9 Baz
9
Baz
I am better than this.
Stronger than this.
Hell, I’m more of a feminist than this.
But Dorian, Dorian, Dorian threads his way into my mind as I lie on too-hot pillows, alone in my room.
When I close my eyes, I see his long fingers encircling the crystal tumbler. I see his lean, half-naked body curved against the wall of my bathroom. I see his perfect lips parting to accept the cigarette, sucking, pursing, then releasing a swirl of smoke.
I see the angled tendons of his throat, the shadows along his collarbones. The neat line of his nose. The sharp corner of his jaw.
And his eyes, like the ocean iced over, turbulent beneath a facade of apathetic calm.
He could cosplay Howl fucking Pendragon, or Alucard from Castlevania . I’d like to paint him as both of them.
Normally when I’m obsessed with images, I simply draw them. I birth them onto canvas, paper, or a digital screen, and there’s relief in the process—a purging. I can rest afterward.
There’s no relief this time, because I can’t capture Dorian that way. Even if my vow permitted it, I couldn’t draw him while he’s absent. That could result in a distorted capture of his soul…I think. My mother never told me what happens if you draw someone from memory while their soul is already captured in a portrait. I don’t dare try it.
The one time she succeeded in reversing a soul capture, she coated the subject’s portrait with their own blood and hers, tracing every line, then filling in the spaces between, little by little. And while she worked, she wept, mentally and emotionally disconnecting herself from that person, piece by piece. She said the severing of those connections caused excruciating pain for her and the subject, and the process took hours. But when it was done, her subject could feel that it had worked. They were disconnected from the link Dorian mentioned—the tether between them and the painting.
My mother never saw them again, and she never told me who it was. When she spoke of it, I could tell she still hadn’t forgiven herself for putting them at risk. Just like she never forgave me for Dad.
I can’t sleep. The comforting warmth of the drink Lloyd made me has worn off, and my mind is bright and buzzing. When I’m in this state, only one thing will fix it.
If I can’t paint Dorian himself, I can paint things that remind me of him.
I lunge out of bed, my foot landing on something soft. Thankfully I manage to stop myself from putting my full weight down, but Screwtape yowls anyway. Of course, the one time he ventures close to me at night, I step on him. Just my fucking luck.
Swearing and apologizing under my breath, I stumble to the tiny second bedroom where I keep extra painting supplies, some canvas and paper, and all the boxes and wrapping materials for shipping out any paintings people buy from my online shop. The shop is part of my website—a small, poorly constructed, barely visible part. I really need to take the time to figure out how it make it better.
But not now.
Right now, I will paint all the things that are not Dorian and yet are .
A skeleton hand, poised like his, clutching a crystal goblet rimmed with flies.
A pair of hills, the exact shape of his upper lip, overlooking a bay the color of his eyes.
Collarbones like his, but with a more feminine shape, with black moths perched along them.
Swirls of pale hair like his, but longer, vomiting out of a girl’s silent, screaming throat.
The last two are black-and-white sketches on the largest sheets of paper I have, scrawled with choking, rigid, wild, orgasmic intensity.
Then I paint a bicep—not Dorian’s, I tell myself, not his—with the skin curling back to expose a curve of glistening red muscle, striated with white tendons. I paint a corrosive black rot creeping onto that beautiful living red, threading it with dark veins of death.
I draw a random mouth—not Dorian’s—the lit end of a cigarette pressing onto the full lower lip, searing, scorching. I paint until I can practically hear the hiss and crackle of the burning skin.
And then I step back, my hand trembling, and I breathe.
The little workroom is a mess. My eyes feel swollen, and they sting from the strain of painting without enough light. My mouth is cotton-dry, my tongue thick with thirst. I have to pee so badly I whimper.
But I can breathe. And I’m tired. Tired enough to rest, I think.
I stumble into the bathroom, take a piss, and gulp water from the faucet. Then I stagger to my bed and collapse straight into a leaden sleep.
When I wake up, a gorgeous woman is standing over me. She has fawn-colored skin, dark eyes, and purple lipstick. There’s a little silver ring piercing the left side of her lower lip. A tight purple dress shows off the curves of her generous belly, breasts, and thighs. She waves at me, bracelets jangling on her wrist. Pretty sure one of those bracelets flashes with real diamonds.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I must be dreaming.
