97. Gabriel
NINETY-SEVEN
I”m standingin a quiet part of a club, listening to the chatter flowing from the lips of a curvy brunette woman. She”s discussing the merits of powerboats versus sailboats, and I suppress a yawn.
Why the fuck did I agree to attend this party? Oh, right. I accepted the invitation when Riley and I were still together. She believed this charity event, aimed at helping at-risk kids learn to swim, was a noble cause. And so, I consented to attend and donate twenty grand to the non-profit.
”Do you happen to own a boat?” the woman asks, her voice taking on a seductive tone as she gazes at me.
”I do,” I respond simply.
Stephanie, the woman”s name, beams with delight. She finishes her drink with an elaborate flourish and a smack of her scarlet lips.
”Would you like another?” I”d much prefer to brave the lengthy line at the bar than engage in idle small talk with anyone.
”I would love that. Vodka and soda, please.”
Truth be told, I also require a refill, so this serves as a convenient excuse to step away for a few minutes. Stephanie is a decent woman whom I”ve casually known over the years. On a few occasions, the idea of asking her to dinner had crossed my mind. She”s around my age, owns a popular clothing boutique downtown, and is easy on the eyes.
But the last thing I want is to focus my attention on anyone or anything. My mind remains fixated on Riley and likely will for months. Maybe a lifetime. It”s been two weeks since that awful night.
I position myself at the rear of the interminable bar line. After exchanging smiles and handshakes with a judge strolling by, my thoughts return to Riley. Retrieving my phone from my pocket, I engage in the ritual I”ve performed countless times over the past fortnight—checking if she”s called or texted.
Obviously, she hasn”t. Why would she? I was the one who ended our relationship. I was the foolish one.
I am the villain in this tale, and it fucking kills me.
Not a single moment has passed since that night without second-guessing myself. The ache of missing her consumes me, surpassing any emotion I”ve ever experienced for another person—perhaps even the sorrow I felt when my own mother abandoned our family.
I scroll through my emails and stumble upon a text from Andre regarding my father.
Everything is set for tomorrow morning. I”ve arranged for a car to pick him up from the facility. Unless you would prefer to go yourself or have a driver accompany you. I can clear your schedule.
Drive three hours to some remote town to collect my father from prison? No, thank you. Besides, knowing my father, he will likely want some time alone before reintegrating into society.
We are far too similar.
No need to rearrange my schedule. I”ll plan to have dinner with him in evening.
I dread that encounter as though it were a gaping wound on my head. Only God knows how my father will behave around me. We haven”t exchanged a word in years.
This, combined with the breakup, amplifies my feeling of failure.
Shuffling a few inches forward in the line—what the fuck is taking so long? Are they distilling their own vodka?—I glance at a couple of sports scores and tomorrow”s weather forecast. Stephanie”s mention of boats triggers a memory, causing me to ponder whether I should spend the day on the Gulf tomorrow, with nothing but the azure waters as my companion.
Once, such a day trip would have served as a balm for my troubled mind. However, now it holds all the appeal of a bowl of bland oatmeal.
Releasing a heavy sigh, I navigate to an anonymous social media account on my phone. I created it a few days ago to secretly monitor Riley”s posts. She”s kept her online activity to a minimum, mostly sharing work-related content—her articles or those from her newspaper.
But tonight, she”s posted something different. I raise the phone closer to my face, squinting at the screen.
”Looking good, Boston!” exclaims the caption, accompanied by row of exclamation marks and three heart emojis. The photo features a large-screen television in the background, but that”s not what captures my attention. It”s the foreground that sends me into a tailspin.
Her hand, gripping a beer, clinks against another beer held by an unmistakably masculine hand. Is she on a date? A surge of heat rises within me, and I inhale sharply. The photo incites such anger that I am compelled to avert my gaze.
Inadvertently, my eyes meet Stephanie”s. She offers a little wave with her red-tipped fingers, and I respond by raising my hand and mustering a forced smile.
Damn it all to hell. Right now, all I want is to unleash my fists upon something. Preferably that guy with Riley. Advancing another foot in the line, I return my attention to my phone. The backdrop in the photo appears familiar, and it dawns on me that it is the lounge within the building where Riley lives.
My condo building.
For a fleeting moment, I entertain a fantasy of abandoning this charity event, heading to Riley”s condo, shooting the man in the face, and whisking her away. But every facet of that scenario is fundamentally flawed. Also illegal. Probably it wouldn”t endear me to Riley.
I acknowledge this truth.
Yet, the impulse lingers.
Over the next ten minutes, as I wait in line and place the drink order, I cannot erase the image of Riley and another man from my mind. Fucking hell, why can”t I stop these thoughts of her?
At last, I get the two drinks and return to Stephanie”s side.
”That took quite a while,” she says. ”Thank you so much. Cheers.”
She gazes up at me through her long, dark lashes, a grin on her lips. Yet all I can envision is Riley entwined with another man, their bodies stripped bare. A wave of nausea washes over me. I”ve got to get over her.
And you know what they say about the best way of getting over a woman...
To get under another.
Leaning closer to Stephanie, our bodies almost touching, I speak softly into her ear, so she can clearly hear me over the din of conversation. She smells of crisp apples and jasmine, not an unwelcome scent. She leans into my body.
