My Bloody Valentine

32. Maya

32

MAYA

I follow Adrian down the winding stairs into Gabe’s wine cellar, my fingers trailing along the cool stone walls. The soft jazz from upstairs filters down, muted but still carrying the sultry notes that had filled the club all evening.

“This is quite the collection,” Amelia breathes, eyes scanning the rows of vintage bottles.

Gabe flicks on another light, illuminating the intimate space. “Been curating it for years. Some of these bottles have stories that would curl your hair.”

The cellar holds an old wooden table surrounded by leather chairs, creating a cozy nook among the wine racks. Adrian pulls out a chair for me, his hand lingering on my shoulder as I sit.

“I think this calls for something special.” Gabe moves through the racks with practiced ease, selecting a dusty bottle. “1982 Bordeaux. Been saving it for the right moment.”

I catch Amelia watching Gabe’s movements with barely concealed interest. How she tracks him reminds me of how I first watched Adrian—wary but no less attracted to his vitality.

“To a successful gallery showing,” Adrian raises his glass once Gabe has poured. The rich red wine catches the light.

“And to new... partnerships,” Gabe adds, his eyes meeting Amelia’s briefly before sliding to Adrian and me.

The air feels thick with unspoken words. I enjoy a quick taste of wine, letting its complex notes bloom on my tongue. Adrian’s fingers trace circles on my knee under the table, and I feel the familiar pull to submit to him.

“You two seem to have known each other forever,” Amelia says to Gabe and Adrian, leaning forward.

“Since we were kids,” Gabe confirms, swirling his wine. “Grew up three houses apart. Got into plenty of trouble together.”

“The kind of trouble that shapes who you become,” Adrian adds quietly.

I feel the weight of secrets in the room, pressing against us like a physical force. The jazz above our heads shifts to a slower, more sensual melody. Amelia’s cheeks are flushed from the wine or Gabe’s proximity—perhaps both.

I sip my wine and watch Amelia over the rim of my glass. Her gaze keeps dropping to Gabe’s hands as he gestures while talking about wine.

“The ’82 pairs perfectly with dark chocolate,” Adrian says, swirling his glass. “The tannins complement the bitter notes.”

“True, but I prefer the ’86 with your truffles,” Gabe replies, reaching for the bottle. His forearms flex as he pours more wine, and I notice Amelia’s eyes tracking the movement, lingering on his waist before darting away.

“The ’86 is too fruit-forward,” Adrian argues. “It overwhelms the subtle flavors.”

Gabe leans back in his chair, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops. Amelia adjusts her position in the chair, eyes roaming over Gabe’s chest as his shirt pulls across it.

“You’re just being a snob,” Gabe chuckles. “The ’86 has complexity you’re missing.”

I hide my smile as Amelia bites her lip, her attention fixed on Gabe’s hands as he demonstrates how to decant an older vintage. Her cheeks flush when he catches her looking, but he just winks and continues his debate with Adrian.

“Here, let me show you the difference.” Gabe stands and moves to fetch another bottle. His movements are fluid and graceful. Amelia’s gaze follows the line of his back, dropping lower before she quickly looks away.

I remember that feeling—the dangerous attraction, the guilty pleasure of looking when you think no one notices. Watching Amelia’s careful glances reminds me of my early encounters with Adrian before I knew what lay beneath his polished surface.

I lean closer to Adrian, keeping my voice low. “Tell me more about that ’82 vintage.”

He catches my meaning, angling his body to give Gabe and Amelia the illusion of privacy. His fingers trace patterns on my palm as he launches into a detailed analysis of wine regions.

Across the table, Gabe shifts his chair closer to Amelia. “Your brushwork in that last piece was stunning. The way you captured movement...”

“You noticed that?” Amelia tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her other hand resting near Gabe’s on the table.

“Hard not to. Your technique is...” His fingers brush against hers as he reaches for his glass. “Captivating.”

Adrian squeezes my hand, continuing his wine monologue. At the same time, we both pretend not to notice the electricity crackling between our friends.

“I could show you my studio sometime,” Amelia says, breathless. “If you’re interested.”

“Very interested.” Gabe’s voice drops lower, rougher. He leans in. “Though I suspect your talents extend beyond just painting.”

I feel the heat rise in my cheeks as Amelia’s breath catches. Adrian’s thumb traces my wrist as he seamlessly discusses soil composition.

