Chapter 31 Gabriel
Gabriel
One Hour Ago
My parents and Henry warned me about ignoring my own needs for too long. James Mellinger said the same thing when he and Clarissa came to the penthouse in Manhattan after I first brought Sydney home.
Leaving her alone was the kindest thing I could do for either of us.
“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”
I can’t shut off the memory of those words or close the spigot on the pain pouring through me.
In our home gym, sweat sheens across my naked torso, and I grunt with exertion.
The rhythmic slap, slap, slap of sound reaches my ears through a haze, but I barely hear it over her words echoing in my head.
Physical release has always been what works for me. Once, it involved drowning myself in alcohol, then drowning in random pussy and ass.
It took therapy and getting sober to understand why I’d been incapable of refusing sex with a woman. But no child could be branded, carved up, and told by a laughing man holding a bloody knife that his cock and balls were next, and not take lasting psychological damage.
I was proving to myself that they hadn’t taken my ability to be a man.
I drank and fucked to forget the guilt of nearly getting my brother killed, the brand and blades carving into my skin, the threat that my little ten-year-old pecker was next.
The blood and gore as Henry acted as a sniper and took them out, his bullets turning human monsters into corpses falling against me and around me.
My brother, bleeding out with a bullet in his gut.
Reaching my own slippery, bloody fingers for the weapon still held in a dead man’s hand and pulling the trigger on a woman who looked like somebody’s mom because she was.
Henry threatening to kill me himself if I didn’t leave him behind to get help.
I’ve done enough therapy to have robbed the story of its immediate brutal impact. I can talk about it without flinching, and I’ve forgiven the child I was for my mistakes.
The addictions I used to self-medicate afterward were different. I deserve every bit of recrimination, self-inflicted and otherwise. Sydney wasn’t even close to the worst of my collateral damage, but she was the one that got through to me.
The red leather bag beneath my fists absorbs my blows. Sweat burns my eyes. I land a roundhouse kick, then another, before resuming my punches, directing my strikes for maximum impact.
I stop only when I have no choice and land on my ass on the blue mat, unwrapping my knuckles and draping my arms over my knees, breath sawing in and out of my burning lungs.
When I straighten, I catch sight of my reflection in the wall of mirrors. Sweat drips down my face and body. Soaking strands of hair cling to my head. Only black athletic shorts cover my body.
The tattoos on my arms are for Sydney. But the ink that stretches across my pecs is there for me. To remind me that my choices affect others.
When I got them, I never imagined Sydney would see them, let alone look straight at them and miss the most important part.
Zack was confused when I asked for it, until I explained.
It was for me, in those moments when I stood in front of the mirror and reminded myself of the man I’d been and the one I had to become.
The weekend I met her is a blur of drunken stupidity in my memory.
I’d stepped out the kitchen door and onto the sprawling back porch of my sister’s house in central Pennsylvania. A sober person would have noticed the warmth of the sun, colorful foliage, and the scent of autumn. Not me.
It was barely past noon, and I’d already been drinking for hours. A tumbler of bourbon on the rocks dangled from my fingertips. The squeak and rattle of the porch swing chains drew my attention.
There she is. It was the oddest thought. It’s not as though I was looking for her, but I knew her name by process of elimination. She was the only one of my sister’s friends here that I’d never met.
Cute. Hard to say for sure since she was sitting with one leg tucked beneath her, the other gently pushing off the floor to keep the swing rocking, but I’d guess she was somewhere around five foot eight or nine.
Muscle flexed in her thigh beneath soft black cotton pants.
Her green sweater hung loose off one shoulder, and her hair .
. . God, that hair. Long, dark, and wavy, it was so thick if she attempted a ponytail it would be the size of her wrist at the base.
Her skin glowed with an olive-toned sun-ripened tan, and her chin came to the cutest fucking point.
Right then and there, I made a plan to have her up in my room with my hand buried in that dark mass, controlling her head as she bobbed over my cock. It was arrogant, sure, but I knew what women liked, and it was me.
I leaned against the white porch railing and smirked, lifting my drink to my lips. “Hey, gorgeous.”