“Yo. Miss Sleepyhead.” She snaps her fingers. “Wake up.”
My eyes go wide, and I scramble to a sitting position. “Shit! Who are you, and what the hell are you doing in my house?”
“You didn’t answer the doorbell. Dorian thought maybe you died or something. He was all ready to kick down the door and come charging in here. I persuaded him to let me pick the lock and check on you, in case you were naked in the bed. You good?”
“Yeah, I’m…I’m good.” I blink, rubbing my eyes. “God, what time is it?”
“About noon. I’m gonna go tell him you’re fine before he busts in here. But you better get your ass in the car quick.”
“Noon?” I groan. “I need to shower. Can you hold him off? Or can he come back later?”
She chuckles, shaking her head. “No, honey. Dorian Gray doesn’t ‘come back later.’”
“Fine.” I swing my legs off the bed. “Did you let my cat out?”
“Oh, he tried, for sure. But he wasn’t getting past me. Nope.”
“Thanks. What’s your name?”
“I’m Sibyl.”
“Oh, right. Dorian mentioned you last night.” Something about her taking down any videos of him that might have gotten out. “So you guys are friends, or do you work for him?”
“Friends… I’m not sure Dorian has friends, other than Lloyd-Henry. Acquaintances, yes. Fucktoys, sure.”
She must see the blend of surprise and suspicion reflected on my face, because she chuckles again, a rich, throaty, musical sound. “Not gonna lie, I’ve been on my back and on my knees for that man a couple times. But after that, he was only interested in my social-media savvy and my tech skills. Hacking and the flip side—security. All kinds. I do everything.”
She plops onto my bed, scooping up a pillow and hugging it to her chest, like we’re sleepover buddies or something. Emboldened, I ask, “So you’re…over him?”
Sibyl mouths her lip ring. “I’m not sure anyone ever really gets over him. But I decided I’d rather live alongside him and enjoy the benefits rather than trying to make him care about me, you know? Dorian doesn’t do relationships. If somebody’s too needy and lovey-dovey, they’re out. He sends them packing like that.” She snaps her fingers. “It’s cool. I get what I need elsewhere. Plenty of options when you’re part of his posse.”
“Is that what I am now? Part of the posse?”
She surveys me, calculation in her dark eyes. “I’m not sure what you are. But for now, what you need to be is clean and dressed. Don’t bother with makeup. We’ll do that while we’re out. Hurry along now.”
She bustles out while I hurry to grab a few clothes and jump in the shower.
When I leave the house, Dorian is standing beside a big Rolls-Royce, wearing designer jeans, studded boots, and an artfully shredded black T-shirt. His blond hair is smooth today, tucked behind one ear.
Seeing him again clinches something inside me—seals up a small wound that was splitting wider the longer I was absent from him. He’s there, whole and existing, and I inhale a slow breath of satisfied relief.
I’ve had my share of crushes. I’ve been in love—or what I thought was love. But I’ve never felt like this about anyone. Definitely not this fast. Maybe it’s because he’s the first person I’ve met, other than my mom, who has been touched by the mythic, whose life has been deeply affected by supernatural forces.
Dorian inhales at the same moment I do. As I approach the car, his lips part, and his face softens with pleasure.
He holds out his hand, palm up.
My fingers twitch, ready to reach for him.
An acute, momentous tension tremors in the air between us.
But instead of touching him, I breeze past him to the car with a light, “Good morning.”
Sibyl’s already inside, and she bobs her head, acknowledging me without taking her eyes from her phone.
Dorian shuts my door, yanks open the front passenger side, and gets in. “Go on, Vane. The place I told you. Have you had breakfast, Baz?”
“Yes,” I lie.
Sibyl glances over and meets my eyes, her brows lifting. I wince at her, a plea for silence. She smiles a little, shakes her head, and returns to her phone. And with that shared secret between us, we’re friends. I can’t explain how I know it. It just latches into place—a comfortable, companionable silence. An understanding.
I haven’t had that feeling with anyone since freshman year, with my college roommate Marsha. She and I were instant “besties,” as if we were eight or something. She helped me through my mom’s death and beyond. We still text, but she’s in Oregon with her husband now. Little town near Portland. It’s not the same.
