“It is.” He strokes the shaved side of my head, his fingertips massaging the area just above and behind my ear. It’s strangely soothing. “Do you want to tell me about it? Or Sibyl? I can go get her.”
“Why would I tell Sibyl? I like her, but I just met her today. And you—I barely know you.”
I revolve, turning to face him, and he lets my hair slide through his hand and fall free.
He’s tall and beautiful, concern pooled in his eyes. The sight of him drives a stake of despair through my heart. Because after I deny him or paint him, I will never see Dorian Gray again. He won’t want to keep someone like me in his life—someone who has a panic attack at the very doors of the most exclusive nightclub in the city.
“Let’s take a walk,” he says.
“But the others—”
“Will be fine without us for a bit. Lloyd will dole out the VIP wristbands. We can get ours when we go back in, if you decide you want to.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I don’t mean to spoil the party. God, I–I ruin everything.”
“Bullshit,” he says, with that faintly British crispness in his voice. “Come on, Baz.”
He leads me down the steps again, with a murmured excuse to the bouncer. I suck in a soothing breath of fresh air, resting against the brick wall by a shop window.
Dorian takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, shakes one out, and tucks the pack away before producing his lighter, sleek andblue lacquered, with gold trim. He flicks it, touching the orange flame to the tip of the cigarette. Putting the lighter away, he holds the cigarette out to me.
“Just one, to calm you,” he says.
Sighing, I accept it and take a pull. Warmth crackles through my lungs, my chest.
“This is how you destroy people, isn’t it?” I murmur, blowing smoke. “You tempt them to share your vices—drugs, smoking, drinking, sex with literally everyone—except you don’t have to worry about any bad effects, and they do.”
“You’re too young to be so concerned about what vice will do to you,” he says.
“Maybe.” I tug the savory smoke into my lungs again. “When you kill your dad and your mom commits suicide, that tends to change your perspective on life.”
I glance at him, expecting him to look horrified. His eyes are wider, his lips parted—but there’s no horror, no judgment. “Your father is the person you hurt with your ability.”
“Bingo.” I tap ash from the cigarette and hand it back to him. “Sorry about flaking. I haven’t had one of those episodes in a while, but I never know what’s going to trigger it. Stress, sometimes. Crowds. Since I’ve moved here, I’ve kept to myself a lot. I know, I know—it’s a crime to be unsociable in a city like this. It must seem especially weird to someone like you who parties all the time.”
Dorian props his back against the bricks, shoulder to shoulder with me. “I do party often,” he says. “But I also value quiet and solitude. Say the word and I’ll call you a ride home.”
I’m tempted to accept the offer. I’m already tired from the shopping today, from being constantly in the presence of two people who know what I am. I need downtime to unwind andprocess everything.
But I hesitate.
“Or…” Dorian pushes himself away from the wall and steps in front of me, his eyes eager, pleading. “Or come in with me and enjoy the music. Drown the visions that haunt you in the finest wine my money can buy. Dance with us, laugh with us. Kiss your cares away. I promise to show you some of my best tricks.”
He winks. Dimples.
I feel the smile coming, even as I shake my head at him.
“There it is.” He grins. “Come on, love. If the ghosts return, we’ll dance them away.”
Dorian crushes out the cigarette and leads me back inside, where we find the others ensconced in our VIP booth. Sibyl hands me my wristband and greets me with a gentle, “Hey, girl,” and a sympathetic look that tells me if I need to talk, she’ll listen.
But I don’t want to talk. Not about the memories that chew on my mind with jagged teeth.
Damn, I need to paint that. A person, wide-eyed, mouth open in silent pain, the top of their skull hinged and open, while a black wolf, standing behind them, places its paws on their shoulders and noms on the brain like a chew toy…
Memories, depicted as a literal monster.
“Wine,” I say breathlessly, and a moment later, I have a full glass. I’m no expert, but it’s a rich, smoky vintage, and I’m sure it’s expensive.
