Dorian's Destiny: Altered

by Amanda Long

  In his rush to smooth things over with him, he bounded up the stairs two at a time. He planned on apologizing and hopefully receiving one in return, though he wouldn't push. He also planned on divulging several truths he had kept hidden, even if they held the potential to damage their relationship further. He felt compelled to be completely honest with Dorian from this point forward – a first for him.

  Lost in his thoughts, he was inside Dorian's room before realizing. “I'm...,” he uttered, almost apologizing for his rudeness, until he noticed the condition of the bedroom. The double doors of the closet stood open, the insides gutted, stripped of all its contents. The bed was disheveled, pillows tossed aside without their cases. As the reason for the mess sunk in, Thomas thought of all the suggestions he had made, Dorian chose to follow the last.

  Turning to leave, desiring to drown his sorrows again, slender black scribbles among white sheets, caught his eye. Walking nearer to investigate, Thomas picked up the last remaining piece of his friend. He read the note calmly until the last sentence, 'Sorry about your bedroom.' He hurried to his room, wondering what state it could be in to be worse than the emptiness of Dorian's.

  Still clutching the letter in his hand, he entered his own. His bedside lamp lay battered on the floor. A gaping hole, the former home of his safe, scarred the antique paneling. “That thieving son of a bitch!”

  Furious, he stormed out of his room and into the study. Once again dispensing with the civilized way of drinking, he guzzled a third of his last bottle of Scotch in one go. Crumbling Dorian's note in his fist, he tossed it into the ravenous flames. Watching the fire consume the last reminder of his friend, relief washed over him. Finally, he was finished babysitting. However, when the note was more destroyed than not, panic replaced relief. He reached into the fire, retrieving the last of him reluctant to let go. Fervently he patted out the fire still eating away at the letter. Few words remained and of those even fewer were legible. Some of the words that remained, 'Thomas, not satisfied, being like you, pushed me away, goodbye', provoked immense guilt – an unfamiliar emotion. He placed the evidence of his mistakes inside the book he had given Dorian, “The Portrait of Dorian Gray”, another precious or worthless part of his lost friendship. Which one he wasn't sure which just yet.

  Consumed by guilt, angered and hurt by abandonment, he flew into a rage. Grabbing and tossing anything he could lay hands on into the fire. Soon the monster he created grew too large to contain inside the fireplace. Spreading up and out, the flames gobbled up everything in their path. When the blaze was merely a foot away of himself, he snapped out of his maddened trance. After destroying the out of control beast with a nearby fire extinguisher, he attempted to do the same with the fire raging inside himself. Gulping the remainder of his Scotch, he hoped to at least sooth the beast within. “Dorian, don’t you worry. I won’t waste my time searching for you. But I will relish the moment you come crawling back with your tail between your legs, begging for my kindness.” He smiled wickedly.

  Chapter 14

  Kiss

  Waiting for Megan's arrival, Dorian peered through a gap in the leaves of the low branch he was perched on outside her apartment. “Ugh. Why is she so late?” he sighed, yearning immensely for her friendly smile, her soothing eyes, more now than ever. He desperately needed their confirmation he had made the right decision by abandoning Thomas. Thoughts of his former companion swirled through his mind, making the wait for her nearly unbearable. He shook the past from his mind.

  Hours passed with him thankfully nestled comfortably in a crook provided by the large oak, its solace keeping him sane. Finally shutting his weary eyes, he depended on his ears to alert him of her approach. Minutes later he heard footsteps, not the soft padding of nursing shoes but the clink of a different type of footwear. Opening his eyes to investigate, he was happy and surprised to discover the owner of the strange footsteps. He evacuated his roost, elated by her final arrival and curious about her unusual attire and its potential role in her tardiness.

  “Wow,” he gasped as the view from ground level allowed him to fully partake in her stunning form. Draped over her petite frame, a shimmering black cocktail dress with matching heels, a stark contrast from her usual attire. Her hair elegantly was pulled up in loose bun with copper curls framing her delicately accented face. When their eyes met, both smiled and she hastened her approach.

