Lucky: Dorian Gray Novels Book 1

by F. E. Bradley

  At least I get to nuzzle my face into his shoulder and smell his delicious sent and feel the strong muscles of his chest and arms around me. All too soon the SUV parks, and Dorian lets me go.

  The sky is bright, and I feel the warmth of the sun as Dorian pushes the door open.

  We must be in an old part of the city. The buildings are only a few stories tall, and they’re all built so close together, their fronts form a solid wall. Each house has at least one wrought iron balcony, but the design is unique to each home. The air is warm and humid; so different from the clean crispness we came from. There is also a scent I’m not used to – it seems like the air itself is old and worn.

  “This is my home, here in the French Quarter. I thought you might like to rest for a while. You didn’t get much sleep last night.” Dorian gestures toward a large carved wooden door. Right on cue, the door opens, and Mrs. Baker is on the other side to welcome us in.

  She is in the same dark blue blazer with white trim that I saw her in before, but behind her are two women and one man in slightly less decorated, but matching attire. She introduces herself to Dorian with a slight bow and nods with a smile in my direction as she recognizes me. Hopefully Dorian’s figured out some way to explain his youth.

  She introduces the other three beside her by first name and she gives us the name of our driver as he moves behind us and up the stairs with our bags.

  It suddenly occurs to me that he might be taking our bags to the same room. Would Dorian expect us to stay in the same room? I feel foolish that I didn’t think of that question before, but I don’t have to worry long because Dorian asks, “Mrs. Baker, please show Mrs. Rose to her room, I believe she may need to rest.”

  “Um…” I feel strange explaining myself in front of Dorian’s staff, but I’m far too wired to sleep now. “Actually, I’d like to see some of the city if we could.”

  Dorian seems pleased. “There is an art sale in a nearby park every Saturday morning. We could walk there if you’d like.”

  “Yes, please.” After all, how many times do you get to do something like that.

  We say goodbye to Mrs. Baker and walk back out the front door. When the door closes, I ask “This is the first time Mrs. Baker’s seen you?”

  “Yes,” Dorian answers. “But she thinks that I am the son of the man that hired her more than 20 years ago.”

  “Ahh.” That makes sense. “Should I call you by a different name?”

  “No. It’s already been explained to her that father and son share the name of Dorian Smith.”

  “Good. It’s less for me to mix up.”

  “It also wouldn’t do if I forgot to respond to what was supposed to be my name. It’s much easier to only have one fake name.”

  We both smile at each other. Dorian and I walk for a short while down his street before he turns and then turns again as we wind our way through the French quarter. It is so much more vivid in person than any picture I’ve ever seen. Each house is so distinct and so detailed. We see very few cars, and it isn’t hard to imagine the similarities between the present-day city and the one here when Dorian was young.

  As we walk through the empty narrow streets and alleys, Dorian tells me some of the history of the places we pass. I’m fascinated to hear the stories through Dorian’s perspective. So many of the houses and stores have stories rooted in a distant past, but Dorian is able to remember and convey their history in a way that history books never could. History books usually aren’t written by the people who lived the history.

  Dorian points ahead to a clearing on one side of the street and says, “The park is right up there. Can you see it?

  As I strain my eyes to get a good look up ahead, I feel Dorian reach his arm around my waist and pull me behind him quickly. I turn and blink to see two scruffy men dressed far too heavily for the weather. In the hand of the closest one is a large silver gun pointing right at Dorians chest.

  “Give us your money,” the gun holding man says with a smoker’s rasp.

  Chapter 18

  This isn’t the first time I’ve seen a gun, but it’s the first time I’ve been terrified by one. My father hunted when he was younger, and he still has guns, but he taught me that you never point a gun at a person – even if you know it isn’t loaded.

  The gun that was the focus of all my attention now was being held by someone dangerous; an obviously unstable man. His shaking hand gave me even more reason to worry.

  “Out of the way! It’s her purse we want.”

  Dorian stands between me and our attackers no matter which way they try to walk around him. He’s standing tall and seems to be ignoring the gun completely, even though it’s all I seem to see.

  In a sure voice, Dorian looks the gunman in the eye and says, “This is your last chance to get out of here. You should run.”

  The gunman’s friend finds that hilarious and laughs while pointing his finger between the gun and Dorian, then back again.

  The man holding the gun lifts up one side of his mouth in a grin showing off his missing teeth. “No. You’re the one out of chances, pretty boy!” He levels the gun slightly and pulls the trigger.

  I hear the noise, and I expect Dorian to fall back, but he shows no sign of being shot except for the ragged hole in his sweater.

  The gunman looks confused and puts his arm out straight to fire again. The 2nd man is now ignoring everything else around and is focused straight on me. He steps to the side away from his friend before taking a step forward toward me.

  Then, two things happen so quickly that they almost seem simultaneous. First, Dorian’s right hand flies out toward the gun as the man fires another shot straight at Dorian’s heart. Second, Dorian uses his other arm to shove the second man back, sending him soaring through the air, over the sidewalk and into the stone face of a building with a sickening thud.

  They are both now writhing on the ground in the same way that I’ve seen Dorian’s curse act before.