Maybe this will be the start of some new friendships. Maybe they’ll last beyond my two-week experiment with Dorian.
The day is a whirl of downtown stores—the fancy ones I’ve never dared to step into on my own. I felt like if I did venture inside, they’d be able to smell the “eau de Starving Artist” on me and have me hustled out by a pair of grim guards in designer suits.
But when Dorian, Sibyl, Vane, and I breeze into a store, the attendants are immediately alert, like hounds scenting prey. We’re brought glasses of champagne, which I thought was a thing they only did in movies, and waited on by attentive staff.
The more we drink and laugh and try on cashmere scarves and Versace jackets, the more relaxed I become. With Vane and Sibyl as a buffer, Dorian’s presence is a little less breath-stealing, and I can observe their dynamic.
Artistically, I can see why he chose them for his “posse.” Sibyl is a spicy blend of warmth and snark; she’s keen wit coupled with a big, bubbly personality. When Dorian grows quiet and morose, she steps in, skillfully drawing attention and taking charge.
By contrast, Vane is obsequious, almost worshipful, anticipating Dorian’s needs and wishes at every turn. His garish outfit and Sibyl’s attention-getting curves are a flamboyant foil to Dorian’s easy beauty.
Together, they compose an interesting trio. Wherever we go, people can’t seem to look away.
I suppose I’m another foil, another piece in Dorian’s collection. Like the other two, I have something he needs. Something to make him whole…because he isn’t.
He’s perfectly charming and polite to everyone, and most of the time, his blue eyes shine with the luminous innocence and honesty he used on me back in my studio. But there’s a studied grace to his movements, a calculated twist in his smiles. Sometimes, when he glances at me, I can see straight through that stained-glass window he presents to everyone and into the echoing, cavernous sanctum beyond—the empty space that was meant for his soul.
Lloyd-Henry joins us for dinner at Anson. We all squeeze into a booth, with our bags of clothes, cosmetics, and jewelry tucked under the table while we share roasted oysters, fried green tomatoes, and caviar. I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman —except I’m a twisted kind of mythical muse, not a sex worker, and the guy spoiling me is trying to persuade me to paint his soul into a new canvas before he rots away from all the crap he’s been doing to himself for a hundred-plus years.
So yeah…not like Julia Roberts at all.
Partway through the meal, Lloyd and Dorian and Vane disappear into the men’s lounge for a short time, and when they return, Dorian throws himself onto the bench beside me, scooting in closer than before.
“Dessert, darling?” he asks Sibyl.
“Always,” she replies.
“The pecan pie à la mode, I’m guessing?”
“You know me too well, babe.”
“And this bourbon date cake with vanilla ice cream and toffee sauce sounds like absolute heaven. Baz and I will share a slice.” He gives a breathless laugh and turns his blue eyes on me. His pupils are blown wide and dark.
Suddenly I understand the new energy vibrating through him.
“You’re high, aren’t you?” I whisper.
He grins and tucks his mouth against my ear. “Blessed cocaine. And I don’t get any of the negative side effects—the lung damage, collapsed veins, brain bleeding, paranoia, strokes, seizures, neural decay—none of that. Just the fun. I’ve cut way back lately because of my… portrait problems ”—he mouths those two words exaggeratedly—“but I’m making an exception tonight, just for you.”
I’ve never used anything stronger than a little Molly, one time, and some joints. Cocaine—that’s hard stuff. I don’t mess with it. I had a friend who was addicted to crack cocaine, back at USC. She had to drop out to go to rehab.
My discomfort must show on my face, because Dorian rolls his eyes and whispers, “Don’t knock it until you try it. It feels divine, I swear. And if it doesn’t hurt me or addict me, what’s the harm?”
I glance over at Vane, who’s lolling in his chair, clearly high on something too. My eyes lock with Lloyd’s—clear eyes, normal-sized pupils, not a sign of influence.
He must have brought the drugs, but he didn’t take any.
I hold his gaze for a moment, more out of curiosity than judgment. Fine, maybe a little judgment. Because for humans, the hard stuff can wreck lives and ruin health.
But it’s their bodies, their money. Not my business. I barely know them.
