Page 21 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

S ALVATORE

Rain mists my face. It’s cool enough that I probably should have worn a jacket. But I flew in last minute and forgot that it would be chilly in London in February, at least in comparison to Milan.

I abandoned the traffic-jammed car I hired a few blocks back because I could feel the itch, the need to move, building up.

Only a designer as arrogant as fucking Maurice would decide he needed to rent a room in the National Gallery, then schedule a shoot for midday.

Even I know that getting to and from Trafalgar Square— or anywhere else around Central London— is a joke.

No matter how many high-speed commuter trains the sprawling city installs or how exorbitant the congestion taxes get, the traffic is always going to be terrible.

Traffic and my particular place on the spectrum are never going to be a good pairing.

I don’t want to take my meds now, because even though they sharpen my focus half the time— occasionally too much so— they can also dampen me for a couple of hours.

I don’t want to be muffled in any way before a job, creating a perpetual conflict between my wants and the needs of my system.

So instead, I choose the walk in the rain to realign my brain, even if it means showing up mussed around the edges.

I can handle being mussed a bit better than feeling trapped in a steel box and overly aurally stimulated — engines idling, horns bleating, sirens, and too many different types of music bleeding into a continual low-level scream.

A combination that … well, sometimes I feel like I’m on the verge of stroking out.

The car hire probably had an umbrella.

Oh well. It’s supposed to be a closed shoot and rife with NDAs.

Plus if anyone turns a camera on me and splatters me all over social media, I’ll probably trigger a viral fad for dewy skin and wet-look blue hair.

That possibility is slightly annoying, though, because I’ve just gotten the complex layers of deep blues correct.

If my hair does go viral, I’ll have to pick a different color.

A song from the Blitz cycles onto my playlist, blasting the whining guitar of glam rock and Bolan’s perpetually sardonic, overly dramatic voice through my ears. I tap my left earbud, trying to skip the song, but end up restarting it instead.

Fucking Bolan.

I sight the National Gallery and yank the earbuds out of my ears. Picking up my pace, I dodge a few already established puddles. It must have been raining harder earlier in the day.

I drop the earbuds into the main compartment of my slim black-leather satchel, sure to regret the action when I next want them and have to dig, then find them devoid of charge .

I’m drawing looks from umbrella-toting pedestrians around me.

But since drawing looks is the general idea that underpins practically everything I do — as far as my personal presentation goes, at least — I ignore the way it contributes to the itch across my skin.

That itch at feeling exposed, being continually exposed, has worsened over the last months.

The last six months, if I’m being honest.

And I’m always honest with myself. Just as soon as I sort out what I’m actually feeling, and how much of what I’m feeling is within my control.

I jog past the lions and between the fountains of Trafalgar Square, heading for the front portico entrance of the gallery.

Because even if there’s a designated side entrance for the shoot, I have no idea where I’m going.

I was invited, of course. I styled the overall shoot, so the necessary information is likely somewhere among my messages.

But I don’t pull out my phone. The text, the call, I need so desperately hasn’t come in.

I know because I’ve got an actual notification set up to vibrate through the Do Not Disturb mode I usually keep the phone on.

I climbed on a plane just to distract myself from the fact that my darling friend — possibly my only remaining true soulmate — has ignored my last three texts. And barely responded to the five before that.

I’ve been obsessing about just going to her.

Except I don’t know where the fuck she is, and even if I did, I would have to become someone else to even get past the first layer of guards that perpetually surround her.

I’m not yet ready to claim my title just to get somewhere that my talent or my face or my dirty money doesn’t already get me.

I’m not going to last another week, though.

I’m so distracted I can’t even focus. When I work, normally nothing else exists. To the point that my assistants, Fluff and Fizz, occasionally have to put me on a feeding schedule.

I probably should have sent F&F a text before I climbed on the plane. I should send them a text to let them know where I am now.

Instead, I smooth my hand and a touch of my inherent essence down my dark-navy suit jacket as I climb the gallery stairs and approach the glassed front doors.

