Chapter 7
Abubble of laughter rises, and I throw my head back, letting it out.
Gabriel spins back to face me. “You think this is funny?”
“A little.” I can’t stifle my grin and don’t even try. “What did you expect, leaving an expensive car in this neighborhood?”
He pulls out his phone, frowning at the screen. “I need to report this.”
“To who? The cops?” I laugh again, shaking my head and swinging my leg back over my bike. “Good luck. Half the force in this district is on someone’s payroll.”
I turn the key in the ignition. I’m not waiting around for whatever car service he’ll need to call. Tonight was a onetime arrangement, and now it’s done.
Gabriel steps in front of the bike, blocking my path. “You’re going to leave me here?”
“Yep.”
“At least take me back to your place to wait for my car to be found.” He waits, expectation built into the pause.
I raise an eyebrow. “Why should I?”
“Because it’s after four in the morning, and we’re in a neighborhood where my car was stolen?” He gestures to the empty parking space.
“You can wait inside the Blue Note.”
“With your friends who looked like they wanted to kill me?” Gabriel crosses his arms over his chest. “No thanks. I prefer my chances staying with you.”
I rev the engine in a clear signal that this conversation is over. “Give me a compelling reason that’s not a fancy present I don’t need.”
Gabriel sweeps his jacket to the side to hook his thumbs into his front pockets, canting his hips forward, and heat curls through my stomach in response. “Sounds like you have something in mind.”
I track the movement of his mouth before I can stop myself, and the memory of his insistence that the flirting was real follows close behind.
“Is talking all that pretty mouth is good for?” The words escape before I can filter them, charged with an invitation I hadn’t planned to extend.
Gabriel’s tongue darts out to skim his full bottom lip. “Take me back to your place, and I’ll let you find out.”
My mouth goes dry. This is dangerous territory, crossing lines I’ve drawn around myself for protection. But the night’s adrenaline still courses through me, and Gabriel is offering a different kind of release than my usual methods.
My hands tighten around the handlebars. “I don’t reciprocate.”
The boundary is clear, non-negotiable. If he wants more, this ends now.
Gabriel pulls the helmet back on without hesitation and climbs onto the back of the bike. His arms embrace me again, this time slow and deliberate, each inch of contact lingering.
“I can work with that,” he murmurs into my ear before pulling the visor down.
The heat of his body returns, seeping through my clothes as we pull away from the curb. This time, I don’t accelerate to escape the sensation.
Instead, I let the promise of his words wrap around us both as we head toward my apartment and whatever awaits us there.
The key sticks in my door lock, requiring a jiggle I’ve perfected over months of repetition. Gabriel stands too close behind me, his breath warm on my neck as I work the stubborn mechanism.
When the door swings open at last, stale air rushes out to greet us, carrying the lingering scent of yesterday’s coffee and the mustiness of a place where the windows are never open to allow in fresh air.
I flick on the single overhead light, its harsh fluorescence exposing the sparse furniture within.
“Home sweet home,” I mutter, stepping aside to let Gabriel enter.
His expensive Italian shoes shush across the worn linoleum of the entryway as he takes in my living space.
A secondhand couch covered in faded upholstery sits facing a scratched coffee table bearing rings from countless glasses, and the kitchenette hugs one wall with a double-burner stove top and mini-fridge.
A cardboard box serves as a makeshift end table, with a lamp missing a shade balanced on top.
The walls are bare except for a water stain in the corner.
No framed photos. No decorative touches. Nothing here reveals who I am beyond the bare necessities.
Gabriel moves further into the apartment, and my skin crawls with the awareness of how much this reveals about me.
“Do you want anything to drink?” I ask, kicking the door shut and throwing the deadbolt. The familiar click of metal sliding into place eases some of the tension in my shoulders.
“Water is fine.” Gabriel shrugs off his jacket, revealing a black button-down that hugs the contours of his chest and shoulders.
I head to the kitchen, eager for distance, and fill a glass from the tap. The pipes knock in protest, water sputtering before running clear. When I turn back, Gabriel has spotted the one thing in my apartment with meaning.
He stands by the coffee table, head tilted as he studies the oversized art book lying open to a spread of Norman Rockwell paintings. His finger traces a page, curiosity evident in the furrow of his brow.
