see that,” he bites out. “But you really don’t.”
“I do.”
He pushes himself to a sitting position, the scent of vanilla motel soap rolling off his skin. A sliver of light from the bathroom door slashes across his face, turning his handsome features beautifully monstrous. There’s a jubilant rage in his eyes. “You want to peel back the layers, Baz? Snip away the skin, carve off the flesh, snap the bones, and look inside? You want to see the rotted, putrid organ pumping away in my chest, feeding my carnal form?”
“You’re being very extra,” I whisper, “but yes.”
He leans down to me, his lips a bare inch from mine.
“I can show it to you,” he breathes against my mouth. “Every twisted thing I’ve ever done to myself and to others. I can show you that there’s nothing left in me worth loving or saving. A violent confession, all at once. Are you brave enough?”
I swallow, then drag in a shaky breath. “I am.”
“Then I’ll show you,” he says. “I’ll show you my portrait tomorrow, and you’ll have your excuse to let me die.”
He moves away, sinks back onto his side of the bed. My body is galvanized to the mattress, riveted by that moment of passionate nearness. I wanted him to settle himself against me, crush me with his body, devour my lips.
I want him so hard it’s like blood in my mouth, like iron under my tongue. I want to tell him I’m not looking for an excuse to let him die. I don’t want that for him. I don’t.
“What if I put your soul back in your body?” I venture. “I mentioned that before—I think I remember how my mother did it. What if—”
“No. That’s not an option.”
“Dorian—”
“No.”
“So it’s immortality or nothing?” Now it’s my turn to sit up, furious and exasperated.
“Would you accept anything less if you had the option?”
“I don’t have the option,” I say tightly.
“Maybe we can find another way for you.” Dorian’s voice is faintly desperate. “Some way for you to have youth and long life, too. There must be other methods.”
“You want me to have immortality?”
“Almost as much as I want it for myself.”
I choose to ignore the “almost” and cling to the rest. Proof that he cares.
He wants me to live. Wants it so badly that he’s willing to seek out a way to perpetuate my existence. From what he’s told me, he’s never gone that far for anyone else.
It’s the reassurance I needed, the confirmation I was craving back at the beach. The evidence that I’m not just one of the bodies, one of the many circling him like planets caught in the pull of a lethally beautiful sun.
I’m special. And if he can care about me like that, there’s hope for him.
My hand moves across the sheets until my knuckles bump gently against his ribs, his bare, warm skin. My burns twinge a little, but I keep going. I’ve had tons of tattoos—a little pain can’t stop me when I want something badly enough.
Scooting closer, I slide my fingertips up his side, over his breast, my palm skimming across his nipple. His chest lifts and falls under my hand, tenuous rapid breaths. He doesn’t stop me as I sit beside him, stroking his skin.
My fingers trace his collarbones, then wander his breastbone, sliding beneath the sheet, down to the lightly tensed muscles of his abdomen. Along the groove where the slab of stomach muscle meets his hip bone. Over his strong thigh and then up the inner thigh, toward the heightened heat I can feel, the rigid part of him that’s tenting the sheet.
“Basil.” His smooth voice curls around my name. “Do you want me to fuck you?”
I hesitate, a bare inch from touching him there .
“My expectations are always too high,” I whisper.
“I’ll surpass them or die trying.”
I release a breathless laugh. “People don’t die from sex.”
He sits up, the tip of his length brushing hot against my palm. He’s face-to-face with me in the darkness. His hand glides down my arm, a brush of tempting warmth.
“I want you,” I murmur. “But I have a condition first.”
He gives a faint chuckle. “Of course you do.”
“When you’re with me, there is no one else,” I tell him. “Every him, her, or they you’ve ever had—every pronoun, every gender, every body, every kiss, everyone you’ve come on, in, or under—they don’t exist.” I take a breath, placing my hands on his chest. “Right now, there’s only me. Right now, you’re mine.”
“Yours,” he echoes. “And if I want that to change, I’ll tell you first.”
“Same,” I reply.
We hesitate, light exhales blending between our parted lips. Waiting. Sensing the significance of the moment.
He and I just became—something. Not boyfriend and girlfriend exactly—the word boyfriend seems too common and casual for the way I feel about him. It’s not messy enough. We need a word that’s wretched and confusing and wild and visceral and heartbreakingly tender.
Exclusive. That will do until I think of something else.
Dorian Gray is mine alone. For now.
For tonight.