Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
CRICKET
Traffic was nightmarish. After figuring out Lance was at Martinis, I got to him in a hurry, but getting back to the restaurant took three times as long. By the time I arrived, dinner was over and the cake had been served. President Baker left, as well as Gabriel. I purposely left the phone he texts me on behind, just in case he was tracking it.
Right now, I have no way of contacting him.
The phone Gabriel gave me has a special encryption system. He pops up as “Unknown” but I can still call and text him from that particular phone without knowing his actual number. He said it was a security measure for both of us. I’m more convinced it’s Gabriel’s way of staying in control of the situation. He decides how and when I can contact him. He decides when he can completely cut me off.
With no other options, I had to head back to The Crusader. The novelty of living in a fancy hotel has worn off. It’s been almost a month. I’m over it. I’m ready to move on—from the hurt, the heartbreak, and the devastating truth that I’ve spent the past ten years on a fool’s errand chasing down Luca. Revenge is not sweet. It’s dark and twisty. It’s poison in the veins. It starves me of air.
Lance breathes life right back into me. He loves me so much that he was willing to become my enemy if it meant saving me. That’s love. I walk to my room with a sleepy, sheepish smile on my face, the taste of Lance still in my mouth. I’m loved.
I pull my hotel key out of my clutch and press it against the censor, but instead of the little green light, I see an angry red dot flashing back at me. I try it three more times before I’m convinced I can’t fix this. I make my way down to the front desk to request a new key.
“Good evening. You look so lovely,” the front desk receptionist says. Her name tag reads Crystal. Her dark skin is beautifully smooth and flawless. She has her pitch-black hair tied into a short, neat ponytail. She’s the one who looks lovely, even in her hotel uniform. I glance down, having forgotten I was still in my formal attire. My designer dress has stains and streaks from being discarded on the dirty ground earlier this evening.
“Thank you,” I reply. “That’s really nice of you.”
“Of course.” She flashes me a toothy smile. “How can I help you?”
“I’m having trouble with my room key. I’m staying in junior suite 4489A. My key’s not working.” I hand her the plastic card that failed me moments ago.
“No problem. Sometimes these pesky things deactivate.” Crystal begins typing on her computer. “Let me just grab you another— oh. ” Her eyes widen.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
“Um… You’re Ms. O’Leary?” she asks, suddenly full of apprehension.
“Yes.”
“There’s a note here for you. Um, it seems Mr. Lochland has ended your reservation.”
I exhale, rolling my eyes. Under my breath, I mutter, “Passive-aggressive son of a—”
“I’m sorry,” she interrupts. “To clarify, I meant he upgraded you to the penthouse suite. I should have a folder here.” She spins around in her chair and flips through some paperwork in a metal mesh paper tray. “Here we go.”
She hands me a new hotel key—it’s black and unmarked. “What about my stuff?”
“It’s already been packed and moved.”
My heart drops. Fuck. I got rid of my passports and extra credit cards weeks ago. There shouldn’t be anything incriminating in my belongings, but it worries me that Gabriel and his staff had access to my personal things.
Crystal points to the new key in my hand. “Scan that in the elevator for access to the top floor. It’ll send you straight to the penthouse foyer. There’s a twenty-four-hour butler service if you need anything—refreshments, toiletries…entertainment.” She grimaces, like the last part was difficult for her to stay. “Just use your hotel phone and dial option one. Borris is at your service.”
I thank Crystal and walk toward the elevator, but halfway there, I change my mind. My heels click loudly against the marble floor as I head back toward the desk. “Crystal, is Mr. Lochland still checked into the penthouse suite? Or did he vacate the suite for me?”
She shrugs. “That… I’m not sure. I could call Borris if you’d like?”
I wave her off. “No need.” Glancing toward the elevators, I sigh. “I’ll head up and find out myself.”
My feet are starting to ache in these shoes. I force them forward to the elevators to face my fate. This either goes one of two ways: either Gabriel is actually falling for me, and he’s trying to force our relationship forward. Or, I’m walking right into a trap.
I suppose I could run, but that’s not really my style. Stepping into the elevator, I draw in a deep breath and place the plastic card against the censor by the long row of buttons. A small green light blinks, then I’m propelled upward to floor “P” for penthouse.