“Noel and Cherith are meeting us at Scoundrel,” Lloyd says, still holding my gaze, though I know he’s talking to Dorian.
“Good.” Dorian picks up a lock of my hair and starts winding it around one of his fingers. “We’re going to raise the roof tonight.”
“Fuck yeah,” says Vane, swaying forward and holding out his fist. Dorian chuckles and bumps knuckles with him lightly.
Sibyl’s thumbs are flying over her phone. “A video of you at Gucci today showed up on TikTok, Dorian,” she says. “Looks pretty flattering. Neutral. That okay with you?”
“Sure. Leave it.”
“ She ’s in it.” Sibyl nods at me.
“Let me see.” He reaches for the phone, and she hands it over.
I lean in close to Dorian as he watches the clip. Whoever filmed it must have been standing some distance away, zoomed in on Dorian’s perfect profile. But they managed to catch me in the background, modeling a hat and purse, my hips canted and my lips pursed in an exaggerated pout.
In the video, Dorian glances at me, a smile playing over his mouth. There’s a naked softness in his eyes when he looks back toward the camera.
The video ends, then loops again.
I look up from the screen, and I nearly stop breathing because Dorian’s face is there, too close. His lashes drape over his blue eyes while his mouth curves in a slow smile. I’m tangled in his gaze, his breath, his presence.
“Leave it,” he repeats, handing the phone back to Sibyl.
While Dorian and I share bites of the delicious cake, I give myself a good inner lecture.
First option—I can keep tormenting myself for acting like a swoony high school girl who just met a broody vampire. I can spend the whole night struggling against the magnetism of Dorian Gray’s body, his aura, his personality. I can judge him for everything he does that I wouldn’t do, that society says shouldn’t be done.
Second option—I can shut my conscience the fuck up, for one night only. I can let go, let myself emote and crave and be absolutely ridiculous. I can postpone my better judgment until tomorrow.
I’m still debating resistance or surrender as we’re leaving the restaurant. Dorian is ahead of me, laughing uproariously with Sibyl and Vane.
“Conscience is a tricky thing, isn’t it?” says a voice at my side. I glance over at Lloyd—slightly taller than me, nowhere near as tall as Dorian. The evening breeze ruffles his shaggy brown hair, and the gleam of a streetlight reflects in his dark eyes, like two black mirrors, each pierced with a bead of gold. “I’ve always thought that conscience is just fear in disguise.”
“Conscience is being careful not to hurt others.”
“What if you’re so afraid of hurting other people you never get anything you want?” he counters. “Or what if, to truly help someone, you need to hurt them a little?”
“I suppose that’s true sometimes.”
“Conscience is a barrier erected by society to prevent great minds from great achievements. It’s hammered into us from birth to inhibit true leaders and keep them from doing what needs to be done.” Lloyd tucks his hands in his pockets, watching as the others dump the shopping bags in the trunk and tumble into the car. “Conscience, when self-imposed, is merely a kind of veiled cowardice.”
He sweeps his hand graciously toward the vehicle, and I get in without further comment. Lloyd takes the wheel.
I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to manipulate me into letting go, dropping my guard, having a good time. Heaven forbid I let loose for once.
“You look like you’re thinking , Baz,” Vane drawls as I click my seat belt into place. “Look at her, all safe and sober. I thought you’d be more fun, ’cause you’ve got all those tattoos. And I don’t think there’s a single bit of your ears that ain’t pierced.”
My fingertip traces the edge of my ear, lined with tiny hoops and pebbled with studs. “I like pain when I’m in control of it. It’s being out of control that I don’t like. Unless I’m painting. And even then, I’m mostly in control. Part of me is anyway.”
He stares, and I realize how dumb that probably sounds to someone who hasn’t experienced the heady rush of a creative high.
“Lloyd’s got the good shit if you wanna get crunked,” Vane says, apparently choosing to ignore my artistic weirdness.
“And I’ve got the booze,” interjects Sibyl, producing a clear bottle from a cool box between two seats. “Absolut Vodka. That’s my poison of choice.”
I accept a drink and sip it slowly. I don’t drink a lot, so I’ll have to pace myself tonight. As much as I’d like to let go and get fucking drunk, another part of me cringes at the thought of possibly puking on Dorian Gray. Plus, I need to stay alert and aware for my own sake. I don’t really know any of these people, after all.