“The studio has excellent lighting,” Amelia manages, her fingers now definitely tangled with Gabe’s. “Perfect for studying details.”

“I’ve always appreciated...” Gabe pauses, his free hand moving to brush Amelia’s shoulder. “Fine details.”

Adrian raises his voice slightly, returning my attention to his wine lecture. But I catch Amelia’s shiver as Gabe’s fingers trail down her arm, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Perhaps we should continue this discussion somewhere more private,” Gabe suggests, his voice barely above a whisper.

I tense as one of Gabe’s waiters hurries down the cellar steps, his face tight with worry.

“Mr. Dawson, there’s a health inspector upstairs. Says he needs to do an immediate inspection.”

My stomach drops. I know what lies beneath the stage floor—the mummified remains of Gabe’s victims, carefully preserved and hidden. Adrian told me about them during one of our intimate confessions.

Gabe’s expression doesn’t change, but his fingers tighten slightly on his wine glass. “At this hour? That’s unusual.”

“He’s quite insistent, sir. Says there was a complaint.”

Adrian catches my eye, a silent warning to stay calm. Amelia admires the wine collection, oblivious to the tension crackling through the room.

“Well,” Gabe stands smoothly, adjusting his cuffs. “We can’t keep a city official waiting. Adrian, perhaps you’d like to share that ’86 vintage with the ladies while I handle this?”

“Of course.” Adrian’s voice remains perfectly steady. “I’d be happy to explain why it’s inferior to the ’82.”

I force a laugh, though my heart pounds against my ribs. One wrong move, one loose floorboard, and everything could unravel.

“Don’t be too long,” Amelia calls after Gabe, her cheeks still flushed from wine and attraction. “You promised to tell me more about that jazz collection upstairs.”

Gabe flashes her a charming smile. “I won’t keep you waiting, beautiful.” He follows the waiter up the stairs, his movements unhurried and confident.

I take a long sip of wine, fighting to keep my hands steady. Above us, the jazz continues to play, and I wonder if the inspector, questioning Gabe about health codes and permits, can imagine what horrors lurk in this club.

I watch Adrian swirl his wine, discussing the merits of different vintages so easily that you’d never guess what might be happening upstairs. His hand rests casually on my knee, thumb stroking small circles that both comfort and heighten my anxiety.

“The ’86 really opens up after about thirty minutes,” he explains to Amelia, who nods enthusiastically.

My fingers clench around my glass as footsteps sound on the stairs. Gabe appears as relaxed as when he left, straightening his cuffs as he descends.

“Everything okay up there?” Amelia asks, leaning forward with interest.

Gabe slides back into his seat, picking up his wine glass. “Just some nonsense about a smell complaint. Walked the inspector through the whole place—didn’t find anything unusual. Probably one of our competitors trying to cause trouble.”

“Or drunk customers playing pranks,” Adrian adds, reaching for the bottle.

“Exactly.” Gabe’s eyes meet mine briefly before he turns back to Amelia. “Now, where were we? Ah yes, you were telling me about your studio.”

I take a slow breath, willing my racing heart to calm. Adrian’s hand squeezes my knee gently under the table. I summon the strength to smile as Amelia launches into an animated description of her workspace.

I sip my wine, letting the warmth spread through my chest as the jazz drifts from above. The saxophone’s mournful wail mingles with piano keys, creating a haunting melody that seems to seep into the stone walls of the cellar. Each note floats down like a delicate reminder of the normal world above us—a world of cocktails, dancing, and carefree laughter.

But I know what lies beneath those polished floorboards where the band plays. The thought makes my fingers tighten around the stem of my wine glass. While tourists and music lovers sway to sultry rhythms, they have no idea they’re dancing above Gabe’s carefully preserved collection.

Adrian’s thumb traces another circle on my knee, grounding me in the present moment. I focus on the way Amelia leans toward Gabe, completely unaware that this man is a killer.

The music shifts to something slower, more sensual. The bass thrums through the ceiling. I imagine it resonating through those hidden spaces, through bone and flesh preserved with meticulous care. Each note seems to pulse with secrets, with whispered confessions that never reach the surface.

“You okay?” Adrian murmurs, his lips brushing my ear.

I nod, taking another sip of wine. The jazz continues its seductive melody above us, a beautiful mask for the horror it conceals—like Adrian’s chocolates or Gabe’s charming smile—lovely things that hide wicked truths.