  “You look amazing,” he stated, trying hard not to stare at the cleavage her dress accentuated so nicely.

  “Thank you,” she replied shyly, slightly embarrassed by her less than modest covering. “Would you like to come in?” She asked hopefully.

  “Please,” he responded hoping not to sound desperate.

  Inside her apartment, enticed by his closeness and the alcohol still coursing through her system removing her usual shyness and inhibition, she seized the moment. Admiring his toned-body she imagined how much better it would look with less clothing. Prodded by her relaxed state, she proceeded to find out by nimbly unbuttoning his shirt.

  He gently seized her by the wrist, stopping her before the next to the last button. He swore by her speed and precision at undressing him, she was a surgeon, not a nurse. “What are you doing? Have you been to a party? Have you been drinking?” He flooded her with questions, hoping to distract her, but the lust in her eyes told him she would not be easily deterred. Apparently, he was irresistible to those intoxicated.

  “So many questions, Dorian. I'm tired of talking, but the answer to two of your questions is yes. I've been partying,” she twirled her index finger for emphasis, “and drinking. Neither usual behavior for me. However, I realized tonight, I'm tired of being the good girl. I always do what I'm told, what's expected. I'm going to do what I want. So tonight I drank and now I'm trying to seduce you.” She threw her arms around his neck, her heels eliminating most of the height difference. Pressing her body against his, she leaned in for a kiss. Much to her disappointment, he pulled away, untangling her arms from around his neck. “Don't you want to kiss me?” She whimpered, her bottom lip quivering.

  “Yes, of course I want to kiss you, but I want to be sure you truly want me too. At the moment, the alcohol you consumed could be affecting your judgment. I don't want to do anything either of us would regret or feel guilty about later.”

  Deflated, she responded with a weak, “Okay.”

  Acting quickly, hoping to distract her again before she started to cry, “How about some coffee? I hear it helps quell the effects of alcohol.”

  “Sure,” she sighed, shrugging her shoulders. She took a seat on the sofa as he entered the kitchenette to make coffee.

  Standing in the small space, a twinge of sadness crept into his mind as he thought of his father's fondness of the bitter tasting drink. He focused his thoughts on the task at hand, instead of longing for his father. He hunted the recesses of his mind for the knowledge he deemed useless at the time. Every aspect of life, from the mundane to the noteworthy, was a lesson eagerly administered by his father, no matter how reluctantly absorbed by him. 'The art of coffee making', as his father would say, was one of those lessons he absorbed halfheartedly, certain he would never need to know. He had been wrong with that assumption and so many more. In fact, his thoughts were incorrect far more often than not.

  Striking upon the word, percolator, he almost shouted “Gotcha”, temporarily forgetting he wasn't alone. He searched the counter for a similar item needed to produce the coffee. If the word still swam around in his mind, surely the knowledge of how it worked was in there as well, although hidden deep. He had already taken so long; he knew she would soon worry.

  As if on cue, she questioned his progress, “Everything okay back there?”

  “Uh…” He stood, back turned to her, and stared at the empty counter, debating whether to proceed on his own or admit he was lost. He smiled innocently as he turned to fess up to the obvious. “Honestly, I'm not sure how to make coffee.”

  “Ugh,” she uttered an exagge
rated huff as she rose from the couch to join him in the kitchen. “Can’t make coffee, huh?”

  He answered with only a weak grin and a shrug.

  “Good thing you're so handsome, then” She winked as she raided the cabinets for the necessary supplies to brew coffee, the antidote for her wanton ways.

  Panicking over his ability to fend off another wave of advances, her cleavage inviting, he stumbled over his words. “I…I remember my father making coffee with a percolator, but I doubted you would use such rudimentary methods. We didn't even have electricity.”

  “Really?” She raised her brow to which he nodded. “Yeah, I guess my method is a little more modern.”

