Dorian Gray. John Garavaglia
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just call me ‘boy.’”
Dorian could see his best friend’s hand tighten into a fist. “Wait for it…” Dorian whispered to him.
“Wait for what?” Scorned their captor.
Then came a disconcerting hiss all around them. The leader jumped and looked at the small silver ball in the palm of his hand. Something was happening. The top half of the sphere turned, exposing several secret compartments with little spouts on each side.
The man’s exposed eyes widened in fear when the spouts suddenly popped out of the ball, and then released some sort of red gas.
“What the fuh…?” He gasped.
The balls exploded in this huge splash of red paint covering all the insurgents. Dorian and Henry took cover and watched the mayhem unfold. The gunmen covered their faces to shield
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them from the impact but it was no use. From head to toe they were soaked with cold, red paint.
One of the soldiers quickly removed his helmet because he couldn’t see, and then threw it aside in a fit of rage.
“Dude, this is bullshit!” He whined, looking at his paint stained clothes. “That was totally unsanctioned and unfair!”
Dorian got out of his hiding spot and helped Henry to his feet. Henry was smoothing out his wrinkled shirt and wiping the blood red paint from his hands. Then Dorian walked up to the losing paintball team with a satisfied look on his face.
“Hey, I don’t make the rules.” He said to the sore loser. “I just make the difference.” Then he and Henry exchanged high-fives.
The leader of the gang took off his mask and fixed his unkempt hair. He looked down at the broken shells where the paint was kept. He knew this kind of tech wasn’t sold at the local five and dime. This was definitely a custom job. But he couldn’t understand on how it was possible to harness all that firepower in such a small compact object. Then he looked over to see his two opponents laughing at him and his bewildered friends.
“This is why I hate playing with the rich guys.” He muttered.
Before Dorian could react, there came the loud whirring sound of helicopter blades directly above them. Both paintball teams looked up to discover a NYPD chopper was hovering over their heads. Its floodlights caught them.
“Shit! Five-O!” Said one of the scared kids. He groaned at
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that, cursed in frustration, his stomach churning—then heard the drumming of the chopper steadying, felt the wind of its rotors as it hovered over the yard.
“Damn!” Cried another player. “Just when the game was getting good.”
“Attention to you kids down there.” Exclaimed the pilot over the loudspeaker. “Leave the area. This is your last only warning!”
The other team’s captain began to run. “Screw this! I just got out of juvie. That’s the last time I’m hanging out with you guys again!”
“Fine!” Henry replied, running with Dorian. “Go cryin’ home to Momma, baby!”
“I will!”
“Call you tomorrow.”
The kid paused for a moment and said, “Okay.”
As the other kids scattered in different directions, Henry looked over to Dorian was grinning like an idiot.
“Do you think we’re going to get into trouble for this?”
Dorian’s lips curled up to a disturbing smile. “Let’s hope so.”
For Dorian Gray, this was just another Saturday night.
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CHAPTER SEVEN
I’m really just a regular guy who has had
an incredibly blessed life.
Bruce Willis.
The Lords’ luxury penthouse occupied the top floor of a skyscraper in a ritzy uptown neighborhood in the Upper East Side that overlooked Central Park. It was consisted by the two top floors of the sleek high-rise. Flashy gold trim and black leather furniture advertised their wealth.
The Louis XIV couch—which Dorian had been afraid to sit in when he first arrived in the Lords’ home for the fear that a museum guard would yell at him not to touch the exhibits—sat a beautiful wooden end table that looked to be as much an antique as the couch. It doubled as a cabinet, probably originally intended to store drinks or table linens or any of the kind.
An entire sitting room was given over to an entertainment center that included state-of-the-art CD and DVD players, shelves full of CDs and DVDs, half of which were of Dorian and Henry’s favorite music and movies, a plasma widescreen television, and two very comfortable chairs.
There were also two small rooms with much smaller windows providing the same view as the picture window in the foyer. Each room had a desk, computer station, fax machine,
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phone, PDA (mounted to the computer), and an incredibly comfortable-looking leather chair from which to operate all of that machinery. These were Henry’s parents’ home offices.
The master bathroom was a lavish affair, all marble, with a claw foot bathtub and a tub-sized shower stall. Their favorite soaps and shampoos were stacked in the cabinet.
When he was younger, Dorian had gone through a phase of hating everything in his life. Now, he’d more or less made his peace with who he was and where he’d come from.
After his mother’s funeral, he had to go through such a horrible school year. Every other child (with the exception of Henry) having somehow developed the idea that he was stuck-up, and determined to rub his face in the dirt—figuratively and literally.
In retrospect, maybe he had been a bit of a prick that year, or at least the last few months of it, since he was orphaned—bossy, selfish, and nasty, telling everyone what they should be doing for him. The Harrison boy hadn’t listened too well, which was why the two of them were rolling around on the playground, beating the hell out of each other on a daily basis.
After several incidents, Dorian was taken to see a therapist to find a way to cope with the loss of his mother and the sudden extreme change to his life. George and Lori were with him every step of the way and they proved to be wonderful foster parents, and Henry had always been such a good friend to him. Dorian couldn’t ask for anyone else to be his surrogate family. He felt
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like he was at peace, and over time he accepted the reality of his mother not being there for him anymore.
Henry grabbed a handful of popcorn and stuffed his face, and then chased it with an ice cold Coke. “Dude, watch this part.” He said to Dorian, nearly knocking over his snacks. “The tiny guy is gonna flay the skin offa the big guy.”
Dorian pointed at the screen and started laughing. “I’ve seen this before too…actually twice. Both times with you, and you don’t have at least the courtesy of establishing a ‘spoiler alert’ before you ruin a scene.”
“Don’t you boys have anything better to do?” Said a voice from the kitchen. Dorian turned his head to find his stepmother Lori Lord wearing a very formfitting black cocktail dress. The ensemble was completed with a Cosmopolitan in her hand that she was rarely seen without. “If it’s not video games or some gory piece of trash, do you ever engage in anything useful?”
Like topping off your Cosmo for the