“That’s not how it should work, though, is it?” I open the fridge and select a bottle of sparkling water. “You want to get the role based on your talent.”
“That’s not how the world works, Baz,” he spits out. “Do you think anyone would have taken another look at your scraps of teeny-bopper emo art if Dorian hadn’t told them you were the second coming of Ivan Albright?”
Stung, I slam the fridge. “I would have found my clientele eventually.”
“No, you would have gotten desperate, given up, and gone to work at some greasy restaurant or depressing superstore. You’re not a genius. You’re nothing special.” He flicks the lighter again, passing his fingers over the flame. “I have no fucking idea what he sees in you.”
I bite my lip, resisting the urge to tell him about the one way Iamspecial.
“See this?” Vane lifts the lighter. “Dorian gave it to me. It’s engraved with my initials.”
“It’s nice.” I sip my water, and the fizzing bubbles burn over my tongue, down my throat.
“One day, you’re in with Dorian, and the next day, you’re out. Like fuckingProject Runway.” He vents a strained laugh, then pushes himself up off the couch. “I’m going to my room to get high. Well…higher.”
He slouches past me, then turns so abruptly I back up a step.
His dark eyes screw into mine, a painful, desperate glare. “Just remember—he can make you feel like an angel. I’ve been there. But he’ll set your wings on fire, and you’ll fall. And after that, you’realways the whore swaggering on the sidewalk under the red lights, begging for his attention. Having to endure that look—that damn look on his face—like he despises you now. Like you’re beneath him. It’s hell.”
Still gripping the lighter, he disappears down the hallway toward his room.
When Dorian comes into the kitchen area a few minutes later, I stop him with a hand on his arm. “I think you should check on Vane. He seems pretty depressed.”
“He’s depressed for at least a few hours every day. He’ll pull out of it.” Dorian opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of water. “Vane is a slut for attention.”
Disappointment stabs through me, sudden and sharp. Dorian can be so selfish, so callous… How much of it is the portrait, and how much of it is him?
“You know what? Never mind. If you talk to him, you’ll probably just make things worse.” I march away from Dorian and throw myself into a chair just as Sibyl enters the penthouse. “Nowthere’ssomeone who might actually be able to help.”
“Help with what? I already helped with your demon cat.” Sibyl holds up her arm, where pink scratches are sharply etched into her brown skin. “I think I’m done helping people for today.”
“It’s Vane,” I tell her. “He seems really down. Like seriously fucking depressed. I would talk to him, but I think I’m part of the problem. And this one ismostof the problem.” I nod at Dorian.
He shrugs.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” I exclaim. “The sheer apathy.”
Sibyl slings her purse onto a sofa. “He was drunk and high for that audition, Dorian.”
“Same fucking story,” Dorian says. “And he expects me to put ina good word for him or pay someone off to give him the role, just so he can shit himself onstage like he did in New Orleans.” He snorts derisively. “He used to be absolute fire in front of an audience.”
“And thenyouhappened.” Sibyl faces him, hands on her hips.
Dorian halts, his eyes widening. I’ve never heard Sibyl use that tone with him.
“I told him I’d pay for rehab,” Dorian begins, but she cuts him off.
“No. None of that. I’m done listening to your excuses. I’ll talk to Vane in a minute, but first, I need to talk to you, Dorian.”
He props a hip against the kitchen island. “I’m listening.”
Sibyl glances at me, and I move to stand. “Do you want me to go?”
She hesitates, then shakes her head. “Nah, it’s okay.” She turns back to Dorian. “You and I have been hanging out for, what, three years now?”
“Three years since the orgy at Coachella.” A faint smile plays over his lips. “Good times.”
“Yeah. And after that night, you gave me a job and a place when I needed it,” she says. “Thing is you needed me, too, to curate your online image, maintain security, all that jazz. That’s what I liked about this gig. You needed my skills. But I’m in a better place now than I was then. I’ve got job offers, decent ones. Won’t be the same kind of life for me, but I’m thinking that’s a good thing. I guess I’ve stayed this long because I thought I was protecting you. Holding you back from being the worst you could be. But you’ve got someone else for that now.” Sibyl glances at me.