After a short drive, we reach the parking garage near Scoundrel, a hot new nightclub in Charleston. I’ve heard it mentioned, even seen something about it on TV, but I could tell right away it wasn’t my scene. Not until my art career took off anyway. Too exclusive, too expensive.
It’s a giddy feeling, knowing neither of those things will be a problem for me tonight. A thrill traces through my belly as I step out of the car, dressed in the black-and-gold Zhivago minidress and the Versace heels Dorian bought for me today. I’m wearing the perfect smoky eyes thanks to the cosmetic experts at the Medusa Beauty Bar, and Dior earrings dangle from my lobes. When I mentally calculate how much he spent on me, I have to stomp on the flicker of guilt in my heart. My life has been truly shitty for a long time. I deserve this.
Sibyl and Vane sashay ahead, hips swaying, arms linked, giggling. Dorian comes up behind, clasping their shoulders, poking his head between theirs and giving them each a kiss on the cheek. Then he dances around them and walks ahead, backward, the planes of his face gilded by the glow from a streetlight. He looks utterly joyful, as if this is the perfect night. And it is—darkly humid but with just enough of the ocean’s salty breath to be pleasant.
Someone shouts Dorian’s name, and he spins around. “My darlings, my bitches,” he cries, hugging the two newcomers effusively. “Baz, meet Noel and Cherith.”
I fix impressions of them in my mind, hooks on which I can mentally hang their names. Cherith has smooth Asian features, a river of inky hair, dramatic sparkly-red eye makeup, and pouty, glossy lips. Noel has short white hair, neck tattoos, a shiny pink shirt, and light-up platform heels. I’m not certain of gender or pronouns for either of them, but I’ll ask later if I need to.
Everyone clusters around the entrance to Scoundrel, with Dorian at the head of the group. He’s wearing a white blazer he bought earlier today, a weirdly perfect complement to the ragged black shirt underneath. He speaks to the doorman, bracelets flashing on his wrist as he gestures to our group. Lloyd-Henry stands beside him, a silent wingman.
All I can see of Scoundrel is a door set between two shops, with a red lighted sign above it. Maybe it’s the vodka buzz, but I’m desperately curious to see inside. At the same time, my stomach twists sourly, nerves colliding with my excitement. I’m not used to shopping all day and then partying hard. What if I’m not fun enough? What if—
The bouncer is waving us forward, checking our IDs.
Dorian waits until all the others have entered. As I pass him, he touches the small of my back lightly and keeps his hand there as we move through the door and climb a long flight of steps.
Did he know I was feeling small and insecure? That touch came at just the right time.
At the top of the steps is a long purple hallway, which must extend to the very back of the building. “Restrooms that way,” says Sibyl to me over her shoulder. “They’ve got an attendant for security.”
One side of the hallway is smoky glass, through which glows an ever-changing kaleidoscope of purple, pink, cerulean, and turquoise. Music thumps indistinctly through the glass walls. Noel, Cherith, Vane, and Sibyl plunge through the doors, releasing a flood of house music into the hallway.
Lloyd-Henry hangs back for a moment. “Did you reserve a booth?”
“I did. Minimum spend is a thousand.” Dorian’s laugh drips with the carelessness of wealth. “We’ll hit that easily, especially if Eve and Darwin show up.”
The idea of dropping that amount in one night—plus whatever he spent during our shopping spree—is enough to send me into a sweating panic. I’m the girl who ate cinnamon-sugar toast for breakfast and cream-of-mushroom soup on bread for dinner when I was a kid, after Dad died. I never complained, because it was my fault we didn’t have Dad’s income. I killed him. I—
The vision strikes me blind without warning.
The crayon sketch of my dad, paper and wax in my hands. The growl of the car pulling into the driveway outside. Mom coming home… My terror because I’d broken the big rule…
Running into the kitchen. My small hands tearing the paper into pieces, crumpling them. Strange sounds from the other room…
Watching the pieces flutter into the garbage. Dashing back into the living room…
Blood on the sofa, so much blood, globs and splashes of it…chunks of steaming flesh…
“I’ll be right back.” I recoil from the club doors. “Just—need a minute.”