Footsteps scuff the pavement, and Dorian’s fingers close on my arm. His voice is stiff with concern. “Get in the car, Baz.”
“I saw something,” I tell him. “Two of those stick-wolf things, skriken or whatever.”
He scans the area. “If you did, they’re gone now. Did you take something? A pill, a powder—”
“No! I didn’t imagine it. This was real, Dorian. Fucking real. There are more of those monsters, and—and something else—” But I can’t make myself tell him that I saw my fictional drawing in real life. Because that’s absolutely nuts. It’s not possible.
I probably just saw a random guy walking a couple of big dogs.
That’s got to be it, because the alternative is way too weird and scary, even for my life.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp.
“It’s okay.” Dorian maintains his hold on my arm until we’re safely across the street. We climb back into the car, and Lloyd pulls into the gated courtyard of the Chandler Apartments.
“I don’t think I feel like swimming,” I say. “I should get home. Another night, maybe.”
“No problem,” Vane says almost gleefully. He hops out and goes around to the trunk to get his shopping bags.
Sibyl squeezes my arm. “Rest up, hon. See you soon.”
“I’ll take her home, Dorian,” Lloyd says.
“I’m fine to drive,” Dorian insists. “It’s a few blocks away. You go pack for your trip.”
Lloyd yields the driver’s seat, and I move to the front passenger side. As we pull out of the complex onto the street again, I chew on my thumbnail. It tastes gross and weird because there’s still a little paint under that nail from my frenzied art session last night.
“Sorry to wreck the fun—again,” I say.
Dorian casts me a sidelong look. “How about we try a different kind of fun tomorrow?”
“Like what?”
“I’ll surprise you.”
I wince. “Surprises aren’t my thing.”
“I think this one will be.”
12
Baz
Dorian’s idea of a surprise is taking me to high tea at Porcelain Rose the next day. He dictates my wardrobe—a floral-print, A-line dress befitting a modern southern belle. I kind of want to vomit all over it, but I also don’t hate how it fits my body.
We’re not alone at the tea; four women join us. They’re all wealthy, toned and tanned, with impeccable manicures and flawless makeup. As we chat, I discover that each one of these women prides herself on her collection of art. Dorian sings my praises to a ridiculous level, and the women begin to eye me hungrily, trying to monopolize my attention.
On my phone, I show them some of my work—the pretty beachy stuff at first, until Dorian says, “Not those paintings, darling—some of the darker ones.”
I’m weirdly hesitant. I have a bit of a following on Instagram, but I’m faceless over there—no profile photos, no personal information. Showing these women my most raw, intimate artwork in person feels like stripping off my dress and panties in the middle of the lovely tearoom, lying down with my legs spread, and letting them stick aspeculum between my thighs.
But Dorian’s trying to help me. He’s introducing me to potential clients. And as painful as it may be, artists sometimes have to come out of hiding and prove to the rest of the world that they exist, that they’re actual people with personalities and not just creepy attic gremlins with haunted eyes andvibes.
“Tell me about this one.” One of the women, a Mrs. Bennett, points to a painting of a rose-wreathed skeleton sprouting from the broken tiles of a dry fountain.
“Well, that one came to me after I went to a park with some friends.” I stumble over the beginning of the story, but these women actually seem intrigued. As I keep talking, my nerves settle, and by the time I’m done, they’re murmuring words likefresh,provocative,subversive, andmystifying.
Dorian rises from the table, giving me a Cheshire-cat smile, and seats himself at the piano in the corner. He begins to play, a quiet trickle of exquisite music flooding the sunlit room. There’s something plaintive and eerie in the tune, the perfect complement to the mood of my artwork. It’s all I can do to keep engaging with the women, because I just want to be quiet and listen to him play.