It dawns on me as I ascend that I’m unarmed. Fuck. I’ve actually gotten used to it. Being around Gabriel and his curious hands, I can’t exactly keep my knife and pistol strapped to my thighs like I used to. I should’ve had the sense to ask Vesper for something a little more subtle. Eden’s lipstick taser gun doesn’t seem so silly at the moment.
Being a spy is a different skill set than being an assassin. When a kill is the end goal, the mission is clear. There’s only one way to succeed: someone stops breathing. I’m usually in and out within minutes. If I’m sniping, even less. The preparation takes far more time than the job itself.
I’m a superior assassin.
I’m a subpar spy.
I still don’t really know what the end goal is with Gabriel. I’m supposed to assess the situation and determine for Vesper if he really is a threat… But honestly, I still have no idea. All I see is a broken man. All the money in the world can’t bandage his broken heart. He wants her attention. Her love.
And right now, I am wholeheartedly convinced of two things: the woman he calls sugar is the First Lady. Also, Vienne wants him dead. There are so many questions that remain. Why does Vienne want to get rid of him? Does she love him back? Does he know she’s put a bounty on his head? Is he actually dangerous?
The elevator stops with a muted beep. The doors peel open, and I walk out into a private foyer about ten feet by ten feet. Outside of a slim credenza that holds a hardwired phone, the foyer is empty. The only place to go is back down the elevator or through the double doors in front of me.
There’s nowhere to scan my key card. My gut tells me the doors are locked, but I tug on the handles anyway and prove my instincts dead wrong. I push the double doors open and enter the most grandiose penthouse I’ve ever seen. And yet, it’s rather quaint.
I sort of pictured Gabriel residing in a home that looked similar to Beast’s castle: a two-story library, ballroom, and talking utensils included. Instead, this place looks cozy and warm, even with the open layout. The cream-cloth couches are all gathered around a see-through fireplace. There are magazines and books on the coffee table, but no TV in sight. The built-in bookshelves are filled with encyclopedia sets—some in foreign languages. This is a scholar’s living room, which is another prominent reason why Gabriel and I could never be. Yes, I’m in love with another man. I’m pretty certain that he’s in love with another woman. But it’s the idea of sitting around on date night and reading old encyclopedias together that is really the deal breaker here.
“Gabriel?” I call out as I pass the living room and venture down a hallway to another set of double doors, leading to what I’m assuming is the master bedroom. The doors are cracked ajar, and I can already see my purple hardcase luggage sitting at the foot of the bed.
I’m reminded of how annoyed I am at Gabriel’s power move. Not as an assassin, but as a woman. Kicking me out of my suite, which I’m spending a small fortune on, is ridiculous. Making the decision to move me into his penthouse is a whole new level of possessive.
I make my way to the bed and run my fingers over the grooves of my luggage. At least it’s still unpacked. I’m sure the housekeepers took care of this. At least Gabriel didn’t open—
Wait.
Glancing over my luggage to the nightstand on the left, something catches my eye. My heart quickens as I rush to the left side of the bed to confirm my suspicions. Lance’s wallet. I gaze at the inscription at the corner of the dark leather, feeling the heat rising to my cheeks. It’s not embarrassment…it’s fury. I know for a fact this was buried in a hidden pocket in my luggage. You would’ve had to go digging to find this.
In fact, you’d have to be a jealous, snooping man to think this wallet was significant enough to put it on display on what Gabriel thinks is my side of the bed. Preparing myself, I concoct an easy lie in my head. It’s my father’s. Dad’s name was Cillian O’Leary, but Gabriel doesn’t need to know that. If he questions the LM inscription, I can easily say I took my mother’s surname instead, seeing as my father and I are estranged.
If he was alive, we would be.
Actually, if my father was alive, I’d put him in the ground for what he did to my mother. Vesper, Lance, and the entire PALADIN team be damned. Even if it’d cost my life, that’s a vendetta I could never let go of. I ball my fists up at the mere idea of facing my father again. I have to remind myself it’s only lost memories and ghosts. There’s nothing I can do.
Right as I relax, a low moan coming from the en suite bathroom surprises me. I’d be more on high alert and the potential danger, except that was most definitely a cry of distress. I bust my way into the bathroom with such confidence you’d think I was armed.
The bathroom is a bloody mess.
“Gabriel?” I gawk at the trail of bloody handprints all over the clean white bathroom tile, the matching white vanity, and the mirror. All right handprints. There’s a crawl pattern leading right to the shower.