She raised her beautiful burnished-mahogany gaze from the novel in her lap to look my way. Her attention trailed down my body, then back up, but her mouth curved downward. Unexpected.
“Good book?” I asked.
“It is,” she said.
Then she went back to reading.
“My name is Gabriel, like the angel.”
When she glanced back at me, I grinned. A little back and forth, and she’d give me the opening I needed to offer to take her to heaven.
She huffed and lowered her book. “I know who you are.”
Of course she did. “Tell me about you.” She was the former scholarship girl. “You must be smart.”
“Because I read? If I tell you my name, will you even remember it?”
“I already know your name, Sydney Walsh.”
She frowned. “Then why are you calling me ‘gorgeous’?”
I laughed drunkenly, my words not nearly as clear as I intended them to be.
“Because you are. I’ll tell you a secret.
I have two nicknames for the women I fuck.
Sweetheart and Gorgeous. You made the upper tier.
Saves forgetting who you’re with in the middle of it.
Nobody likes someone moaning the wrong person’s name. ”
I expected her to roll her eyes and laugh. The women at the clubs and bars loved that line. They loved my limo and Tom Ford suits. Always took what I gave them and giggled in gratitude. They begged for my money and my big cock.
She curled her lip in disgust. “If I had a squirt bottle, I’d spray you with it.”
I blinked slowly, struggling to process that not only was she not amused, she was dead serious.
I watched her owlishly. “You’re a prickly little thing. Not into men?”
She covered her face with her hand and air seeped from her mouth in a frustrated, nearly silent squeak of annoyance.
When she revealed her eyes, they shot daggers at me.
“It’s none of your business, but yes, I’m into men.
Kind ones who are emotionally intelligent, responsible, ambitious, and sober.
I listed a whole slew of criteria there, McRae, and you can’t claim a single one. ”
“Your dream man sounds boring as fuck.”
She snapped her book shut. “Do you even have a job?”
“I can be very nice when I like you, you judgmental bitch.” At the time, I didn’t notice the difference between her question and my answer, still hung up on the way she said I wasn’t kind.
Maybe I was the fuckup of the family, but I was a nice fuckup.
I was a goddamn sweetie pie. Grandma Miller and all my aunts said so .
. . minus the swearing. “Why would I work some nine-to-five when I can spend more money before breakfast than you’ll make in five years doing whatever the hell you do?
” I couldn’t remember the rest of her list, but I didn’t care.
I didn’t know why I couldn’t laugh her comment off and go down to my cousin Jack’s bar to find someone else to scratch my sudden itch. This woman had a chip on her shoulder the size of a boulder.
“Charming.” She stood, left her book on the swing, and approached me where I leaned with my ass propped on the porch railing.
I watched curiously as she moved close enough that mere inches separated our bodies. Beyond my own alcohol-fueled fumes, I could scent her shampoo or lotion. Fresh, clean. Floral and citrus. Despite my offended ego, her closeness made me want to purr.
“If hate-fucking turns you on, let’s go. I’ll bend you over this railing here and now.” I didn’t give a shit about security cameras or that this house was crawling with friends and family.
She gripped my jaw with a strong hand and searched my eyes. “You’d do it too. Did you forget there’s a child in this house? Or do you just not care about the trauma you could cause Phee or the example you’re setting?”
I turned my face away from hers, not about to admit I’d forgotten my toddler niece could wander out here at any given moment. “It’s not that serious.”
“You reek of a distillery.” She guided my face back to point at hers, and I blinked blearily as she popped in and out of focus.
“Your little sister built a youth center, teaches self-defense classes, and volunteers at a hospital. Your brother has at least a dozen charities he manages. Your parents do the same. Then. There’s. You.”
She paused, but I had nothing to say to fill the silence. We both knew it. The paparazzi loved me as much as they loved the birth mother I don’t remember because she died from a combination of pills and alcohol when I was three months old.
Maybe I never knew Ariana McRae, but I understood her. People called her a “party girl” as if any of it was about having a good time. I drank and fucked to escape.
“I pity anyone who makes the mistake of loving you or counting on you or believing a word out of your mouth.”
