The Deer and the Dragon

Chapter One

APRIL 15, AGE 26

I stared down the barrel of the lesser of two evils: the flesh-and-blood disappointment of a human man, or a life trapped in my imagination with a fictional lover.

I remembered reading that the brain stops forming at twenty-six. I watched the man across from me chew his food with his mouth slightly ajar, not bothering to swallow before he went on to name-drop yet another notch in society’s belt. He was holding his chopsticks wrong. He had mixed wasabi directly into his soy sauce. He’d spoken at a cringe-worthy volume throughout the meal, drawing curious, if disgruntled, stares. There wasn’t a single etiquette he followed, and it wasn’t even close to the worst thing about him.

I wasn’t sure if I hoped the bit about the brain was true. I was halfway through my twenty-sixth year and not so sure that this was the finished product I wanted for my mind. I was doing my best to be normal. This was what normal people did, right? They went on terrible dates with ordinary humans. They didn’t see things that weren’t there. They didn’t cling to ghosts and maladaptive fantasies they’d conjured in the dark. They took their medications they went to therapy, and they learned how to distinguish what was real.

If my brain had stopped forming, however, it might come with perks. On the one hand, it meant that this bovine-mannered date wouldn’t be a core memory. The man in the suit across from me—Jared? Joshua? I’m pretty sure it was Josh—would be a forgettable date after a long string of mediocre sex and dating apps. On the other hand, maybe it meant my courtship habits and hidden, wish-fulfilling coping mechanisms were cemented in stone and there was no hope for me. Perhaps I was doomed to repeat a cycle of Joshes. This was my curse.

“Marlow?”

Oh, fuck. He was staring at me. Had he asked me a question? I squinted my eyes slightly, peering through the din of the too-expensive restaurant and the polite chatter of upscale patrons for a clue.

“Come again?” I attempted an apologetic smile.

His perplexed look was one I understood. Of course he would be confused that I hadn’t been listening. This was our second date, and he expected more from me. After all, I’d been utterly delightful last time. Painted, waxed, and squeezed into the most stunning dress, sporting the glossiest hair and the most charming smiles, I was a living superlative. I’d spent my life learning how to make the perfect first impression.

My profile had been curated to snag any curious suitor. First was a high-resolution picture that a friend had taken four years prior on a boat in Rio de Janeiro, where the greens and grays of the coast matched my eyes. “Where was that picture taken?” gave prospective dates an easy conversation opener. The next two had been selected to attract the outdoorsy types, from the HD pic of me flexing on a mountain in yoga pants and a sports bra to me on the beach laughing with friends—which also created the perfect excuse to show off a bikini body and gave me an easy way to screen out anyone who didn’t like curves. I rounded out the profile with a picture of me alone with my coffee cup and computer, looking very serious and business-like, immediately followed by a photo of me jumping on the bed holding a bottle of wine, dress flying up, muddy blond curls a cloud around my face, smiling as if I were having the time of my life. Whatever dream you wanted to project onto me, I gave you the option right there in my intricately tailored series of images.

“Who are you?” the app had asked.

“Whoever you need me to be,” my profile replied.

Every date was spent in a song and dance of asking the right questions, laughing at the right pitch, tossing my hair over my shoulder, arching my neck, lowering my lashes, and, as always, keeping them talking. They’d leave thinking they’d met their soulmate. I’d leave wondering if I could catch the newest episode of Fire and Swords or if I’d have to wait until it was on a streaming service.

“I asked if you’ve been to the Galápagos,” he repeated.

“No.” I kept my tone as light as possible. I glanced down at the elaborately plated omakase sushi that had doubtlessly cost more than half of the country made in a month. This was why I’d agreed to go on the second date. I loved good sushi, and free just so happened to be my favorite price. The salmon belly was the most well marbled in the hemisphere. I’d come back with terrible company just to eat my weight in the stuff even if it meant thinking about what sort of life these ocean animals had before they ended up on my plate.

He grabbed the sake kettle and tilted the alcohol into his glass first, then mine.

I kept the disarming smile on my face as I said, “I’ve wandered my way through a lot of South America, but I was teaching English as a second language and I—”

“Oh, you have to go back and do it the right way. I have a friend who works at the most incredible resort you’ve ever seen. The fish swim right underneath…” His mouth kept moving as my thoughts drifted into the restaurant’s ambience while I started to think of marine life. I liked aquariums. I wondered how long it had been since I’d been to one. Maybe I’d go to the city’s aquatic zoo, bring a bag of magic mushrooms, pop in my headphones, and listen to music while counting sharks over the weekend.

