Arousing a Dragon Read online

  We’re done, she thought. So there it was. The break-up text. Not only that, it sounded like he was going to be showing those nude pictures of her to anyone and everyone. There went the only circle of friends that she’d made since arriving in the city. She shouldn’t have expected anything less from Brodie. Tears started even though she didn’t really feel sad.

  Screw it, she thought savagely, dabbing at the edges of her eyes so that she didn’t smudge her makeup. Screw it. Screw New York fucking City. Screw this job. And screw Brodie Wood.

  You won’t be screwing Brodie Wood any time soon, her traitorous thoughts butted in.

  Aurora walked out of the stall and surveyed herself in the mirror. She had shoulder-length blonde hair – tied up this evening into a neat bun at the back of her head – lapis lazuli eyes, a cute nose and a smattering of faint freckles.

  There was the sound of someone sniffing vigorously in one of the stalls behind her. Snorting. The clearing of a throat. An elegantly dressed woman of about fifty emerged from the stall tucking a twenty-dollar bill back into her purse and wiping one of her nostrils. As she walked to a free sink, Aurora saw her gaze linger on Aurora’s ass.

  And you’ve got a butt that can turn heads even among the ladies, her mind told her.

  The woman washed her hands and dried them carefully with one of the folded cloths on the counter. She regarded herself in the mirror, adjusted the neckline of her dress and adjusted her boobs, and then looked over at Aurora and studied her brazenly.

  “Oh, darling,” she said, in an accent that dripped of wealth and a SoHo apartment, “if I still had breasts perky enough that I didn’t need to wear a bra, like you, I’d consider myself lucky indeed.”

  Aurora smiled at the woman.

  She was going to be alright. She was going to be fine. That dumbass Brodie would be kicking himself when he woke up tomorrow morning and realized what he’d done.

  Still, no one likes getting dumped.

  The rich gala guest looked into the mirror again and grimaced. “God, I look ghastly,” she sighed.

  Without thinking, Aurora said, “Let me help you, ma’am.”

  “God, don’t call me ‘ma’am’, darling, but if you think you can work a bit of magic, then by all means…”

  “Have you got some wipes and pressed powder?”

  The woman fished in her purse and pulled out the items.

  Aurora had never been one for class boundaries, had always just tried to see people as people. She tactfully dabbed away the excess blow around the woman’s nostrils, making sure not to catch her eye.

  “I know, I know, naughty me,” the older woman said, “but these galas are such dull affairs. Although the art on display tonight is a touch edgier than I think anyone here is used to.”

  It only took Aurora about three minutes to fix the wealthy guest’s make-up. When she was done, the woman looked into the mirror again and cocked an eyebrow.

  “That’ll do nicely,” she said. “Here, take this,” and she pulled a hundred-dollar bill from her purse.

  Aurora took a step away.

  “Oh no,” she said, “that’s ok! I was just helping out a lady in distress.”

  The woman looked at her for a moment, nodded and then headed for the door. With her fingers on the handle, she turned and said, “Speaking of ladies in distress, darling, I can see you’re sad. We needn’t go into the details, but I want you to know that someone like you is going to go far in this city. You just keep your chin up and don’t let anyone tell you what you can’t do.”

  And then she was gone.

  Buoyed by this advice, Aurora strode out of the bathroom and out into the crowd. She walked with her head held high, straight over to the tastefully decorated table on which trays of fresh, filled champagne flutes were arrayed. Under the pretext of tidying up, Aurora ducked down behind the table, which was covered with a tablecloth that reached to the floor, and downed a glass of champagne in one gulp. The bubbles went up her nose and she had to suppress a burp, but it made her feel better somehow. It was as if the drink was marking a new chapter in her life – and the passing of an old one.

