4 Baz
4
Baz
I leave the old Coast Guard building behind and jog up Broad Street toward the ocean. Ahead lies the marina, a thicket of boats bristling against a backdrop of gleaming water and the James Island Bridge.
The sun has nearly set. It’ll be dark by the time I get home.
A man is running toward me—a lithe, lean figure, his feet pounding the sidewalk with a speed beyond the norm for joggers in this area. Like he’s running from something.
I know that feeling too well. I’m always moving, never quite resting, in a state of perpetual, low-key anxiety, constantly glancing over my shoulder in the hope that the hulking shadow of my past will be gone. But it’s always clinging to my back, dragging along the ground behind me. Souring every damn thing I try to do for myself.
Okay, this runner is racing straight for me. Not swerving in the least. And now he’s close enough that I recognize him, with a jolt that runs straight down my spine, buzzing through my body in ripples of shock and anger.
It’s Dorian Gray. His white T-shirt is sweat-glued to his front, highlighting his pectorals and a very respectable six-pack. I hate the traitorous tingle between my legs at the sight of him, which only heightens my anger.
I slow my pace, and he pulls out of his breakneck charge down the sidewalk just in time to avoid colliding with me.
“The fuck?” I plant my fists on my hips. “Are you stalking me now?”
“No.” He sweeps blond tendrils back from his face, tucking them into the low knot at his nape. His throat and forehead glisten with sweat. “I’m staying there . With a friend.” He points back toward the Chandler Apartments, the towering luxury complex I was eyeing earlier, which now lies just behind me, to my right.
“So you don’t live here in Charleston?”
“Just visiting. I have a house in Nashville. For now. I switch cities when I get bored.”
“Must be nice.” I can’t help my clipped tone; this guy really unsettles me.
Probably because his earlier request sharpened the teeth of the things that chew on my soul at night.
He’s smiling at me, and I hate it.
“You should—um, get back to your run or whatever. Gotta keep in shape for your fans.” I give the last word the most disdainful twist I can manage.
“Oh, I don’t have to run to keep in shape. But I like to, sometimes, when I…” He breaks off the sentence, and his smile widens. “So you looked me up on socials.”
Crap.
I make a scoffing sound. “As if. No, I just figured a guy like you is probably a model or a thirst trap or something.” Why are my cheeks burning? Damn it, I hate this. I want to go home, not stand here making an idiot of myself.
Dorian Gray shakes his head slightly, with a faint chuckle. “You’re not what I expected to find.”
“Okay, that’s not creepy at all. I’ll be going now.”
But as I move past him, he catches my wrist.
I freeze, trying to remember the handful of self-defense classes I took with a couple friends back in Columbia. I’m blanking. Nothing in my head, nothing but the lines of those long, warm fingers pressing my flesh.
“Have dinner with me,” he says.
“Let go.”
His fingers loosen and slide along the underside of my wrist, grazing my palm before they part from my skin. I know it’s a calculated touch, but that knowledge doesn’t keep my stupid body from reacting.
I’m better than this, damn it.
“I wouldn’t have dinner with you if you were the last man on earth,” I snap.
“Ever been to Circa 1886?”
Oh…shit…
Circa 1886 is a fine-dining establishment in the old carriage house of the Wentworth Mansion, right down the street from my house. I’ve wanted to eat there since I moved to this city.
Dorian’s lashes dip, and he gives me a lazy, triumphant half smile.
That smirk gives me the strength I need.
“Fuck off.” I resume my jog down the sidewalk. My heart pounds with the half fear, half hope that he’ll follow me.
But instead he calls out, “Seven, tomorrow night. I’ll meet you there.”
By the time I get home, I’m seething. My hands are shaking as I fumble with the lock on my door.
“Hi, hon,” calls a voice from the corner of the second-floor balcony. Mrs. Dunwoody. Widowed, fifties. An attractive, comfortable-looking mom type. Southern Baptist. Gave me some little Jesus pamphlet the day I moved in.
“Hi, Mrs. Dunwoody,” I mumble, turning my key.
“You okay, sweetie?”
“I’m fine. Have a nice night.” I slip inside and close the door, locking it and putting on the dead bolt. But I can’t dead bolt my brain, and a certain pair of black-lashed, electric-blue eyes keep sparkling in my mind.
Familiar rituals usually settle me down: fiddling with my altar, burning some cleansing herbs, and making tea. I kneel on the padded stool in front of the altar, determined to center myself, to open my mind, to yield myself to peace. That’s what paganism means to me—being open to influence, freeing my mind to channel something brighter and broader than myself. Giving the forces of nature and the denizens of the spirit world a chance to speak.
Ever since I decided to take my paganism more seriously, I’ve felt drawn, not to the idea of some overarching, all-powerful goddess but to a distinct entity—a female presence with an artistic aura. A name enters my mind sometimes when I’m deeply receptive— Brigid . I’ve googled her a few times. She’s the Irish goddess of the arts, healing, creativity, and a list of other things…but to me she feels like the fire in my soul when I’m driven to create.