  With the threat over, Dorian turns and looks into my eyes. He reaches his hand out toward me but is careful not to make contact, acting like he expects me to be afraid. “Are you okay?”, he asks.

  “Are you?” I respond, looking at the black edged holes in his shirt. I’ve seen him survive things that should have killed him before, but I’m still surprised by the smooth skin I can see behind the holes; there isn’t any kind of a mark at all.

  “I’m immortal, remember?” I can tell that he’s reacting to the stunned look on my face. “I’m so sorry about this, Lucky” he says in a more somber tone.

  “Sorry? You saved me.” How could I be anything but grateful?

  “I’m sorry that you had to see the monster in me come out…again. We should go now; after something like that, you should rest.”

  “No, I’m fine thanks to you.” I feel even less like resting now than I did before. As I speak, my fingers move up to touch the torn strands of his sweater and the skin underneath.

  “Lucky, you’re probably in shock.” Maybe I should be, but even when I was most worried it was only for Dorian. Now that I can see he’s okay, I really am fine. I can see that my touch is taking some of the edge off of Dorian’s anxiety too.

  “I’m not in shock – I’d still like to go to the park”

  “Okay, but first let’s get out of here before someone expects us to answer questions... and I need a new shirt too,” he says looking down at my fingers with a shy smile. “We’ll need to stop back at the house first.”

  I nod and turn to walk back with Dorian. Giving a final glance to our two attackers, I ask Dorian, “Why didn’t you tell me that you have super strength?”

  “Super strength?”

  “Yeah, you threw that guy like fifteen feet into a wall and he hit it really hard!”

  “Oh, I don’t really consider that super strength… it’s all just a part of the same curse; my muscle fibers just never tear, and they never tire.”

  “So, no part of you ever gets tired?” I guess I n
ever really considered that before.

  “No, and I never sleep. It’s part of why the Druids are so sure that I’m completely suspended in time and not just aging slowly.” As we walk, he’s looking at me from the side and I recognize his expression of trying to gauge my reaction.

  I’ve had so many fantasies about Dorian and I falling asleep in each other’s arms. I can’t help feeling a loss, but I don’t want to show it with him watching me.

  “Oh… So how did your touch affect that gunman even though I was right there with you?” I figure as long as I’m asking questions, I should just keep going.

  “He shot me, and I touched him before I touched you again. The effect of your touch wears off with time or when energy is needed to keep my body preserved. I am sorry that you had to see the effects of my curse again.” I remember that he told me this before, I should think about my questions more. I fear that I might be losing him again to darker thoughts.

  “I’m not sorry!” I say with insistence. It works, and I see his face lighten.

  “I’m glad I could be there to protect you.” We’ve stopped walking and he’s facing me, searching my eyes with his own. He brings one hand up to my cheek and leans in.

  “Me too.” I whisper. I’m glad he’s there whenever he’s next to me. Especially when I can look up into his beautiful face.

  That now familiar electricity is there between us again. My lips part, and I tilt my head up in hopes that he will lean in just a little farther, so our lips can touch. We’ve both shared our feelings, and we just came through a very dangerous situation together.

  The timing is beyond right; we should have kissed by now.

  “Let’s get back,” he says and turns to keep walking. If he doesn’t kiss me soon, I think I might combust. “We’ll have someone drive us back after I’ve changed.”

  Here I was worried that he might expect me to sleep with him tonight, and I can’t even manage to get a kiss.

  When we get back to Dorian’s house, Mrs. Baker rushes up to greet us in the entryway. Dorian asks her to call a carriage and then to show me where my room is while he changes.

  She quickly rushes away to make the call, and I’m left standing alone staring after Dorian as he makes his way up the ornately carved staircase. There is an open balcony on the 2nd floor, and as Dorian rounds the corner, I see him pull his sweater up over his head, leaving his chest bare.

  He could be the model for Michelangelo’s David. All the muscles of his torso are perfectly defined, and I can see the ripple of each ab all the way down to the top of his pants. It is an absolute shame that he ever wears a shirt.

  Right before he steps out of my vision, he looks down and I’m caught staring up at him with my mouth open. I try to pretend that I was looking at the carved railing, but the quick smile he had before I diverted my eyes let me know he could tell exactly what I was doing.

  Mrs. Baker is quick with the call, and she is soon guiding me up the stairs to a set of French doors detailed with all kinds of lavish leaves and flowers winding around in circles. Standing slightly off to the side, she opens both doors simultaneously and announces that this is my suite. It’s an enormous room with enough furniture to fill a house. There are couches and tables on one side, and a large four poster bed and dressing tables on the other. Straight ahead is a balcony overflowing with blooming plants. I’m pulled forward by curiosity to the open doors of the balcony where I can see trees. I don’t remember any trees in the narrow streets we entered from, and as I get closer, I realize that this balcony and the ironwork isn’t pointed at the street, but instead it is facing a beautiful courtyard; a private Eden.

  Somewhere behind me, Mrs. Baker is talking about the location of the bathroom and my clothes, but I hardly notice as I look around at all the lush greenery. It all looks so new, and the dirt appears freshly tilled in each pot and around every plant. The elaborate fountains and statues are the only things that look like they’ve aged on the spot.