I yank open the frosted shower door to see a crumbled Gabriel in the corner. The shower isn’t on, but he’s drenched.
“Fuck!” I call out, dropping to his side. I smack his cheeks to get his attention. “Gabriel, what happened?”
He mutters something incomprehensible, and I wince at his breath. I could hold a lit match to his lips, and this man could breathe fire. He’s completely plastered, liquor seeping from his pores.
“Look at me.” I grab his cheeks and force him to look into my eyes. He’s trying, but his eyelids are barely at half-mast. It’s still more than enough to see his thoroughly bloodshot eyes. “Where is the blood coming from, Gabriel?”
I pat his body down. His tux undershirt is lightly stained, but not soaked with blood. Definitely not a stab or bullet wound.
“My hand,” Gabriel manages to whisper.
I grab his right hand, remembering the blood pattern. He winces when I touch him, and I see why. He sliced his palm open, bad. Judging by the amount of blood, he severed a ligament. “You need stitches. Maybe a surgeon. Let’s go to the hospital.”
That seems to sober him just slightly. “No.” His tone is clear and his eyes pop into wide circles. “No hospital.”
“You could lose the function of your hand,” I argue.
Gabriel shakes his head. “My phone,” he mumbles.
“What’s in your phone?”
“Doctor.”
I try not to be annoyed at the one-worded caveman riddles. Summoning all my patience, I try to ask Gabriel simple questions. “Are you in pain?”
“Yes,” he says.
“Was this an accident?”
“Yes,” he says again. “Wine bottle.”
“I really want to take you to the hospital. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“No, Fee-oh-nuh.” He exaggerates the syllables in my name. “Call my doctor.”
I exhale. “Is the doctor in your phone a surgeon who can close this up?”
“The best,” Gabriel croaks out before tilting his head back to rest against the shower wall.
I sigh. “Are you right-handed or left?”
He holds up his left hand and wiggles his fingers. I suppose it’s slightly less urgent if it’s not his dominant hand at risk.
“And why are you in the shower? Hm?” I look down at the gory mess that is his hand. “Did you think you could just rinse this like a paper cut? What if I didn’t come?”
He rolls his neck so his gaze meets mine. “But you did.”
“But I’m asking you what if I didn’t—”
“But you did,” he interrupts more sternly. “Thank you.” His lips switch into a smile. We both sit quietly for a moment in the thick air. I wrap my arm around his shoulders, deciding to give in to the urge to comfort him.
“Where’d you go tonight? Why’d you ditch me?”
“I didn’t. I just stepped out and—”
“Don’t lie.” He lifts one brow.
I exhale. “It’s good to know that superpower still works even when you’re piss drunk.”
He smirks. “So?”
“I hurt my friend’s feelings really bad tonight. I had to make it right,” I admit.
“So rude Secret Service guy’s your ex, huh?”
I nod slowly. “He was worried I was falling in love with you.”
Gabriel gives me a sheepish smile. “Are you?”
“I care about you.”
Gabriel holds my stare best he can with his heavy eyelids seeming desperate to clamp shut. He lets out a breathy laugh. With his uninjured hand, he taps my nose. “Look at that. Surprisingly, not a lie.”
“Are you falling in love with me?” I’m asking mostly out of guilt than anything else.
He shuts his eyes and turns his head forward, away from me. “I’m trying not to love women who won’t love me back.”
I wish I could deny it. I really do, but Gabriel’s spot on. My heart’s not available. “Do you have a first aid kit anywhere?”
He points to a cabinet on the far side of the bathroom.
“Okay, I’m going to triage your hand, call your doctor, then we’re going to get you out of these wet clothes—”
“Sexy,” he mumbles with a playful smile.
“Don’t flirt with me right now, Gabriel. You smell like a wet cat.”
“Like pussy?” He snickers as I stare at him with unblinking eyes.
“Okay, funny man, don’t quit your day job.” Crawling over him, careful not to nudge his injured hand, I wrap his good arm around my shoulders and lift with all my might. By some miracle, I’m able to get him to his feet. Even I’m surprised. I’m strong, but I know my limits. On missions, I usually have to leave the body-dragging to Linc or Lance when it comes to a man this size.