  The spurting of the coffee pot filled the strained silence between the two as both stood in the tiny kitchenette trying hard not to get caught admiring each other’s form. When the spurting turned to only a drip, she reluctantly pulled her gaze away from him. As she reached for a mug, she asked, “Would you like some coffee?” Worried she had put her foot in her mouth, she continued before he could answer, “Do you drink coffee? Can you drink coffee? Now that you're a vam...uh, you know, not a hum…ugh, I'll just shut up now.” Pursing her lips tightly, she chose silence instead of pushing her foot further into her digestive system. She felt it lodged firmly in her esophagus already.

  He smiled wide, suppressing laughter. She was even more gorgeous when flustered; a rosy pink highlighted her cheeks. “The answer to your questions are no, no, and yes.” When her lips remained clamped, he continued. “Maybe I should clarify. Thanks for offering, but I will pass on a cup of coffee. I have always despised the bitter smell it emits. And now it's even less appetizing, a heightened sense of smell isn't all it’s cracked up to be. Which leads us to your last question: Can I drink coffee because of what I am? Yes, I can drink coffee, though I’d rather not.” To lighten the mood and demonstrate his distaste, he made a sour face by squinting his eyes and sticking out his tongue.

  She giggled softly, “That's good. I feared I was being rude or cruel by offering you something you couldn't have.”

  “No, you needn't worry about that. I can engage in any activity a human can.” As soon as the words filled the air, he stressed over how his statement would be received.

  “Oh,” she responded; the rosy pink highlighting her cheeks turned crimson.

  He felt his own cheeks flash with color after realizing his statement had been received as feared innuendo. “I mean common activities.”

  “Uh, huh,” she teased.

  “Everyday activities,” he blurted, his cheeks on fire as he dug himself a deeper hole with poor word choices.

  “Everyday?” She asked, her lips curling into a flirting grin. “I didn't know vampires blushed.”

  “Yeah, well, I do.” Reflecting back to his encounter with Thomas in the pool and him saying those exact words, “Apparently it's not common. I guess I'm not your typical vampire,” he added, shrugging his shoulders.

  “I suppose not,” she jeered, doctoring her coffee with heaps of sugar and cream. “Of course, you're the only vampire I know. So I'm not exactly an expert,” she admitted. “How about we take a seat? My feet are killing me,” she announced, bending down and slipping the black strappy heels off her sore feet. The process exposed more of the smooth flesh of her breast. He averted his eyes from the sensual view, fearing a repeat involuntary reaction. “Although way cuter, these,” holding the shoes up by the back straps with her slender index finger, “aren't nearly as comfortable as my nursing clogs."

  To continue to get the conversation away from sex, he joked, “I imagine not. They look like torture devices.”

  “They are.” She smiled, tossing the shoes carelessly into a corner as she walked to the couch, coffee in tow.

  Joining her, he began to truly relax for the first time this evening as soon as he took his preferred position on her suede sofa.

  “May I ask you a personal question?” She questioned in between sips.

  “Uh...sure,” he stammered.

  “Well, I was curious, being raised by a priest, if you've ever kissed anyone?” She bit down softly on the side of her bottom lip, eagerly awaited his response, hoping she hadn't overstepped with such a personal question.

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Um.” The only sound he could force out past the huge lump developing in his throat.

  “I'm sorry, that was too personal,” she apologized, shaking her head and staring into the half full red mug clutched in her hands.

  “No, it's okay. I agreed. It's just...,” he looked down, ringing his hands. He considered lying. Saying no and moving on, but he didn't want to lie, not to her, no matter how embarrassing the truth might be, “complicated.”

  She guessed what he might be about to say, internally chastising herself for her stupidity.

  Of course he's kissed someone, just look at him. Do you think you're the only girl who’s ever craved contact with his perfectly kissable lips?

  Staring at his mouth distracted her from her inner tirade. Unfortunately, the images of countless women, possessing beauty far greater than her, appeared in her thoughts. All standing at the ready to engage in lustful longing kisses. Go away she told them and they disappeared. With the train of buxom beauties, no longer invading her mind, her attention again returned to his lips, his somber blue eyes, his chiseled chest, and soon, a much more pleasing image entered her mind. One with hers and his body far less clothed, intertwined. Placing a hand on her chest, she checked to see if her racing heart was still securely encased in her chest. Knowing her skin probably matched the red of her mug, she was thankful to see him still glancing at his hands. She hoped there would be no evidence of her illicit thoughts when he decided to face her again.

