Dorian's Destiny: Altered (20 page)

the harsh words spoken in
anger during our time in the dojo. I am

equally guilty and deeply sorry. No, this
inevitable departure is long

overdue, delayed even, out
of fear of being alone. If you are my

friend, I hope you will honor my last
request: Do not attempt to find me.

Goodbye, my friend.

Dorian

P.S. Sorry about your bedroom.

*****

Thomas entered the mansion in a mood much
improved thanks to a particularly gruesome murder, evidenced by the
blood splatters covering the majority of his clothing. Although
irked tremendously by Dorian's reluctance to fully evolve, he
didn't want him to leave, even if he evolved backwards instead of
forwards. He was angry at himself for saying those friendship
damning words, 'you should leave'. Why did he always have to let
his anger control his mouth?

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

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
exaggerated 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.