Since Screwtape is already hiding in the bedroom, I shut the door to keep him confined while Dorian goes to answer the doorbell. A long-faced, blue-haired young man in a gigantic silver-studded jacket breezes in, carrying a leather satchel. He wears one fingerless glove of scarlet leather, with holes for his knuckles, and the other hand is laden with ponderous silver rings. His legs are pencil-thin, clad in the tightest of dark, ripped jeans.
“I got your text, Dorian,” he says breathlessly. “My god, what are you doing in this place? It’s so basic.”
“I had a date.” Dorian cuts me a sidelong glance to see if I’ll challenge his use of the word. “And then I had an accident with a dog.”
“A dog? God, Dorian!”
“I’m fine. But my clothes—”
“Right!” The blue-haired guy hands over the satchel. “The clothes you wanted, your YSL cologne, your Ferretti hair gel, and a pair of shoes. I didn’t know if you needed shoes. You didn’t mention shoes. God, this place is positively carpeted in cat hair! I can’t stay in here a second longer or my throat will close up completely. May Imeet you outside, Dorian? Do you need anything else?” His query is tentative, almost submissive. Does he work for Dorian?
“I’ll be fine, Vane,” Dorian says dismissively. “Go on.”
The young man breezes back through the front door, and it bangs shut behind him.
“It isnotcarpeted in cat hair!” I say to the door. “Screwtape doesn’t shed much, and I’ll have you know I vacuum. Often.”
Dorian chuckles. “Vane is an actor. Theater, not movies. He can be overdramatic in real life, but I swear he’s magic onstage—when he’s sober. Not bad in bed either.”
I blink at him, exasperated. “Do you sleep with everyone you meet?”
“Are you slut-shaming me, Baz?” Dorian gives me a slow grin. “Because that’s impossible, you know, since I have no shame. And to answer your question—yes.”
“I–I don’t slut-shame people,” I reply. “Okay, I try not to, but maybe I have a couple of times, a little bit.”
He clicks his tongue at me. “How very old-fashioned of you. You’re into men, obviously…girls too?” He pulls a pair of jeans out of the satchel and tugs them on.
“I’ve kissed a couple of girls, but—how is any of this your business?”
“Not business at all. Frivolous curiosity.” He hitches the jeans higher on his hips and slowly draws the zipper upward along his crotch. His long fingers manipulate the button at the top, pressing it through the hole and popping it into place.
Why am I so mesmerized by the act of him putting on pants?
My mind races to compose a painting, a cross-section of his hips and stomach, fingers poised in the act of zipping his fly. I know exactly how I’d mix the right color for his skin, how I’d shade theinguinal creases, those tempting, slanted ridges of muscle where the planes of his abdomen yield to his hips. There’s not a hint of hair on his body—he must shave or wax everything. Although if his original portrait was painted without body hair, maybe he doesn’t have to.
The soft gray of a jersey T-shirt curtains my view of his abs and hips. I wrench my gaze up to his face. He’s dimpling again, genuinely this time.
No use denying it. I was ogling him. My artist’s eye is a curse in his case.
“I guess it never gets old, watching people admire you,” I mutter.
“I do enjoy it. Though I prefer it when attractive people admire me. Ugly people look at me with this envious agony in their eyes, this jealous, angry craving.” He shudders.
“That’s your perception. Not everyone is obsessed with fitting a particular standard of beauty. And you wouldn’t be the standard everywhere anyway.” I tug the fringe on one of Aunt Jessie’s vintage lamps. “Do you think I’m attractive?”
I wish I could eat the words the moment I exhale them. I’m happy with my looks. Why should I need affirmation from Dorian Gray?
Besides, if there are leagues—and I don’t believe in those—he’d be far out of mine.
“Do I think you’re attractive?” His lashes droop languidly over his blue eyes as he rakes his gaze along my body. “No.”
My heart throbs with disappointment, a heavy, sodden pang.
“High arches,” Dorian says slowly, gazing at my bare feet. “Dainty toes, symmetrical and well kept. Legs, long and toned, adorned with a delightful selection of tattoos celebrating what’s important to you—nature, moon cycles, and goddess energy. Hips, wide, glidingsmoothly into a trim waist and a belly with a slight natural curve. Breasts, medium-sized, full, definitely tempting. Arms, well-shaped, with the delicate wrists and fingers of a princess. Neck, slim and graceful. An adorable chin, high cheekbones, smooth brow—small ears, straight nose, and a mouth with the most delicious pout of displeasure over everything I’m saying—eyes sparking with the desire to slap me… Ah no, Baz, you’re not attractive. You’re exquisite.”
The knuckle of his forefinger notches under my chin. He’s tipping my face up to his while I struggle to comprehend why I feel flattered and hot and also vaguely angry.
“That’s all external beauty,” I murmur, pulling back as his mouth approaches mine.