  “You see...I... The thing is...,” he stopped and started multiple times. “The sensations, feelings evoked when consuming, uh, fresh human blood can be overwhelming, especially when you don't know what to expect. Being unprepared and new to most of these emotions, I acted impulsively and...”

  She raised her brow, both curious and afraid of how his explanation would end. Gulping her now cooled coffee, she attempted to fill her body with its alcohol reversing goodness.

  Raising his head, but not facing his questioner, he forced out his words. “I kissed Thomas.”

  Coffee spewed from her mouth, while the red mug crashed to floor, splashing its remaining contents onto her bare legs. She brought her hand to her mouth in a gesture of shock.

  “I was afraid that would be the reaction I would get if I answered that question honestly,” he quipped, wiping coffee from the side of his face with his hand.

  “Oh, I am so sorry. Let me get you a towel.” She rushed to retrieve two towels to clean up her mess. Returning, she handed one towel to him. Using the couch arm as support, she wiped the sticky drink from her legs. Once over the shock of spraying her guest with coffee, she thought about what he had said.

  He kissed a man. Is he gay? That would be my luck. A gorgeous, interesting guy enters my life only to turn out gay. No, I'm sure I caught him sneaking glimpses of my chest and he did say he acted rashly. Besides, a promise is a promise. You’re not so shallow that you only offered to assist him in returning to who he was before, because you thought he was boyfriend material.

  Finished with her self-assurance of his sexuality and her motives, she decided to jokingly shrug the whole revelation and her reaction off. “Can't deny your answer to my question surprised me, we're both wearing my surprise.” She gestured back and forth before rambling in her nervousness. “To be honest, I hoped for a no. I began to sweat when you didn't immediately answer, afraid your answer might be some astronomical number of lovely ladies. While I'm pleased that's not the case. I'm not sure if knowing my competition is a male vampire makes me feel better – especially if he resembles you in anyway. Not sure how I will stack up.”

  “You needn't worry,” he reassured, shaking his head. “It was just once and not well received.”

&
nbsp; His last statement did nothing to reassure her, nor did the fact that he hadn't looked at her since she posed the question. Her self-assurance from just seconds ago had vanished. Not only was she concerned about her inability to compete with someone who could possess the level of attractiveness he possessed, she struggled with the possibility she had the wrong anatomy.

  Could I have imagined the glances? Wishful thinking maybe? He wouldn't kiss me, though he said he wanted to. Was he just being nice? Trying not to hurt my feelings? Maybe he's just embarrassed, but what if he's not? I have to know before I embarrass myself further. Be careful, you don’t want to push him away.

  “Dorian, you shouldn't be embarrassed that you kissed your friend...,” she paused, almost too afraid to seek the answer that would determine the dynamic of their relationship from this point on, “or what that might mean.”

  “Mean?” he looked at her finally, confusion in his eyes for a second. “Oh, right.” The tone of his voice suggested he had stumbled upon something obvious. “You're wondering if I'm gay.”

  She feared she had overstepped. They hadn’t known each other long. Maybe it was too soon to discuss such personal private matters. “I...”

  “I'm not.” He cut her off. “That evening was the first time I'd fed on a human, so it's just like I said earlier. I experienced emotions I'd never encountered before and Thomas was the only one there.” He thought briefly about elaborating. Confessing that for quite some time after his sudden intense attraction to Thomas, he had wondered if he might be gay. His feelings were so new, never felt for anyone before. If Thomas hadn't pushed him away, who knows what might have happened. The pain and embarrassment of Thomas' rejection caused him to bury any future similar sensations, until he met her.

  A sigh of relief escaped her, she couldn't help it. Her first and foremost goal was to 'save' him, but she wanted way more than that. “Okay.” She placed her hand on his. “While I don't understand 'exactly' how you felt, I do understand how easy it is for a person to act rashly, especially when 'intoxicated'. This evening is a prime example. Not sure that's even close to what you experienced though.”