The suit was personally tailored by Maurice, in fact.

The essence that is mine to command marks me as a fabricator mage — an essence-wielder capable of creating essence-imbued objects, manipulating matter, and such. Also good for smoothing out wrinkles.

I catch myself before I count the buttons on the jacket — three, only the top done up — in my head. Then I run that same hand through my damp hair so it spikes up in the reflection of the glass.

I reach for the door handle. But the door is swept open by an adorable security guard before I can do more than grab at it.

Her golden hair is braided and coiled into multiple buns pinned tightly against her head.

Rosy lip gloss plumps her lips, and there’s slightly too much color on her eyes.

The blue-gray eyeshadow and eyeliner is distracting from the hazel of her eyes, rather than enhancing it.

The security guard blinks up at me as if she’s seen a ghost.

A banner advertising the current photography exhibition — an attempt by the National to stay relevant in the modern era — spans the top of the information booths to the far right.

My hair was dusty rose pink for that shoot last year. And yes, the color was a deliberate choice because it’s her color. Not that she noticed. Not any more than she usually notices me, usually enjoys my playful banter and believes that’s all our relationship is — friendship and flirtation.

Of course, I’ve never closed that space between us either. For many reasons, including the fact that I had a brief thing with her brother years ago, and I’m not sure she’s … adventurous enough to climb aboard where her sibling also rode.

In the shot the gallery has chosen for the banner advert, my head is thrown back, which in turn throws the sharp planes of my brow, cheeks, and jaw — helped along by makeup and photo manipulation — into relief. It also looks like someone is fellating my dick just out of frame.

Which was exactly what was happening at the time.

Still, I’d only agreed to be one of the thirteen subjects in the photographer’s examination of modern fashion, not the fucking poster boy.

I narrow my eyes at the banner.

The security guard, still blocking the door, blinks her way out of her dazed examination.

Of me. “Oh, it is you … you are even more …” She stiffens as if she realizes she’s gushing — gushing at the mere sight of me.

All her body language softens, becoming languid as she slowly melts in front of me.

I’m not certain if she’s embarrassed or titillated.

Both maybe? Reading emotions through body language is not one of my talents.

“Salvatore …” She swallows. Hard. “May I escort you to the … your … exhibit?”

We’re drawing attention. Normally I wouldn’t notice, or if I did, I wouldn’t care. But I’m about to have to call my lawyers about the stupid fucking banner advert, and I loathe talking to lawyers. Some of the feeling of coming out of my skin that was eased by the walk intensifies again.

“No,” I say, stiff and clipped. “I understand room 17 has been reserved for Maurice …” I fish around in my mind for Maurice’s last name, but either I’ve forgotten it, or like me, he doesn’t use it professionally.

The only reason I remembered the room number is that I needed to know which paintings Maurice was using as his so-called mise en scene when I styled the shoot.

“Oh, yes … follow me, please.” She backs away a few steps like I’m royalty.

I mean, technically, I am. But only a half-dozen people know it.

The security guard turns and sashays off ahead of me, leading me through the central hall, then to the left through various open galleries. Most of the visitors keep to the edges of the space. Thankfully, their attention is mostly riveted to the art, rather than on me.

Disconcertingly, the patterning and color of the wood flooring changes from room to room, even as the viewing benches remain a uniformly dark wood.

The guard walks too slowly for my long stride, but I appreciate her gifting me a pretty display of her gumdrop-shaped ass.

Because I have to ignore the senses-overwhelming art lining the walls.

Unfortunately, I’m going through a self-imposed dry spell.

I know why I’m currently not remotely interested in sex, of course, but it’s still annoying.

And possibly one of the reasons the anxiety is driving me more than normal.

I’m going to have to scratch that itch the only way my brain is allowing these days.

But no matter how pretty her ass, that won’t include the security guard. So my dry spell is more unfortunate for her, I suppose.

Another reason I should have brought Fluff and Fizz with me. Damn them both for taking the morning off. Had they been around, I would have remembered that they existed before I climbed on the plane .