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 deathand 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 thetime, 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 inPretty 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.