  Perhaps it was just the stress of the past couple of hours, what with having to deal with Brodie’s phone onslaught and her chat with her supervisor, or maybe it was being surrounded by all these affluent people who looked like they didn’t have a care in the world, but a reckless sort of hopelessness enveloped Aurora’s mind. She walked about the large, open gallery with an empty tray, making a sort of pit-stop at each of the drinks tables that had been placed in strategically around the place. She’d pick up a couple of full glasses, looking as if she was simply grabbing some drinks for two of the viewers, and then she would find a dark and secluded corner where she could knock them back. She would drop the empty glasses into the kitchen and move onto the next table.

  Within an hour, Aurora had dispensed with the tray and was wandering about the gallery with a bottle clutched in her hand. She was feeling good. Confident. She took a swig from the bottle.

  “Aurora!” a voice said in her ear.

  Aurora turned. It was Jenny, one of the catering team.

  “Hey, girl,” Aurora said loudly, smiling tipsily.

  “Aurora what the hell d’you think you’re up to?” Jenney murmured, her eyes wide. “You’ll be out the door in two seconds if Fiona sees you doing what you’re doing!”

  Aurora waved a hand, conveying that what Fiona might or might not do was of no concern to her right at that moment. Instead, she replied brashly, “Can you believe that this crap is considered art? It’s just a load of balls – literally.” Aurora squinted about. Realization dawned on her drunken features. “Actually, there aren’t even any balls! Have you noticed that? It’s just a fucking forest of dicks!”

  “Aurora,” Jenny moaned, clutching at Aurora’s arm, “we’ve got to do something before Fiona sees you!”

  Suddenly the crowd of wannabe art connoisseurs started moving towards the back of the gallery, murmuring.

  “Something’s going on, Jenny!” Aurora pulled herself from her colleague’s grip and started to drift in the direction that everyone else was moving.

  Still clutching her bottle of champagne, Aurora brushed past a couple who stood looking pensively at a three-foot high sculpture of a penis standing rigidly to attention. It was dressed in a general’s military uniform. Aurora caught the eye of the woman, glanced at her tuxedo-clad partner and then said in a friendly voice, “Aren’t these all just reminding you of what might’ve been?” She nodded sideways at the man, dropped her gaze to his crotch, looked up at the woman and made a sad face.

  Before the woman could respond, a woman, who Aurora recognized as the gallery owner, called for silence and began to speak.

  Aurora, bottle still in hand – though a lot emptier – moved through the crowd to the front row. Just as she arrived, the gallery owner wrapped up her speech and there was a round of applause. Aurora saw that there was a long table set out, along which were spaced eight phallic sculptures. The one closest to Aurora was must have been about four feet tall, the rest of them descending in height down the row until the collection ended with a carved stone statue that must have been about ten inches tall. Aurora found herself thinking of Brodie Wood as her eyes alighted on the stone pecker.

  Without any warning, the tips of the penis statues suddenly began to glow and then fire shot out of them! Great streams of fire that lashed up towards the ceiling of the gallery like eight roaring whips. Aurora felt the heat wash over her face, gazing horrified at the flames licking suggestively out of the artworks, waving and blossoming in the air.

  Without thinking, without even knowing what she was doing, Aurora found herself dropping the now empty bottle of champagne and ripping a fire extinguisher from a wall. In four steps, she was in front of the flaming artworks. The yelling and shouting coming from the crowd behind her and the flickering figure of the gallery owner in front of her was only so much white noise. Her face was set
in a rictus of terrified concentration. Sweat beaded her forehead, her eyes were wide and her heart thundered in her throat. She was running totally on autopilot. Not thinking. Barely breathing.

  A frenzied man emerged from the crowd, screaming in a language Aurora didn’t understand. She blinked. Her hand stopped squeezing the trigger of the fire extinguisher. It was the artist. He was running his hands through his curly blonde hair, tugging at his goatee and wailing.

  Danish, Aurora’s booze-soaked brain supplied. He’s Danish.

  There was a tap on Aurora’s shoulder and she pivoted, instinctively pulling the trigger again, spraying the man who had just come up behind her

  He was a handsome man, in an understated way. Brown hair, brown eyes, perfectly crafted stubble that wasn’t quite a beard. He had a polite face, and was somehow familiar to Aurora, though her brain cells, which were still floating in champagne, seemed incapable of figuring out how she knew him.