Josh required little encouragement to continue the conversation. It only took a pleading look to the waitress and a firm “No,” when asked if we wanted desserts for her to bring the check without waiting for his argument on digestifs. She knew from the very intentional way I’d selected designer pieces, from the delicate chain around my neck to the bag that dangled over the back of my chair, that I could afford the bill if I’d requested it. My deadpan stare challenged him to give it to me. In my early twenties, I would have rushed to cover the check so that Josh wouldn’t expect anything from me. Now I expected him to procure his Amex as penance for making me watch him chew with his mouth open. It was the least he could do.

I idly wondered if Josh had ever asked me what I did for a living. Perhaps that was my own fault. I’d gotten so good at getting others to talk about themselves that I’d become excellent at living in the shadows. I wonder how many of my dates knew more about me than my name and how spectacular I was in bed.

We’d scarcely stepped into the cold, cloudless night before he asked, “So, should we go back to my place?”

“Oh.” I pouted slightly to underscore my feigned regrets while shrugging into my coat, saying, “I’m so sorry. I called a rideshare while I was in the bathroom. It’s only two minutes out.”

Josh looked like he’d been slapped. I wondered how many times a man with a forty-thousand-dollar Rolex was turned down. Then again, it had been a running pleasure of mine to play catch and release. The bigger the fish, the more satisfying it was to throw them back into the water. Everything about this evening had me wishing I’d stayed in to watch the documentary about whales rather than wasting the perfume by stepping out into the world.

“What about the concert?”

I frowned, scarcely looking up from my phone. “Concert?”

Confusion faded into agitation as he studied my face. “Next week, the one I—”

Fish. Everything about this man was a fish. When they tell you that there are plenty of fish in the sea, they forget to mention that half of marine life is boring, scaly and a part of an identical school of thousands just like him. I would rather be alone, high, and looking at tropical fish next weekend. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Josh—this is my car!”

“It’s Jacob.”

I grimaced. I really was sorry about that one. I should have checked his name from the dating profile when I’d escaped to the restroom.

He knew the evening had soured but still had the balls to go in for a kiss. I intercepted with a side hug before launching into the street to stop my car. I closed the door and took off into the night before my date had time to recover from his wounded ego. The driver asked precisely the right number of questions, which was zero. He left me alone to the buzzing phone that illuminated the back seat of the vehicle.

(Kirby) How was the banker?

(Nia) CFO, right? Big money

(Kirby) Not like tech guy. Mar, could you call him up again? We used to go to much nicer places when you were sleazing it with the tech guy.

(Marlow) I’d like to sleaze it up with a loose bag of cheese and my sweatpants

(Nia) You were supposed to get laid. How am I supposed to live vicariously through you if you’re pulling a celibacy act

(Kirby) No, that’s fair. She’s always been a slut for cheese. No one made you get married, Nia.

(Nia) And so what? I’m supposed to live with the consequences of my actions?

(Marlow) I’m just going to call it an early night

(Nia) And waste a great hair and makeup day? Damn, there must be some fantastic cheese back at your place

I clicked the button on the side of my phone, turning the screen into an obsidian mirror and leaned my head against the window, watching the black and auburn blur of homes, shadows, lawns, and fences as we crossed through a neighborhood. I used to look at houses and wonder about the lives of the people who lived inside. What did the family do to afford a home so close to downtown? What did a three-story house with fantastic landscaping cost in one of the world’s flashiest cities? It had been a long time since I’d cared.

I saw the driver frown as the GPS turned into the northern part of the metropolis. It wasn’t an unusual reaction. No one lived in the warehouse district. There was no reason for a girl of any repute to take a car to the warehouses in high heels and red lipstick. He pulled up along the sidewalk and eyed what had once been a bread factory. His expression deepened into worry at the smattering of lights and darkened entryway.

“Is this right, miss?”

“Home sweet home.” I smiled. I flashed him my screen to show the glowing rating I’d sent his way as I slid out of the car. His eyebrows remained knit, but he shrugged as I closed the door. He wasn’t paid enough to care.

A blanket-like quiet pressed in as the car pulled away—a sound challenging to achieve anywhere in the city. There was no traffic, no pedestrians, no indication that anyone but the phantoms of long-dead industry tycoons haunted these corridors. The April night clung to the last of spring’s chill, sending goose bumps up and down my bare legs. I fished a metallic rose-gold card from my purse and pressed it against the panel, satisfied when it buzzed.

I rounded the brick corridor for the atrium, where an ever-attentive receptionist waited to respectfully greet me. She was one of four and arguably my favorite. No matter how short my skirt, how high my heels, or how late the hour, she remained polite without speaking. I knew her boyfriend’s name, I gave her chocolates every holiday, and we never failed to gush about the new episodes of Fires andSwords if I loitered in the hallway, but she had an innate gift for knowing when I was overwhelmed and needed silence. Perhaps intuition was a prerequisite for anyone who took a job in luxury apartments.