The book is the one indulgence I allow myself, and the pages are worn from repeated viewing, corners dog-eared to mark favorite images. A relic from my shitty years in the group homes, when I’d hide in the public library for hours, losing myself in depictions of a world I’d never experience.
“Norman Rockwell.” Gabriel’s head lifts in surprise. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
I cross the room in three strides and close the book with more force than necessary, sliding it beneath a stack of mail. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing bad.” He raises his hands in a placating gesture. “I like Rockwell, too. ‘The Problem We All Live With’ is one of my favorites.”
The title sounds familiar, but I’ve never bothered to learn their names.
What stays with me are the images of families at dinner tables, children on Christmas morning, all the dozens of moments of kindness and connection displayed in the paintings, like glimpses through windows into an alternate universe.
“It was a gift,” I lie, handing him the water glass with enough force to slosh liquid over the rim.
“Thoughtful gift,” he says, sounding like he doesn’t believe me, but not pushing the topic.
I turn away, moving to a cabinet where a bottle of whiskey sits half-empty beside a stack of chipped mugs. My hands are steady as I pour a generous measure, but heat crawls up my neck. Gabriel hasn’t seen this piece of me that I’ve kept hidden.
The whiskey burns going down, washing away the embarrassment. I pour another, then carry the bottle to the couch and sit, knees spread, claiming space in my own territory.
“You promised your mouth could do more than talk,” I remind him, glass dangling from my fingers. “Or was that a lie so I wouldn’t leave you on the street?”
Gabriel sets his water on the coffee table untouched as he takes in my defensive posture, the challenge in my stance, and the whiskey clutched in my hand. “We could take our time. Set a mood first.”
I laugh, the sound harsh in the small room. “If you want ambiance, you can walk back to Blue Note. They’ve got all the candles and mood lighting you need.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He steps closer, moving with the same graceful confidence he showed at the docks. “I meant we could talk. Get to know each other beyond…”
“Beyond what?” I drain my glass, setting it down with a sharp click. “Beyond you stalking me at work? Beyond you showing up at the Blue Note? Beyond whatever game you’re playing?”
Gabriel doesn’t flinch at my accusations, and his calm infuriates me. “Beyond what we both want right now.”
My body responds to the desire for connection in the offer, heat pooling in my groin despite my best efforts.
“If you’ve changed your mind, you can leave anytime.” I spread my legs wider in an unmistakable demand and don’t look away. “Door’s right there.”
It’s an out, offered before this goes further. What I’m offering is physical release without emotional access. I’ll use his body but keep my own barriers in place.
Gabriel doesn’t move toward the door. His pupils expand as he takes a step closer, then another, until he stands in front of me. His fingers reach for my cheek, and I flinch away from the unexpected tenderness of the gesture.
“No touching my face,” I snap, establishing another boundary.
He accepts this new rule without question, redirecting his hand to my shoulder instead, and the warmth of his palm sends currents of awareness through my skin. “Anything else I should know?”
“Yeah.” I reach for his hip, pulling him closer until he stands between my spread legs. “I don’t kiss, so don’t even try that mushy shit.”
Gabriel’s pupils expand, black consuming amber. “Understood.”
“And this changes nothing between us.” My fingers flex around his body. “Tomorrow, you go back to being the annoying rich boy at the club, and I go back to ignoring you.”
“We’ll see,” he says, already confident of the outcome.
The challenge in those two words sends a spike of adrenaline through me. I should shut this down now, push him away, end whatever this is before it complicates the careful isolation I’ve constructed around my life.
Instead, I tighten my grip on his hip. “Don’t you have something to prove right now?”
His nostrils flare in response. “I sure do.”
He sinks to his knees between my spread legs, hands settling on my thighs with deliberate pressure. His fingers find my belt buckle, working the leather free.
“Another time,” he murmurs, the metal clinking as he pulls the belt through the loops. “When you’re ready to talk.”
The presumption of another time should infuriate me, but my anger dissolves as he unbuttons my jeans and eases the zipper down. His knuckles brush the growing hardness beneath, and my breath hitches at the contact.
Gabriel tugs at the waistband, a silent request for me to lift my hips. I comply, allowing him to pull the denim down to my ankles, exposing the black boxer briefs beneath. The cool air raises goose bumps along my skin, while Gabriel’s hands burn in comparison as they slide up my thighs.