Guilt burned through me before the bourbon had a chance to smother the flames. Then a memory worked its way to the front of my mind, and I laughed. “You’re pissed I didn’t fly Bronwyn back for your graduation? That’s what’s got your panties in a twist?”
Her eyes narrowed and her hand tightened.
I snorted. “I have news for you, sweetheart. You hafta learn to be a little flexible, or you’re in for a rough life,” I slurred.
“You, who have never worked for anything, tell me about a rough life.”
“You had one less person there to clap for you and listen to boring-ass speeches, and you’re crashing out. Yeah, I’m telling you to calm the fuck down. What kind of person expects their friends to sit through that shit, anyway? That’s what your family is for.”
She flinched like I slapped her.
“Overdramatic much?” I sneered.
Her jaw flexed. “Bronwyn could’ve been coming back to watch paint dry. The point is that you broke a promise that was important to your sister because you’re an alcoholic prick,” she hissed.
“If you think you’re perfect, you’re full of shit.”
“Forget perfect. Name one thing you’ve done to make this world a better place.”
I scoffed, offended and resentful and determined to make this waspish little prude eat her words.
“You don’t know me at all. All those kids on the news rescued off that yacht two weeks ago?
A ship full of pedophiles?” I mimed an explosion with my right hand.
“Ask those trafficking victims if my contribution to the world means nothing.”
She released my jaw and stared. “You . . . There were people on that ship. You killed those people on the boat. The senator and the general and the—”
“Pedophiles.” I over-enunciated the word.
Then I stared back at her blankly as I realized what I’d just admitted. Holy. Shit. I faked a laugh. “Gotcha. You should see your face.”
She took another step backward. “No. This isn’t a joke.
I’ve seen Bronwyn slam a guy more than twice her weight into the sidewalk when he harassed us, and she didn’t break a sweat.
All the security guards you guys have are ex-military.
You have the money. The helicopters and boats and warehouses.
Your family has the shipping companies, the labs, and tech developers.
Your dad has all the law enforcement connections.
Your family has everything you need to pull it off. ”
“I thought I was the one who was drinking.” It was a last ditch, pathetic attempt to gaslight her, my mind too muddled with alcohol to think clearly enough to be clever.
I didn’t want to imagine what it would take to silence a self-righteous little thing like her. Would money be enough to shut her up?
How could I face my family and admit that I’d fucking confessed to vigilante justice and brought an investigation down on us? How could I control this situation?
She sneered. “Uh-huh. So, if I called the FBI right now—”
My tumbler of bourbon crashed to the floor of the porch, and I stalked toward her.
She scrambled backward, her steps matching my own.
I had just enough awareness to catch the back of her skull in my palm so my knuckles took the brunt of the impact when she made hard contact with the fieldstone exterior of the house.
Breath whooshed from her lungs. I crowded against her, and it was my turn to hold her face in my hand, my touch and tone gentle. I tipped her head back, and she struggled ineffectually, attempting to knee me in the balls.
Even inebriated, I controlled her easily. I was trained for combat before I was old enough to write my own name, after all. “I was wrong. You’re not smart at all, are you, Walsh?”
How far would I have to go to protect my family from a danger I’d created? Would I coerce an innocent woman? Destroy her reputation and credibility? Something much, much worse? How far before there was no line left between me and the demons I battled? Until I was the demon?
A hot wash of fear turned the blood in my veins to acid. Not of her. Of me.
People talked about hitting rock bottom. If I’d ever tried to visualize it, it would have been me dying somewhere on a filthy bathroom floor. Never, ever, had I pictured it as a sunny day and a pretty girl.
She glared up at me, her brown eyes hot with rage. Or maybe that’s how Sydney Walsh processed fear. By snarling and snapping and making everything harder than it had to be.
I traced her features with my gaze, lingering on those pretty lips that would not, in fact, be wrapping around my cock. “What the fuck am I going to do with you now?”
She stilled, her glare every bit as incendiary as it had been, but, suddenly, knowing. She’d understood. She knew the hole I’d dug for myself—how I teetered on the edge of losing my soul.
Her lips curved upward in a feral smile.