Tonight I have no space for Brigid’s strength and calm… There’s a different energy surging through my soul—ferocious, possessive, masculine. It’s not fire but water, a tidal wave crashing in my mind, then rising up to shatter itself again with eternal, lethal persistence. There’s something in it that calls to my blood, my very bones—a possessive hand clamped around my heart, dictating how I should honor it.
So far, my altar designs have been partly about my spiritual inclinations and partly about what I’ve seen on Pinterest. But at this moment, I hate every charm and every crystal I’ve placed on the altar. I detest the color of the yarrow, the dried hydrangea is crumbling, and the tiny photo of Mom in its pewter frame only makes me more miserable. The sage-and-lavender incense blend reminds me of Dorian’s scent flooding my shop. Suddenly I can see a new altar in my mind as it should be designed, right down to the position of each object.
If another spiritual presence is manifesting himself to me, I should probably listen.
I hurry into the second bedroom and tear through a few of my half-unpacked boxes, compelled to find objects I haven’t touched in weeks. I carry them to the living room and drop them onto the couch. With a sweep of my arm, I clear the altar, tumbling its contents into a storage bin. My fingers fly, arranging the new items—first a silky blue handkerchief, then a chipped marble hand I found at a flea market. A huge conch shell of Aunt Jessie’s, several bits of jewel-toned sea glass, a handful of dried seaweed, some strands of twine. Beach grass from a vase. A stalk of dried eucalyptus. A necklace I inherited from Mom, set with a single real pearl. A candle that smells like the salty-fresh air of the beach.
Then I step back and survey my work.
It feels better, feels right, but it’s not enough. I need to draw something. Art is my truest worship, and I never feel closer to the divine than when I’m creating.
I put on a playlist of low, dark indie music on Spotify, light the candle on the altar, and curl up on the couch with my tablet and stylus.
I won’t draw Dorian Gray. I can’t, even if I desperately want to.
But I can draw somebody fictional. Someone who looks as unlike him as possible.
Dorian has a lean dancer’s body, so this character will be massive. Burly. Packed with muscle.
Dorian has blond hair; this guy will have red hair. And he’ll have green eyes, not blue. Oh, and a beard, thick and red and curly. Heavy reddish brows. High cheekbones.
With the initial sketch complete, I start sculpting the muscles and the contours of the face. Layers upon digital layers, pouring from my mind through the stylus.
When I’m in the zone like this, it’s as if there’s a direct line from some primal, subconscious part of my brain straight to my fingers. There are conscious decisions, sure, but so many of them happen instinctively in the glimmering haze of the creative moment.
There’s always a risk, even when I’m creating character art, that I’ll pull someone’s actual likeness from my memory. That’s why I usually throw a few twists in there, avoiding my first instinct and going with my second choice about the nose, the shape of the eyes, the turn of the chin. I do everything possible to avoid what could potentially be an accurate memory of someone’s face.
But I can’t recall ever seeing anyone like the man I’m drawing now. So I let my instincts take over, and I lose myself in the sublime delight of creating . The rush is stronger than usual this time—more powerful, flooding my brain with ecstatic energy.
When the picture is done and I finally resurface, it’s after midnight. Almost one.
I’ve been sitting in the same spot for hours, and I have to pee. Like, now.
Screwtape is curled at the end of the sofa, a cautious distance from me. When I get up, he lifts his head and blinks at me with judgy golden eyes.
“To hell with you, too,” I tell him.
He yawns.
Damn, why is that so cute?
I take a final look at the brawny, red-bearded man on the tablet. I drew him shirtless, and his bronze muscles practically glow. Strong legs are braced apart, ending in large boots. His green eyes hold a faintly manic light.
He’s glorious. Some of my best work ever, I think. And now that I’ve expelled the volatile masculine energy into this painting, now that I’ve paid homage to it as fiercely as I’m able, my soul can breathe again.
With a little squeak of satisfaction, I lay the tablet on the sofa and dance off to the bathroom.
When I come back, Screwtape is standing over the tablet, one paw lifted delicately.
The screen is still on, but my character is gone. In his place, there’s a new, blank page.
My stomach drops.
“Oh my god.” I scramble for the tablet, shooing Screwtape away. There’s nothing in my drafts, nothing saved anywhere, even though I know I saved the thing a few times. Nothing in my deleted files.
Nothing.
“You little shit.” My eyes are filling with tears. “What did you do?”
Screwtape considers me disdainfully, then hops off the sofa and trots away to his litter box.
My glorious satisfaction evaporates, leaving behind an uneasy sense of loss. It’s like having a ruined orgasm or thinking an exorcism succeeded only to realize that the demon is still clinging obstinately to the chest cavity of its victim.
I can’t say any of that aloud, not even to Screwtape, because it would feel too dark. Too melodramatic. Too lonely. So I only whisper, “This has seriously been the worst day.”