32 Baz
When you have limitless resources, moving is super easy. You can hire people to pack your stuff, drive the truck, unload your crap into a storage unit—everything. Dorian arranges for all my things to be taken to Asheville while he and I drive there in his Tesla, with the portrait safely stowed in the trunk. Dorian doesn’t have much luggage himself, since he was only visiting Lloyd, and I bring a duffel bag with clothes and necessities—and Screwtape, of course, who gives me royal glares through the door of his pet carrier every time I glance into the back seat to check on him.
Asheville is a busy, rambling town with twisty streets and sprawling squares. We check into the Grand Bohemian Hotel, which technically doesn’t allow cats, but Dorian hands over a chunk of cash to ensure Screwtape can stay in our room. I’m not sure when I became so attached to the hellcat, but I know he belongs with me—with us.
Once we drop our bags, set out the litter box, and tuck Dorian’s picture under the bed, I flop onto the blankets and search for Jay Gatsby.
“There’s nothing except an Instagram page for these big parties he hosts,” I tell Dorian. “And he’s not tagged in any of the photos.”
“It’s been a few years, but I think I’ll recognize him,” Dorian assures me.
“You were right about socials, though. Not having a presence anywhere is like hanging out a sign that says, ‘I’m hiding some criminal or paranormal shit.’ Or both. Damn, it’s hard to handle a phone with this brace on my wrist.” I adjust my position and scroll back to the top of the page. “He’s having a party tonight. Do you think we should go? I mean, the sooner we find him, the better, right? We need to know what he knows and then tell him what we know.” I groan, tossing the phone aside. “Shit. I don’t have anything to wear to a fancy party.”
Dorian eyes me, his cheeks coloring slightly. “I may have kept the dress you wore to Scoundrel. And it might possibly be in one of my suitcases.”
“Dorian Gray. You told me you donated everything.”
“Everything except that dress.” He flings himself onto the bed beside me. “I think I started loving you when you ground your cute little ass all over that random idiot. I hated the thought of you dancing like that with anyone but me. So yeah, I kept the fucking dress. Sue me.” He rolls onto his back and tucks both hands behind his head.
“Look at you, being sentimental.”
“Sentimental?” He scoffs. “You want sentimental? Sometime I’ll play you the song I composed for you last week.”
“Are you serious? You wrote me a song?”
“What can I say? You’re my muse.” He flashes me a grin.
I crawl over him, careful of my wrist, and settle my body along his. He relaxes under me, his lashes drifting shut as I kiss his soft lips. Peace glows on his features. The tension, the studied facade, the public image of Dorian Gray—he lets it all dissipate when we’re together.
“Is this how it’s going to be?” I whisper. “Music and art, travel and fancy hotels, and kissing you whenever I want? That sounds—”
“Healthy? Wonderful?”
“I was going to say, ‘Too good to be true.’”
“We’ll make it true.” His hands sweep down my back, cupping my rear, squeezing lightly.
I kiss him again, then whisper against his mouth, “I really want to meet some vampires.”
Dorian bursts into laughter. “Oh god, I love you.”
“Why are you laughing? My little goth heart needs this.” I giggle as he pushes me onto my back and moves on top. “I mean…as long as you think we can trust Gatsby.”
“I think so.” There’s an edge to Dorian’s smile, the glitter of determination. “Maybe he’ll turn you if you ask nicely. Or I can pay him to do it. I’ll pay any amount, Baz, just so I can have you forever.”
“Whoa, there.” I push him back, even though my stomach flutters with excitement at the idea. “I’m gonna need a lot more information before I agree to something like that.”
He grins. “Then I guess we’re going to a party at Gatsby’s.”
At that moment, Screwtape leaps up onto the bed and settles himself on the duvet, blinking at us as if to say, Well, get going so I can have this lovely room all to myself .
When Dorian reaches out to him, Screwtape hesitates, then nudges his silky head against Dorian’s palm, demanding that his ears be scratched.
And if that isn’t a sign of how much things have changed—how much Dorian has changed—then I don’t know what is.
***
The house we drive up to that night is stunning—a multistoried palace glowing with lights, throbbing with music, bursting with laughter and voices. I’ve never seen anything like it, and even Dorian, with all his wealth, sinks into his most British self and gives the place a fervent “Bloody hell.”
A valet takes our car while Dorian and I join the glittering crowd, wandering into the maze of beautiful party rooms that seem to take up the entire first floor of the place. We snatch glasses of champagne from a passing tray.
Guests shift aside as we proceed through the house. They make way for us, scanning Dorian and me appraisingly or admiringly. We do make a striking pair—the blond, angelic-looking man and his tattooed companion with pink-streaked hair and piercings. Mismatched though we are, I have never felt more confident. I keep telling myself it’s too soon to trust Dorian. Too soon to believe that after the agony, horror, and betrayal we’ve both endured—and caused—we could find genuine happiness together. But I can’t help feeling like we’ve hacked this weird, wonderful thing between us. Like after an agonizing couple of weeks, we deserve a reprieve. A new start. Happiness.
My left hand seeks out Dorian’s, and he curls his fingers around mine, warm and reassuring.
A blond young woman in a sleek blue gown steps in front of us. “Hi there! I haven’t seen you two before.” Her voice is warm, golden, charming—the kind of voice you’d imagine belonging to a dear friend. The kind of voice that makes you want to tell her all your secrets.
“Oh, we just got into town,” I reply.
“Really? Visiting family?” She swirls her wine, a thick silver bracelet flashing on her wrist.
“Um…” I glance up at Dorian. “We’re here for the art scene.”
“The art scene in Asheville is wonderful.” Her eyes latch with mine, and for the barest second, I could swear I feel a faint vibration in the air—a whisper of familiar energy.
“I wonder if you can help us find someone,” Dorian says in his most charming tone. “We’re looking for an old friend of mine. Jay Gatsby.”
The blond’s red lips stretch in a smile, showing pointed canines. “I don’t think you’ll have to look far.”
A voice from behind us, smooth and masculine. “Well, I’ll be damned…Dorian Gray. It’s good to see you again.”