Though she’d never say it outright, her expressions conveyed the same long-standing concern that I’d stumbled through the door after too many dates to count. She’d helped me get into the building when I was a bit too drunk to see my phone and buzzed me up to my room whenever I’d lost too much brain function to recall how my card worked. It seemed like a safe bet that she was not the sort of person who got high at aquariums.

The small bank of polished elevators waited quietly, all in disuse given the lateness of the hour. One opened for me the moment I pressed the button.

I didn’t wait for the elevator doors to close before slipping out of my heels, dangling the sharpened ends from one hand. I caught the brief, disapproving narrowing of eyes through the rapidly closing doors and flashed my most dazzling smile. Part of me respected her bravery. It was bold to be judgmental of the residents when they knew precisely how much these apartments cost.

I pressed the glittery, metallic card onto the pad to gain access to my floor—second from the top. The penthouse hadn’t been available, and I’d been okay with it. Everyone who lived here had their reasons for wanting to stay off the world’s radar, and there wasn’t a better establishment in the city for those with deep enough pockets to erase themselves from the map. The building’s discretion had been worth the downgrade, and as someone who lived alone, I couldn’t have justified the extra space unless I was looking to install a private bowling alley.

The elevator door opened noiselessly onto my floor. There were thirteen units in the entire building—two per floor, save for the lucky bastard who’d snagged the thirteenth. I walked barefoot down the sparkling black marble to my room and pressed my thumb into the pad, allowing it to scan my fingerprint until a subtle click told me the mechanisms had unlocked.

It was dark in my apartment and stayed that way. I’d had the features for automatic lights disabled the day I’d moved in.

I tossed my purse onto the floor, leaving it in a jumble with my shoes. I walked to the window and stared out over the twinkling lights of the city and the sliver of river I could spot from my unit. I was a sucker for a good view.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled in the way they did when one knew they were being watched. The rush of gin, moss, and mist filled the room the moment before I heard it. I breathed it in like a prayer.

“Leave it open” came a male voice from the shadows.

I fought the deep, conflicting bloom that emanated from somewhere near my center. My toes curled, heart thundering at the purr of his voice. “Don’t do this to me,” I grumbled half-heartedly, but I was certain he heard the ghost of a smile in my voice.

“Didn’t go well?” he asked.

I continued facing the window but reached over my head for the zipper. Years had gone by, and I was still breathless every time he spoke. It was so easy to lose my resolve whenever those silken words tumbled over his lips. I managed to give the thin metal a tug but lost my grip on it as I said, “He was utterly forgettable.”

“They all will be,” he said, brushing my hair away from my neck. Goose bumps started at the nape of my neck and slithered down my spine. He held the top of my dress in one strong hand, using the other to gently tug the zipper. He stopped before releasing it more than a quarter of an inch. I waited for the next sensation, but nothing came. Tension swelled as I swallowed another deep breath of earth and perfume.

“What?” I breathed.

The electric current of his touch coursed through me.

“Holy fuck,” I murmured, falling to pieces.

His fingers began to work their way up the hem of my dress, nudging it up over my hips. My stomach clenched. My lips parted in a stifled gasp, eyes closing as he came up behind me. His mouth sucked gently on the tender place where my throat met my shoulder. Every sense in my body homed in on the delicious sensation. His mouth moved to the back of my neck, hands dropping from my hips to urge me forward. I leaned into the floor-to-ceiling glass, letting the cold seep into me as his hand slid from my inner thigh, higher, higher.

“Oh god,” I gasped when he grazed the soaked evidence of my black-lace panties.

“You know better than that,” he chided softly at my choice in words, a teasing warmth in his voice. He relaxed his body into mine until I was pressed wholly against the window. “Now, are you going to let me in?”

My face betrayed the battle going on in my head and heart. My body ached for him. My breasts peaked against the thin dress. The pulsing in my chest extended into every piece of me, and I felt my heartbeat in my greediest places. My fingers clenched against the glass. He chuckled lightly.

“Nothing without your permission,” he said, fingers still grazing me with tantalizing slowness. The tingle of the water between my legs trickling onto my inner thighs elicited a low groan of approval. His fingers continued to move over the thin fabric.

I gasped against the sensation, and he leaned into my throat once more, smiling through my pleasure.

“You know I’m…” Words felt useless.

“You’re what?” he pressed me into the window with more force.

“I’m trying to stop.”

His fingers quickened as he said, “As if I don’t know you, Love. We both know it’ll never make you happy. But if you’d prefer mundane restaurants and forgettable men over what I can offer you…” His hand stilled.

My lust, my greed, my denial came out in a single, short sound. My eyes opened as I turned back to the shadows, but I knew what I’d see before I turned.

Despite the bandage-tight dress around my hips and the puddle of evidence on my legs, I knew he wasn’t there. He hadn’t been there in a long, long time.