Bottles lined the counter, diligent sentinels guarding against the ravages of aging. He filled his water glass to the brim. Down went three fish-oil pills, translucent and gold. Zinc for his skin, calcium for his nails, vitamin E for his follicles. Lipitor for cholesterol, Prinivil for blood pressure, Singulair for asthma. Concerta for focus, Klonopin to take the edge off, a second dose of Lexapro to ward off depression. Acidophilus for the gut. He washed down three green-tea capsules in hopes of speeding the fat-burning process and then heard David rustling around in the bedroom behind him and popped a Cialis.

With a dropper he applied Rogaine to the thinning area at the back of his head. It didn’t work for the recession at his part, but he sprayed hair filler along the line of exposed scalp, the fibers clinging to his own strands, making them more robust. Propecia would take care of the rest. He wished he could reattain the rich umber shade of his youth, but no matter how often he dyed his hair, it held a fake copper sheen.

It took more and more work and more and more pills, morning and night, to resurrect himself, pull his body into alignment, reassemble his façade. He stared at himself through his father’s eyes, through the eyes of generations of Cassaroys, and saw what they saw: someone pathetic and human and frail.

He felt the Need rise in him, clawing its way up his throat, crying out from his cells. His habits, so expensive, had to be supplied with blood.

There was a reason he kept Dr. Franklin on premises. It was expensive, retaining a physician of his caliber. The medical equipment was expensive. Everything was expensive. René’s life was an extravagant machine that required more upkeep every year. A beautiful monster that needed to be fed.

Dropping the towel from around his waist, René entered the bedroom. David lay nude and languorous, draped across the plush pillows. He cast a glance over a muscled shoulder, and René braced himself for the inevitable flash of disgust that flickered through his eyes before submerging beneath the drugged surface.

It cut him to the quick, that flicker. And yet he couldn’t blame David one bit.

David threw an arm wide, welcoming him to the bed. How handsome he was, with his rosebud lips, soulful eyes, and flushed cheeks. Like something from a Pre-Raphaelite painting.

René approached. “You’re going into town later tonight? For some fun?”

“That’s right.”

The Need clamored inside René’s chest, a trapped bird. “Bring me a fix,” he said.

David tilted his chin down, a lazy approximation of a nod. “Male or female?”

“A few of each,” he said. “Do you think you can manage?”

Of course David could. With his looks and the promise of the chalet, anything was possible.

David rolled over, baring himself. “I can manage anything,” he said.

18. Flesh and Bone

18

Flesh and Bone