“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’rethinking, 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.