  “’m sorry,” Aurora slurred, as all around her the conversation buzzed and the Danish artist wailed and gestured at his art.

  “I think you got it,” the well-dressed man said, brushing futilely at the powder that covered his chest, “or should I stop, drop and roll too?”

  The man didn’t yell at her – he didn’t even appear to be upset. He just looked at her with a long, slow stare for a moment or two. Aurora was usually quite bashful in the face of confidence, but she found herself held by the brown eyes. She had the distinct impression that she was being inspected. She noticed that in the depths of those eyes were flecks of gold.

  Then Harper was at her shoulder, grabbing her, spinning her around, and the spell was broken.

  “Aurora,” she cried, “what the hell is wrong with you? Why’d you do that?” She lowered her voice and said in a voice that was probably only audible to dogs and bats, “Do you know who that guy is? That’s Finn Hawthorne…”

  Harper turned to the man in the ruined suit. “Mr. Hawthorne I am so sorry about this.”

  Finn Hawthorne said nothing, but raised an eyebrow that could have meant anything.

  “I ­– I – I just saw the fire and…” Tears of embarrassment filled her eyes. “It was the fire! I just saw the flames and reacted! You know ever since – you know what I’m like around fire.”

  Harper held her by the shoulders. “Goddamn it, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you! Should’ve warned you.”

  “Harp, I’m sorry,” Aurora said, a single tear tracking down her cheek.

  “It’s okay, we’ll sort it out. We just need–”

  They were interrupted by the irate artist. He came storming up, muttering to himself in Danish, before pointing a skinny finger at Aurora and saying in a thick accent, “I want this woman fired! You…you, you have ruined my beautiful peckers – look, at what you have done. Ruined! Months and months of painful modelling and sculpting. What am I supposed to do if this shitty gallery insists on employing half-witted morons who don’t know the difference between a forest fire and an artistic display, eh? It’s a disgrace, an outrage! I want her arrested for destruction of property!”

  Aurora was terrified. Arrested? There was no way she could afford to pay for the damages. As fucking ludicrous as she found the artwork on display she didn’t doubt that the furious artist had been hoping to charge thousands of dollars for each dong-shaped piece. The champagne roiled in her stomach at the thought of what might happen.

  The crowd was quieting down a bit now, though there were a few phones out recording what had happened. There were some disapproving murmurs floating about, but also a fair amount of giggling in the gathering. Clearly, Aurora was not the only one suffering from a surfeit of champagne.

  Fired, dumped and locked up, all in one night… Aurora thought, dizzily. The room had taken on a definite tilt and she could feel sweat under the collar of her tight black shirt.

  She swallowed. Closed her eyes. Saw the flames licking up towards the ceiling and heard the roar of the greedy orange tongues.

  Her stomach heaved.

  Harper was attempting to placate the irate artist and saying, “Look, it’s just a bit of carbon dioxide, I’m sure it’s not so –”

  Aurora turned and power-spewed all over the largest, still-smoking penis sculpture. Vomit went everywhere. Some found its way onto the shirt front of the artist, chunks of the hasty macaroni and cheese staff dinner that Aurora had eaten in the kitchen sticking to the silk shirt like lumps of wallpaper glue.

  The artist gazed in stricken disbelief at Aurora. Then down at his shirt. Then back at Aurora.

  “’m sorry,” Aurora tried to say, but instead of words more recycled champagne came out in a rush that covered the Dane’s shoes. She dropped to her knees, her stomach heaving, her abdominals contracting painfully.

  “My god,” she heard the Danish artist say weakly, “this is the most repulsive thing to ever happen in my career. This gallery will not hear the end of this.”

  The crowd parted as a couple of new figures made their way through the crowd of spectators. Oddly, it looked like many of the people gathered around were rather enjoying themselves. They spent much of their time in the evenings attending auctions and galas and balls and the like, and never in the experiences of any of them had they bore witness to member of the serving staff getting completely sloshed on champagne before throwing up all over the dreadful art that they were supposed to be bidding on. For a bunch of multi-millionaires and celebrities it was nice to get to see the unexpected and new every now and again.

