“Not much,” he says. “It’s technically skin damage, so the portrait takes most of it.”
“I’m usually pale, too, but I do tan, thanks to a little Italian sprinkled in with my Irish and French ancestry.”
“Ah, I’m jealous of you there. And the tattoos—I’ve always liked the idea of getting one, but they don’t take. I just end up tattooing my portrait.”
“I’ll draw a tattoo on you sometime.”
“Where?” He flashes me a smile.
“Wherever you want it.”
His tongue traces his lower lip, and I don’t miss the faint tension of his muscles or the twitch under the fabric of his shorts.
“Go get inspired, Baz,” he says. “But come back to me later.”
I look over the supplies he has laid out, impressed that there’s even a lightweight, foldable easel I can set up. I have to sink the legs pretty deep in the sand to stabilize it, but Dorian brought clips to attach the pad of paper to the frame and to secure the corners of the pages. Before long, I’ve mixed a palette of watercolors that give me intense joy, and I’m painting, freehand, unencumbered—simply letting the energy of my surroundings surge into me and flow out onto the paper.
For hours, I switch between sketching, painting, and photography, wandering up and down the beach. Dorian joins me sometimes, pointing out sculptural trees or chunks of driftwood that he thinks are especially unique or visually interesting. Eventually, he picks up pencil and paper and composes a small sketch himself. And it’s exquisite.
None of the showing off he has done over the past week impacts me like that tiny sketch of a barnacled stick jutting out of the sand.The realization of just how creative, talented, and intelligent he is strikes me like the slap of a cold, salty wave.
“You could do so much good in the world,” I tell him.
He sighs, taking off his sunglasses and hooking them around his neck. “I know. I suppose I don’t see the point in racing against the machine of inevitable human destruction. Better minds than mine are working on that problem. I’d rather enjoy myself until everything goes to shit.”
I’m painting the tree he’s leaning on, a dark cluster of branches emerging from pale smooth sand. His skin glows in the sun—marble white, with faint shadows along his pectorals and abs, more shadows etching his biceps and forearms. The urge to draw him hits me like a battering ram to the gut.
If I did it now, what would happen? Would the painting be harmless and normal? After all, the original portrait is far from here. I couldn’t pull his soul from some unknown location into a new picture, could I? Or is his tether to the portrait strong enough that I might inadvertently pull his soul into a new image, even from this distance? What if I did draw him and capture his soul, and then the painting became soaked, torn, lost, or damaged on our way back to the car? He would die, right before my eyes, and I couldn’t stop it. Or what if I mangled his soul, sucked a deformed fragment of it into a new drawing, and ruined the man that he is?
There are too many unknowns. Much as I want to draw him like this, I can’t take the risk.
Besides, there’s my vow to consider.
I work my phone out of my shorts pocket and take a photo of him—a pale immortal with wind-tossed golden hair and eyes that match the sea. He’s never looked more like Howl than he does rightnow. I half expect a chicken-legged steampunk house to come staggering down the beach toward us.
Dorian is looking at me, dark lashes hooding his eyes. “Time for a break, Baz. You need to hydrate and eat something.”
“Did Sibyl tell you to feed me and make me drink water, too?” I ask dryly.
“No.” He advances, his bare feet leaving neat prints in the sand. “I can take care of you on my own, without Sibyl’s coaching.”
I hold my breath, thinking he might kiss me again, but he walks past me with a faint smirk hovering over his lips as he heads for the blankets.
Swearing under my breath, I tidy up my paints and follow him.
18
Baz
From the insulated portion of the beach bag, Dorian takes tiny bottles of wine and little containers of nuts, chopped meat, grapes, dates, and cheese cubes. There’s water, too, the kind with electrolytes. I grab a bottle and drink almost half of it without stopping. I also have to pee, and I’m not about to make a twenty-minute trek back to the parking lot, so I find a secluded spot behind some bushes. Thank goddess I have tissues and hand sanitizer in my bag.
“You’re lucky,” I complain, marching back to the blankets where Dorian lies at full length, one hand tucked behind his head. “All you have to do is pull your dick out and point to pee.”
“You’re right. That’s the best thing about having a dick.” Dorian drops a piece of cheese into his mouth. “Eat something, Baz, and then I need to reapply your sunscreen if you want to stay longer.”
“I want to stay forever.” I take a piece of ham and chew slowly, savoring the flavor. “Pretty sure this charcuterie picnic is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
More clouds have gathered across the sky, shielding us from the full glare of the late-afternoon sun. During the past few hours,several people have come and gone along the beach, but there’s no one in sight now.