“Whoa, whoa, steady, Gabriel.” He starts to sway as we make our way to the bedroom. If he topples, I’m going down with him. I sit him on the side of the bed, swivel his feet around, and let gravity handle the rest. Gabriel falls back onto the bed, his head hitting the pillow. He holds out his bleeding hand so it’s dangling off the side of the bed.
“Smart move. Don’t bleed on your nice duvet,” I say. It’s hard to tell how drunk he really is. He smells like he should be out cold. But yet, our conversation was intelligible enough. Maybe it’s because he’s a genius. Even alcohol has a hard time completely penetrating his mind.
I dart back into the bathroom to collect the first aid kit and all the clean towels in sight. They’re white and will ruin. Such a shame, but I’m sure Gabriel can afford a new set. Hell, he can afford a brand-new penthouse should he choose. Making one more trip, I return with the giant bottle of antiseptic I spotted under his sink.
After dragging a sitting chair to Gabriel’s side, I make a bird’s nest with the towels for his hand to rest in. I examine the wound. The bleeding seems like it’s starting to slow, but this most definitely needs stitches. I’ve stitched Lance up a time or two in a bind, but those were mostly surface wounds. This is too close to the tendons and ligaments. He needs a skilled surgeon if he wants to use this hand again.
“Okay, Gabriel, I’m really hoping you’re too drunk to feel this.”
“Huh?” He tries to lift his head.
“No, don’t look,” I scold. “That’ll make it worse. You touched everything in the bathroom. Who knows what kind of infections you’re at risk for. It’s either disinfect the wound or go to the hospital right now.”
“Fine,” he mumbles.
“Don’t be a baby, okay?” It’s wild sarcasm, of course. This is going to hurt like a bitch. I douse his hand in the antiseptic. Gabriel’s whole forearm starts to shake, his veins inflaming right before my eyes. But he’s brave and doesn’t pull away. He grits his teeth tightly, but a low guttural moan of agony slips through. Dammit. I should’ve given him something to bite down on. Feeling terrible, I still drench his hand again, just for good measure. After the second coat, I put down the antiseptic and begin to massage his trembling forearm. “There you go. It’s over now.”
I unwrap six packages of gauze and pile them on top of his wound. Again, he winces but doesn’t rip his hand away. He’s patient as I wrap the surgical tape around the gauze, securing it in place.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
His head is still on the pillow, and his eyes shut. “Like I love you a little less now.”
I let out a small, breathy laugh. “Okay. Good to know.” After gently setting his arm back on the mattress, I grab a few spare throw pillows from the ottoman at the foot of the bed. Bending his elbow, I prop his hand up. “Keep this at an angle. I’ll get you some fresh clothes, then call your doctor.”
“I didn’t get this drunk because of you, Fiona,” Gabriel suddenly says.
I stop rummaging through his dresser and turn around to look at Gabriel. His eyes are on the ceiling, and a single tear falls from the corner of his eye. He didn’t cry from the searing, burning pain of me drenching his open wound in alcohol. Whatever he’s thinking about must hurt much worse.
“I didn’t say you did,” I whisper.
“She was there tonight,” Gabriel continues. “I thought I could handle it.” He doesn’t look at me. His eyes are still fixed on the ceiling fan above his bed. It seems like he’s talking more to himself than me.
“Sugar?” I ask, even though I’m well aware of who he’s talking about.
Evading my question, he answers, “She wouldn’t even look me in the eye.”
“Do you still love her, Gabriel?”
He takes in an audible inhale, his breath shaking. “I’m trying not to.”
I could curse Vienne’s name a hundred ways to hell. Why is she doing this to Gabriel? He was basically a child when she used him and then threw him away like he meant nothing—and that still wasn’t enough. Now, she flaunts her marriage and her status right in his face. Why keep him around? Inviting him to President Baker’s birthday was torture. Gabriel isn’t the devil in disguise…
Vienne is.
“What would help? Is there anything I can do to help you move on?”
“Yeah… Ditch the Secret Service guy and stop running out on me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, making absolutely no promises. It’s getting harder and harder to lie to him. This is over. As of tomorrow, I’m telling Vesper everything…which is essentially nothing. Vienne’s jig is up. She has to figure out a different way to hide her affair and protect her husband’s legacy than trying to silence her secret lover with death.
Gabriel doesn’t respond to my apology. I step closer to the bed to see his eyes are shut, and his chest is rhythmically rising and falling. Sleep finally overcomes him after what I can only assume was one of the worst nights of his life.