The pool thing could have been a chemical issue of some kind. And the moths…maybe there just happened to be a bunch of mothsmigrating or something. It’s September, the time for migration, right? I know monarch butterflies migrate; maybe certain species of moth do, too.
I could fetch my purse, grab my phone, and look it up, but I don’t. Maybe because I don’t want my rationalization disproved. Just like I want to believe that seeing my red-bearded, muscled, imaginary character and the two enormous skriken standing on the street corner was just a hallucination.
But they were right there, near the abandoned building.
Coincidence, hallucination, or fucking precursor to the apocalypse—I can’t decide, and I can’t spare the brain juice right now. I need to get inspired to create some art, stat
But I’ve been in such a daze of parties and glittering clubs and rooftop restaurants, markets and museums and art shows, tumbling into bed at 4:00 a.m. and waking at noon, that I haven’t had time to be inspired.
I should be able to glean inspiration from everything I’ve experienced, but for some reason, I can’t. The settings and the objects are all too…finished. Too elegant, gleaming, pristine, polished, too carefully presented, too exquisitely balanced.
The people within those settings are the interesting elements, messy and unfinished. Vane, with his blue hair, his theatrical manners, and his dramatic outfits. Sibyl, with her relish for tech, her big-sister kindness, and her affinity for vodka.
And Dorian.
Dorian, who still hasn’t let me in.
Granted, I haven’t really tried to tease him out of his shell. I’ve been too busy enjoying myself, loving the little compliments he pays me, the attention and the luxury. He’s been spoiling me, and I’ve been letting him get away with it.
I have a pile of late-night paintings and a notebook of sketches, all emphaticallynot Dorianbut also representing pieces of him, aspects of him, moods and motions and moments. It’s some of my best work. Objectively, I know that. I know I could put it up on my shop to sell or save it for the upcoming shows. But the thought of displaying it for other people’s consumption makes me cringe. It’s even worse than having to talk about my morbid art to those high-tea, fancy-ass southern women. Showing off this art wouldn’t be me, stark naked; it would be me without my skin. Me with my muscle and viscera exposed and raw and quivering, nerve endings painfully bare. I can’t do it. So I have to keep those paintings a secret and try to get inspired by something besides Dorian Gray.
I swallow the last bite of egg roll, grab my purse, and get up from the sofa. “I’m heading home. It’s late.”
“It’s only eleven, girl,” Sibyl protests. “Stay! We can play a game, or—” Her phone buzzes, and she picks it up, scanning the message. “Never mind. I’m out, too. Got a text from that cutie, the one I met at Scoundrel. Gonna get me some of that sweet little ass!”
“I’m off to bed,” Vane says. “Audition tomorrow. You’ll come with me, won’t you, Dorian?”
“You actually got an audition?” Dorian quirks a brow. “After New Orleans?”
“Don’t.” The word is pained, pleading. “You said you wouldn’t mention it again.”
Dorian gives him a cutting look, and Vane flinches as though it were a verbal rebuke.
“If they see me with you, they’re more likely to choose me.” Vane adopts a pleading tone. “You’ve got a name around here, Dorian, besides your following on socials. Come on. Please.”
“Can’t,” says Dorian airily. “I’m taking Baz to Hunting Island tomorrow.”
“First I’ve heard of it,” says Vane.
“I just decided.”
“After I asked you to come with me.”
“Vane.” Dorian’s eyes turn to ice. “Remember your place here.”
Oh, he did not just say that. As if we live in some past century…
Well, I suppose Dorianwasalive during the times when England’s class system was still firmly in place. To him, Vane is a sort-of friend, but he’s also an employee.
“Remember myplace,” Vane says with a bitter twist of his delicate mouth. “Sure, Dorian. I remember.” He gets to his feet, clutching his scarlet kimono around him, and stalks down the hall toward the bedrooms.
“I’ll drive you home, Baz.” Dorian selects his keys from a bowl on the console table near the door. He’s wearing board shorts and a T-shirt now, looking stupidly hot with his feet bare and his blond hair still darkened and tousled from the pool. But I won’t let his beauty blind me to the ugliness I just witnessed.
“You’re cruel to him,” I say.
“This again?” Dorian shoots me an annoyed look.
“Yes, this again.” I follow him into the elevator. “You surround yourself with people who won’t tell you the truth because they’re too afraid of losing your favor and your money. They’re all toadies and sycophants.”