  I hear a soft knock behind me and turn to see Dorian standing in the open doorway. Mrs. Baker is nowhere to be seen. “May I come in?” he asks softly.

  “Of course,” I say and start to move toward him, but he stops me with a hand gesture. He joins me on the balcony and pauses for a moment looking around before he speaks.

  “Thank you for all this,” he says while gesturing his hand toward all the greenery surrounding us. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to enjoy something like this without also killing it when I was near.”

  All that he’s endured makes my heart ache for him.

  “If you still want to go to the park, our ride should be here by now.” Can I say that I would rather trap him in this room, just to keep him in our own private bubble?

  Probably not, so I just say, “Let’s go.” He smiles at me and we head back down the stairs.

  Out in the street, a beautiful open carriage with a white horse is waiting for us. The driver stands to greet us with a tip of his hat, and the horse seems to go crazy. It causes the carriage to jerk, and the driver trips and topples down to the street. The horse then seems to charge at me, pulling at the harness and bringing a corner of the carriage up onto the sidewalk. It rears up on its hind legs with its front legs pawing at the air over my head. Dorian is the only thing that keeps it from crashing down on me. He is standing right in front of me with his hand straight up in the air, holding up the chest of the horse. He pushes it sideways and I am out of danger.

  I barely have time to take a breath before there is an unfamiliar hand tugging at my wrist.

  “Hey, red. I’ll protect you.” I look to see that the words came from the mouth of a balding man in his 50’s that I don’t recognize. He’s wearing plain gray sweats with a matching hoodie and gold chains around his neck. His expression looks hungry in an unsettling way.

  I try to pull my hand away, but he won’t let go.

  Dorian is still trying to keep back the horse that continues to lunge in my direction. The driver is back on his feet and trying to pull on the harness, but he doesn’t seem to be making any progress in either calming or distracting the animal.

  The creepy man pulling at my wrist doesn’t even let go when I try to use my other hand to pry him off.

  I call out to Dorian, and he looks back at me with horror as he realizes I’m being pulled down the street.

  As quick as lightning, Dorian grabs my arm away from the stranger and pushes me back through the door of his home.

  When Dorian shuts the door, I can hear the loud noise of the horse’s hoof hitting on the wood.

  “Something bad is happening here,” Dorian says with a startled look in his eye. “We need to leave, now.” His tone is forceful.

  The window next to the door shatters. At first, I think that the horse is responsible, because I can hear the noises of his heavy breathing clearly, but then the head of the creepy man appears between the curtains. “Are you in here, red?” he huffs out like he’s just been running in a race.

  Dorian takes one quick step toward the window and punches the man straight in the face. I don’t see the man drop, but I hear him land on the sidewalk.

  Without wasting any time, Dorian grabs my hand and walks quickly to a door under the stairs. With his other hand he pulls out his phone and starts calling out orders. He wants the police called, the staff to wait in the saferoom until the police get there, and the jet held on standby at the airport.

  He’s still talking as the hallway we’re walking through opens up into a large garage. He points at the passenger side of a sleek white sportscar, and I know it’s my que to get in.

  He doesn’t even wait for me to fasten my seatbelt before he steps down on the accelerator. I’m pressed back into the seat, and the force reminds me of a ride at the county fair.

  The garage door is still rising and barely high enough to let us pass as we race under it. Dorian makes a sharp right into the street, and I can see the creepy man passed out on the street behind us. The horse and
carriage are there too, and the driver seems to be hanging off of the horse’s harness trying unsuccessfully hold him back from running down the street toward us.

  Dorian is driving far too fast for the narrow cobblestone streets, but I’m glad to be getting some distance. Dorian’s hands are white knuckled on the steering wheel as he speaks. “Coan?”

  The response sounds like it’s coming from the car’s speakers, but I recognize Coan’s voice. “I heard.”

  The screen in the center of the dash lights up and there is a GPS screen that already has a destination programmed in.

  Dorian takes a sharp turn where directed, and I assume that the directions must be a message from Coan.

  “What’s happening?” I ask.

  Dorian answers, “I don’t know, but we need to figure out why you’re suddenly a target.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’m not sure, but I trust Coan, so I’m following the screen.” I can see that he feels uncomfortable not having control of the situation, so I don’t want to ask more questions. It’s obvious that he doesn’t know more than I do about why I’m suddenly at the center of a bullseye, so it doesn’t make sense to keep pressing.

  We stop in front of a large white house, across from a very old moss-covered cemetery. There is a high black fence surrounding the entire yard, but the house appears to be on a hill, because you can still see the front porch from the street.

  Dorian is looking all around us for signs of possible danger coming our way, but I’m looking straight at the front door when I see a slim figure with bright purple hair stride out across the porch and down the stairs. I recognize the lanky gait. Dorian notices my smile before he looks in the direction of my stare.

  Coan comes through the gate and poses like he’s at the end of a runway. I don’t see any look of real recognition on Dorian’s face, so I chime in. “It’s Coan.”