”How”s your drink?”
She takes another sip, her red lips leaving a mark on the glass. ”Perfect.”
”I”m glad.” My voice is a murmur now, and I”m trying to wash away my thoughts of Riley with this Scotch.
I ask her about her business. She responds, and we chat amiably for a while, as much as we can over the music and conversation.
”It”s so loud in here,” she says.
”Would you prefer to go somewhere quieter?”
With a gleam in her eyes, she nods.
”I know just the place. Come.” I lead her out of the main party and into a courtyard. The party”s at a museum. The building is shaped like a horseshoe and in the middle is a lushly decorated space with seating.
Tonight, there are only a few people outdoors, probably because most are interested in the DJ, some celebrity from Miami who is spinning indoors.
Stephanie veers to the right and I follow her to one of those outdoor wicker cabanas, the ones that are shaped like a sphere with an opening. Her black high heels clack on the stone pavers. There”s a cushion inside.
”How”s this?” she asks.
”Fine by me.”
Daintily, she sits on the edge and carefully scoots back, into the cabana. She drapes herself over a cushion. I slide in, and once I”m there, realize it”s far closer quarters than I anticipated. It”s a little awkward, because it almost feels like it”s a bed. Should I keep my shoes on? No one gives men a handbook for moments like this, and it”s not something GQ or Esquire address in their monthly magazines.
”This is so much better. Thank you.” She sighs pleasurably and takes a drink.
It”s so confined in here that it”s difficult not to touch some part of my body with hers. ”A lot quieter, that”s for sure.”
”You strike me as a man who likes serenity. The strong, silent type.”
I nod and take a sip of my drink. ”You could say that.”
”I heard around town that you”ve had a lot of changes in your life lately.” Her words are accompanied by the presence of her slender hand on the top of my thigh. I”m not sure how I feel about this; it”s been months since I”ve been touched by any woman but Riley.
”It”s been a busy month.” I”m not shifting her hand away from my leg, so I guess I”m okay with it. Or I”m drunk and lonely and heartbroken. Maybe all of the above.
She traces my leg with her red-tipped fingernail. ”You know, Gabriel, I”ve always liked you.”
”Mmm-hmm. The feeling”s mutual. I really admire your business sense. By the way, congratulations on being named Tampa businesswoman of the year. Read about that in the paper.”
”Thank you.” Her voice is a perpetual purr. ”I want to be perfectly clear about something.”
”What”s that?”
”I don”t fuck men who are in relationships.”
I grin and slide an arm around her. This woman knows exactly what she wants. It makes me feel a bit like a cricket in the cage of a snake, but my life is shit right now so I”ll roll with it. I finish my drink in one gulp and discard the glass on the side of the cabana.
”What”s the smile for?”
”Well, it”s a bit presumptuous that we”ll fuck, no?”
She licks her lips. ”Is it?”
I shrug. ”But to answer your unasked question, I”m not in a relationship.”
”That”s good to hear. I knew you were with that girl from the paper, but I heard?—”
”I don”t care what you”ve heard. I”m not with her anymore.” I swipe a lock of her dark hair off her cheek.
She studies my face for a moment, her lips pouty and her eyes half-lidded. ”Well, then, Gabriel,” she whispers, her breath warm against my cheek, ”what are you waiting for?”
Without uttering another word, I close the distance between us, capturing her lips in a kiss. It”s a desperate act, born out of frustration, loneliness, and a need to forget all things Riley Murphy.
Our mouths move in sync, a clash of lips and tongues that seeks solace in the midst of chaos.
I allow myself to get lost in the moment, in the taste of Stephanie”s vodka-and-soda flavored lips and the sensation of her fingers twining in my hair. The pain of my breakup with Riley momentarily fades.
The kiss deepens and ignites with each passing second. Teeth clash awkwardly. Our bodies press closer together, the confined space of the cabana amplifying the connection between us. Stephanie”s hands explore my chest, tracing the contours of my muscles beneath the fabric of my suit, while my own hands slide along her curves. It”s difficult not to compare her to Riley; she”s compact and short, curvy as a pinup, and sinfully sexy.
But even in the heat of the moment, as my carnal desire intertwines with desperation, guilt claws at my conscience. Riley”s beautiful face flashes in my mind. It”s a haunting reminder of what I”ve lost and the fact that I”m kissing a woman who is not her.
I pull away from Stephanie. My breath is ragged and so is hers. I rake my hand through my hair. Stephanie”s eyes widen in surprise, her lips still swollen from our kiss.
”What”s wrong?” her voice is soft.
I glance at her kiss-stung mouth, then down at her chest. Her nipples are practically poking through her flimsy slip dress, which is hiked up to her mid-thigh. I”m acutely aware of my hard-on. It”s evidence that I”m alive and it”s also totally unwelcome. Probably I should stop this right now, or I”m going to do something I regret.
But then I remember that Riley is in that condo building not far from here, drinking with another man and probably doing the same thing. Fuck me.
”Nothing”s wrong.” I smirk, moving in like a predator so I can claim her mouth again. I do this even though my stomach is clenched like a vise. ”Nothing at all, babe.”