Dorian’s apartment building was marked with a red door. I found his name on the doorbell and buzzed him, lifting up to look in the fisheye camera.
Dorian’s voice crackled through: “Be right down.”
The front door buzzed, unlocking, and Ophelia and I went in. We entered a small lobby with an elevator and a winding set of stairs. The elevator lowered, revealing Dorian behind a set of iron teeth.
I’d remembered him being attractive when we’d met, but I’d hoped it was some sort of fluke, a trick of the romantic lighting at Cure. But here he was, looking devastatingly handsome. Dorian wore dark, creaseless slacks. A relaxed t-shirt. I took in those intelligent, blue eyes. The smooth, short beard that outlined the sharpness of his jaw. Dark hair that swooped across the top of his head and hung around his ears.
And there was that phenomenon—with Ophelia there, I wasn’t only seeing him through my eyes, but through hers, too. I trusted her judgment more than anyone, so I knew he washot, hot when even she took in a small, tight inhale.
He looked at us, frowned—that displeased, grumpy scowl—and I thought:Ah, there he is. My favorite asshole.
“Dove,” he said.
“Dorian.”
His eyes clocked Ophelia. “Who is this?”
“Your worst nightmare.” Ophelia clicked her tongue against her teeth. “You gonna let us in or what?”
He stepped back, dramatically extending an arm to motion us into the elevator.
We stepped inside. He closed us in—which felt a bit like being locked in a cage. The elevator rose and we stood side by side—Dorian on one side of me, Ophelia on the other. I stared ahead, trying to match Ophelia’s don’t-fuck-with-me energy, but every now and then, I could feel Dorian watching me.
The elevator stopped and Dorian pulled back the gate. It entered right into his house, opening to a lamp-lit studio apartment with wooden floors.
Ophelia brushed past him, her shoulder knocking against his. “I’m going to look around,” she said. “Are you cool with that?”
He motioned around. “Help yourself.”
I followed in behind her and stood there, arms crossed. My gaze skipped around the apartment, trying to ignore the imposture syndrome that kicked like a rabbit in my chest. It was a strangely tidy, clean apartment—except for the books. He had books stuffed in his bookshelf, books piled up in corners, books stacked on books on books.
Even as Ophelia went through his apartment, movingfrom room to room, I felt his eyes remain hooked on me. He watched me, waiting for me to make the first move.
Finally, he asked, “Can I get you anything?”
“I’m good.”
He squinted. “Are you sure?” The look in his eyes said:I know you’re not.
Right—I was supposed to tell him to do things.
“You can fetch me some water.”
He did. He poured a glass of water and came back with it. I took the glass and took slow, cold sips.
Ophelia returned. “What the fuck is this?” she asked Dorian. She had a gun in her hand and she waved it in his face. “Planning on kidnapping and killing her, huh?”
Dorian opened his palm. “May I?”
Ophelia handed over the gun. He took it from her and, without hesitation, put it to the side of his head and pulled the trigger.
I flinched. A tiny, yellow foam ball popped out of the gun, bounced off his forehead, and rolled to the floor.
“It’s a Christmas gift,” he explained. “For my nieces.”
Ophelia clicked her tongue. “Likely story.” She opened her palm. “ID.”
He went to his coat hanging on the coat rack, pulled out his wallet, and handed his ID. Ophelia snapped a picture of it with her phone, then handed it back.
