It’s a giddy feeling, knowing neither of those things will be a problem for me tonight. A thrill traces through my belly as I step out of the car, dressed in the black-and-gold Zhivago minidress and the Versace heels Dorian bought for me today. I’m wearing the perfect smoky eyes thanks to the cosmetic experts at the Medusa Beauty Bar, and Dior earrings dangle from my lobes. When I mentally calculate how much he spent on me, I have to stomp on the flicker of guilt in my heart. My life has been truly shitty for a long time. I deserve this.
Sibyl and Vane sashay ahead, hips swaying, arms linked, giggling. Dorian comes up behind, clasping their shoulders, poking his head between theirs and giving them each a kiss on the cheek. Then he dances around them and walks ahead, backward, the planes of his face gilded by the glow from a streetlight. He looks utterly joyful,as if this is the perfect night. And it is—darkly humid but with just enough of the ocean’s salty breath to be pleasant.
Someone shouts Dorian’s name, and he spins around. “My darlings, my bitches,” he cries, hugging the two newcomers effusively. “Baz, meet Noel and Cherith.”
I fix impressions of them in my mind, hooks on which I can mentally hang their names. Cherith has smooth Asian features, a river of inky hair, dramatic sparkly-red eye makeup, and pouty, glossy lips. Noel has short white hair, neck tattoos, a shiny pink shirt, and light-up platform heels. I’m not certain of gender or pronouns for either of them, but I’ll ask later if I need to.
Everyone clusters around the entrance to Scoundrel, with Dorian at the head of the group. He’s wearing a white blazer he bought earlier today, a weirdly perfect complement to the ragged black shirt underneath. He speaks to the doorman, bracelets flashing on his wrist as he gestures to our group. Lloyd-Henry stands beside him, a silent wingman.
All I can see of Scoundrel is a door set between two shops, with a red lighted sign above it. Maybe it’s the vodka buzz, but I’m desperately curious to see inside. At the same time, my stomach twists sourly, nerves colliding with my excitement. I’m not used to shopping all day and then partying hard. What if I’m not fun enough? What if—
The bouncer is waving us forward, checking our IDs.
Dorian waits until all the others have entered. As I pass him, he touches the small of my back lightly and keeps his hand there as we move through the door and climb a long flight of steps.
Did he know I was feeling small and insecure? That touch came at just the right time.
At the top of the steps is a long purple hallway, which must extendto the very back of the building. “Restrooms that way,” says Sibyl to me over her shoulder. “They’ve got an attendant for security.”
One side of the hallway is smoky glass, through which glows an ever-changing kaleidoscope of purple, pink, cerulean, and turquoise. Music thumps indistinctly through the glass walls. Noel, Cherith, Vane, and Sibyl plunge through the doors, releasing a flood of house music into the hallway.
Lloyd-Henry hangs back for a moment. “Did you reserve a booth?”
“I did. Minimum spend is a thousand.” Dorian’s laugh drips with the carelessness of wealth. “We’ll hit that easily, especially if Eve and Darwin show up.”
The idea of dropping that amount in one night—plus whatever he spent during our shopping spree—is enough to send me into a sweating panic. I’m the girl who ate cinnamon-sugar toast for breakfast and cream-of-mushroom soup on bread for dinner when I was a kid, after Dad died. I never complained, because it was my fault we didn’t have Dad’s income. I killed him. I—
The vision strikes me blind without warning.
The crayon sketch of my dad, paper and wax in my hands. The growl of the car pulling into the driveway outside. Mom coming home… My terror because I’d broken the big rule…
Running into the kitchen. My small hands tearing the paper into pieces, crumpling them. Strange sounds from the other room…
Watching the pieces flutter into the garbage. Dashing back into the living room…
Blood on the sofa, so much blood, globs and splashes of it…chunks of steaming flesh…
“I’ll be right back.” I recoil from the club doors. “Just—need a minute.”
10
Baz
Struggling against the tightness in my chest, I stumble along the corridor, past the bathrooms to the cool air-conditioned gloom at the end of the hall. I lean against the cloudy glass, which vibrates faintly with the ongoing beat of the club music. When nausea spikes in my stomach, I push away from the windows and bend at the waist, one hand braced on the glass, drawing deep breaths.
Cool hands slide past my neck, collecting my hair. “In case you throw up.” Dorian’s smooth voice. “Though I have to say, it’s a little early for that. You had one drink. Are you a lightweight, darling? It’s all right if you are. I drink enough for three. Can’t get very far past a good buzz, thanks to the portrait.”
“It wasn’t the drink.” I swallow, conscious that I’m shaking all over.
“The club, then? I know it’s a bit garish and loud. We have two weeks. I thought we’d begin here and then visit some of the finer establishments later on.”
“Not the club either,” I manage. “Flashback.”
“Ah.” He’s still standing behind me, gathering stray tendrils ofmy hair into his hands. Where his fingertips brush, tingling heat sparks on my skin.
“I have those, too,” he murmurs. “I can usually push them away.”
“Must be nice.”
