(FYI, a wights-only party is a party where the undead are hooked up with human worshippers.)
----------------------
On
Wednesday night, Porter shyly asked Riley if he’d be willing to pose for a
painting, “for old time’s sake,” as he put it. The setup in his bedroom wasn’t
ideal, but at the moment he couldn’t afford to rent a studio space.
As
requested, Riley sat sideways in a wooden chair, facing away so Porter could
paint his back. Riley usually preferred Porter’s paintings when they included
the model’s face because he had a knack for capturing likenesses and subtle
hints of emotion, but a painting from behind meant he didn’t have to keep a
rigid expression, and they could even converse while Porter worked. As Porter
laid down the underpainting on his canvas, Riley filled him in on what had
happened during the days he’d been gone, including all the details of Riley’s
foray into designing baby dolls and Matt’s promise to send him more work.
A
couple hours into the pose, Riley asked, “How does my back look? Is it getting
too bony?”
Porter
laughed out loud. “Relax, Riley. It’s just a painting.”
“I’m
curious, that’s all.”
“You’re
as gorgeous as always, okay? Jeez, I never understand you people with your
perfect bodies who fret about every pound you gain or lose.”
After a
pause, Riley reluctantly explained, “Westwood thinks I’m getting too skinny.”
“Is that why he hasn’t been coming around lately? What a
douchebag.”
“How do
you know he hasn’t been coming around? He usually lets himself in through my
window.”
“Well,
it’s been a long time since I’ve heard your bedsprings screaming for mercy.” He
chuckled. “Or you, for that matter.”
Riley’s
face went red. “I didn’t think you could hear.”
“Uh,
yeah. I can hear. Mrs. Mason and I always analyze your performances when we run
into each other in the stairwell.”
“Mrs.
Mason? The old lady from the third floor?”
“Yep. I
love her. She’s hilarious.”
“Man,
you suck.” He waited, listening to Porter’s rhythmic scratchy brushstrokes for
a minute before speaking again. “But no, that’s not why Westwood hasn’t been
around. I think he’s… mad at me.”
“Why
should he be mad at you?”
Riley
frowned. “Well really, it’s all Quinn’s fault. She put me on the spot. She said
Westwood needed to get stronger in order to survive an attack with your blood,
and she asked me to worship him.”
The
brushstrokes stopped. “And?”
“I said
no. Well, I didn’t exactly say no, but I didn’t say yes, and Westwood obviously
knew I was about to say no. He walked out of the meeting. And he was my ride,
so Quinn had to drop me back at his house to pick up my car. And by the way, it
doesn’t get any more awkward than being stuck alone in a car with Quinn.”
Porter
began painting again. After a minute, he said, “In a sense, I see where Quinn
is coming from. I personally don’t care if Westwood bites it, but apparently he
does good work for Lychgate, so I guess it would be best for him to pick up a
follower and get stronger.” He paused. “But you and Westwood are sleeping
together. You’re the last person Quinn should be asking.”
“You
think so?”
“Definitely,”
Porter said. “You know how I feel about Westwood. He’s in it for himself. He
always has been. You’ve been seeing each other for six months, and he probably
doesn’t even know your middle name.”
“We
didn’t see each other much for the first three months. Things only started
picking up in June. And besides, I’m fine with things the way they are. He
doesn’t need to know my life story.”
“But
he’s already taking advantage of you, and if you start worshipping him, it’s
just going to go to his head.”
“He
doesn’t take advantage of me,” Riley protested. “I know how to take care of
myself, Porter. And when he and I are together, I want it as much as he does.”
“I’m
sure you have wonderful sex together,” Porter said. “But that’s not what I
mean. It’s like when you were telling me about your big car chase. All Westwood
cared about was running that other car off the road so he could save his own
skin. You said it yourself; he didn’t even consider what it could have meant
for you until Quinn told him off.” Again, the brushstrokes slowed. “Even though
I’ve been undead for twenty years, I live as a human, and most of the undead I
run into think I’m human. It’s become clear to me that most undead don’t have a
lot of respect for humans. They think humans are inferior, and they don’t have
much consideration for a human’s life. Since they can die and come back over
and over, they forget what it’s like for the people who only have one shot at
it.”
“Westwood
is ignorant,” Riley admitted. “He doesn’t know any better. But that doesn’t
mean he can’t change.”
“Do you
think worshipping him is the way to get him to change?”
Riley
didn’t reply. He remembered the last time he and Westwood had slept together.
He remembered Westwood holding him down, positioning Riley’s body to his
liking, and going at it without another thought. That night, Riley might as
well have been a hole in the mattress, for all Westwood seemed to care about
his half of the experience.
After a
moment, Porter asked, “Can you relax your shoulders? Your muscles are
bunching.”
“Oh,
sorry.” Riley corrected his posture.
“Perfect.
Thanks.” The brushstrokes resumed. “I’m sure there’s another human out there
who’s willing to worship Westwood. It may be hard for him to find and seduce
that person. He doesn’t know how to turn on the charm like, say, Thackary for
example. But he’ll find someone. Heck, maybe you can help him look.” Another
pause. “I just don’t know if you want to go opening yourself up to him like
that.”
“I kind
of feel the same way.” Riley gave a wry laugh. “You know, I’m going to a
wights-only party this weekend. Maybe I’ll meet someone for him there.”
At
this, Porter sputtered. “Wait a minute—you’re going to a wights-only party?”
“Yeah.
Why is that so surprising?”
“Those
parties are hardcore, dude. You don’t go to a wights-only party unless you
really want to become a part of the world of the undead. I guess I figured that
even though you were dating an undead guy, you still wanted to live a normal
human life.”
“I do
want to live a normal human life.” Riley hesitated. “To be honest, the main
draw for me is the prospect of free food.”
Porter’s
resulting cackle was so loud it made Riley wince. “Why is that funny?” he
demanded.
“Dude,
you’re delusional! I don’t even know what to say to you! If I invited you to an
S&M orgy, would you come just for the hors d’oeuvres?”
“Not
for, like, a cheese cube tray. But if you did something cool with smoked salmon
or maybe some of those Thai lettuce wraps—”
“My
God, Riley!” Riley heard the sound of paintbrushes clattering on the ground.
“That’s it. I’m buying you groceries with my next paycheck.”
Riley
glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, why did you stop painting?”
Porter
tossed Riley his maroon silk robe. “I’m done.”
“Really?”
Riley pulled on the robe, heading around to the other side of the easel to take
a look. As usual, he was awestruck by Porter’s talent.
Porter’s
hand lowered onto his shoulder, bringing him out of his trance. “Hey, buddy?”
Riley
turned and met Porter’s gaze. His roommate looked unusually serious. “What?”
“If
you’re really going to go to that wights-only party, just… just watch your
back, okay? As much as I hate Westwood, at least he’s an honest guy. He doesn’t
play games. Not everyone else who goes to those parties is like that.”
Riley
considered his words. He knew it was silly, but the more people warned him
about the dangers of wights-only parties, the more he wanted to go. He still
didn’t see the harm in it. After all, no one could force him to perform a
ritual if he didn’t want to. He’d go, scope the place out, and politely excuse
himself. No big deal.
“Thanks,” he said to Porter at last. “I’ll
watch my back.”
No comments:
Post a Comment