  The two new figures stopped near Aurora. One of them bent down. Out of the corner of her watering eye Aurora could just make out that the person was dressed almost entirely in navy blue.

  A hand fell on her shoulder as she rolled back on her haunches.

  “Alright, miss, if you’re all done here, I’m afraid you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…”

  Chapter 2

  Aurora awoke slowly the next morning, coming up to the surface of consciousness like a bubble in a stream. Before opening her eyes she peeled her sticky lips apart. Her tongue seemed to have swollen to three times its usual thickness and it tasted like something had crawled into her mouth in the night and died. Her eyeballs felt like they’d been dipped in lemon juice and rolled in sand. It was not a promising start to the day.

  She moaned as she sat up, oblivious for one brief moment as to where she was or how she’d got there.

  “Morning sunshine. In all my years, I’ve never seen a little thing like you produce so much vomit! I don’t know where a white girl like you parties, but you gotta give me a call next time!”

  Aurora rubbed at her eyes and turned to her left, becoming aware at the same time that she was wreathed in a stench that smelled like a taco dinner gone horrendously wrong.

  She found herself on a hard wooden bench in a large cage filled with some of the saddest, most woebegone women that she had ever seen. Aurora might’ve been from a sheltered little town in Nebraska, but she had seen enough movies to recognize a drunk tank when she found herself in one. The voice – and smell – was emanating from a mascara-streaked, scantily clad, peroxide blonde woman who was bizarrely upbeat. As Aurora watched, the woman squirmed where she sat and let loose a fart. Aurora realized, with disbelief, that this woman was chatting away to her while evacuating her bowels.

  Aurora threw herself at the bars, pleading to be let out to make her one phone call.

  She was led out by an amused-looking officer who showed her where the phone was. Aurora, nursing the kind of hangover that would be better remedied by a full day of streaming the latest period drama coupled with grilled cheese sandwiches, picked up the battered receiver and stared into space for a moment, trying to figure out who she was going to call. She’d been divested of all her possessions when she’d been hauled into the police station. She doubted whether they’d hand her phone over so that she could search for a phone number, and besides, her phone was probably dead from all the action it’d be
en getting the previous evening.

  There was only one number that she could recall off the top of her head.

  Ryker Swanson – her ex-fiancé.

  Swallowing her pride – and a little bit of vomit that had crept up her throat at the thought of what her former beau was going to say to her – Aurora dialed in the number and waited.

  The phone buzzed a few times. Aurora breathed a little easier. Maybe it’d be better if Ryker wasn’t home.

  “Hello?”

  Just that one word from the familiar voice acted like a balm on Aurora’s frazzled nerves. The voice was comfort. The voice was a little sliver of home.

  “Ryker,” Aurora said, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat. “Ryker, it’s me”

  For a moment, there was only the faint hiss of silence.

  Then a sound exploded from the receiver. Even the police officer who’d escorted Aurora to the phone raised her eyebrows at the torrent of fury that poured from the grubby plastic phone.

  “Aurora? Holy shit, you’ve got some nerve calling me! Have you got any idea how goddamn embarrassed I was, how goddamn ridiculous you made me look in front of all our friends and family? You stood me up, Aurora! Stood me up at our fucking wedding! Who does that, huh? Who goddamn does that shit? We’ve known each other for years – since high-school for God’s sake. You could’ve at least done me the courtesy of saying no when I asked you to marry me! Maybe not waited for the fucking day of the wedding to do a runner! Jesus, you must be out of your mind calling me.”

  Aurora let Ryker vent, holding the phone away from her ear in an attempt to spare her aching brain as much as possible. Then, when he took a breath, she said, “Ryker, I’m in trouble. I need some help.”

  “Honey,” Ryker replied coldly, his voice still raised enough so that she had to hold the receiver a foot away from her ear, “you never said a truer word. The kinda help you need though don’t come cheap! Psychiatrists rarely do!”

  “Look, I’m in a jam. In New York.”