“I got it,” he said. “Thank you.”
As he bent down and began picking up cardboard boxes and round tubes from the floor, reading the labels, Dylan joined him.
In fact, he didn’t drop the damn chips, that stupid cow with the cart did … He could have run away, blamed it on her, just pretended he had nothing to do with it. He could have – but he didn’t.
He probably had nothing better to do on a late weekday evening, and it was probably his first time here, and he wouldn’t be back – he didn’t look like the son of a rich daddy living in an upscale apartment. He was a delivery guy or a volunteer, too young and too casually dressed to be here for anything other than work.
Dylan didn’t immediately notice the holster under the jacket rolled up on the narrow waist when the guy crouched down, and he didn’t show any surprise. So his boots were like that because he often used them to kick down doors or the spirit out of a criminal’s head. The guy was a policeman … So that’s where the white knight complex came from!
They finished quickly, successfully managing with four hands. Dylan was silent, the shaggy head turned in his direction only a couple of times, but also did not say a word.
Well, of course he’s looking at his scar! Or maybe he’s not looking … The guy was looking into his eyes, his lips were smiling, there were dimples on his cheeks, covered with barely noticeable reddish stubble.
No, he’s not looking …
“Thank you, Dylan! Sorry again,” the knight-policeman said in a friendly, casual tone, extending his hand for a handshake.
Dylan Vermillion blinked. It took him a moment to realize how he knew his name, that it was written on a badge, it was so simple …
His hand was in a fabric glove, he hesitated, thoughtfully, but still took it off. The guy’s palm was strong and warm, powerful, not corresponding to his frail constitution.
He was half a head shorter, though well-built. Appearances can be deceiving …
“It’s alright. Thank you,” Dylan responded.
The guy took a step to the side, and the tall figure of the store assistant backed away, letting him pass further.
“I’m already afraid to move and touch anything,” he chuckled.
“Beware of women with carts,” Dylan chuckled, his expression blank.
The young man made a funny face, winked, walked down the row of stands, and at the turn raised his hands up in mock horror, making way for an absent-minded customer talking on a headset.
Allex bought himself a sandwich that evening at the grocery store near Wilhelmina Gustavsson’s home, which cost half his salary, and it was not nearly as tasty as the one from the cafeteria at work. He spilled hot coffee on his jeans while hailing a taxi, trying to chew, sip from a paper cup, not drop his clipboard, and wave at the same time.
A truly weird day! As soon as he returned to his dorm room at the Academy, two hours away from Baltimore, he fell onto his bed and did not even undress, only with difficulty pulling off his shoes, throwing them in a random direction.
He instantly fell into a dreamless sleep.
4. Undercover
The tables were bursting with exquisite dishes, pyramids of coupe glasses with sparkling wine shimmered in the subdued light, glare danced on the earrings, necklaces, brooches and rings of the ladies, on the cufflinks and in the eyes, glittering with gaiety, of the gentlemen. The voices did not stop, enthusiastic aspirated exclamations and feigned restrained laughter were an inherent soundtrack of the dinner party of Dr. Gasztold, a background leitmotif of a vanity fair, where almost the entire bon ton of Baltimore had gathered.
Lukas Gasztold was not only a successful psychiatrist, a dandy in a three-piece suit, with a texture of fabric perfectly matched to the pattern of his tie and pocket square, but also an incomparable cook: every dish at the party, without exception, was prepared by him himself. Each guest considered it necessary to thank him personally, he smiled at each one with his thin lips, his mask-face remained motionless, his dark eyes looked into the very soul like an X-ray.
“Dr. Gasztold!” Phoebus de Lavender emerged from the crowd, raised his glass of wine, golden as his hair, expressing respect to the host of the evening, “Admit it, you have captured the demon with a magic spell, and he is working for you in the kitchen.”
“You got me.”
Last year, de Lavender had been named the county’s youngest benefactor; Joseph Meyerhoff Symphony Hall and the Lyric Baltimore were fed by his money, the Baltimore Museum of Art and the Walters Art Museum were vying for his sponsorship. He was as handsome, smart, and suave as a flawless Forbes cover. He sipped wine with a perfect hand and a perfect manicure, and smiled with perfect lips on a perfectly shaven face.
“And how do you find it?”
Lukas Gasztold pointed with his gaze at the glass in his interlocutor’s hand, de Lavender smirked.
“Non-alcoholic is terrible, a real punishment for prudes, Dr. Gasztold,” admitted de Lavender. “Tasteless.”
He especially emphasized the last word, he said it almost in a whisper.
“Such is the sacrifice for the sake of beauty,” Dr. Gasztold responded meaningfully, satisfied with the result of the punishment for those who chose the fake wine. “Do you want to live forever?”
“I want to live long.”
“I understand, fatherhood comes with a certain amount of responsibility.”
Gasztold’s gaze slid from the benefactor’s face to the right, de Lavender’s protégé, Wilhelmina Gustavsson, approached them a moment later, and both men turned simultaneously.
“Dr. Gasztold, hello,” she nodded. “A wonderful party, I am very grateful for the invitation.”
Wilhelmina didn’t want to go until the very end, but Phoebus insisted. Every time it was the same: empty masks and talk, news, gossip, dust in the eyes … She was a golden-haired doll in a cardboard box, with a transparent front side, attached with clamps to the back wall, and they cut her wrists and ankles painfully, but she had to endure it and not grumble – for it was a sin for her to complain about her fate.
A couple of weeks ago, she signed a contract with a major label, in a month and a half she will be performing solo with a chamber orchestra at the local philharmonic, announcements have already been ordered from top agencies, and her number of listeners on streaming services is constantly growing – because the new music video has made a splash. She is wearing a dress worth as much as a car, and on her tongue are the most delicious snacks and the best world wines.
She lied to Phoebus that she also drank non-alcoholic wine – out of solidarity … Wilhelmina never got drunk, any cold-blooded psychopath could envy her self-control and distancing from the body, any geisha could envy her ability to please.
“We were just talking about the price of eternal life and youth,” said de Lavender, his green eyes looking at the girl. “I want to see the day when Wilhelmina is on the Broadway stage, when she’s about fifty years old!”
“Miss Gustavsson will be on the Broadway stage much earlier,” Gasztold smiled with just his lips.
“Of course,” de Lavender’s hand fell on his protégé’s back, between her shoulder blades, and lingered for a few seconds. “When she’s fifty, she’ll go there as if it were her own home.”
Phoebus didn’t care what Wilhelmina thought about it – but for her, Broadway seemed too commercialized, too mass, even if it was large-scale and