Sophie
IT FEELS wrong somehow to hang out alone in Gabriel’s coach. Oh, he’s made it perfectly clear that I should consider this my space as well. But I don’t. Every inch of the place is all Gabriel—something I actually enjoy. Over the years, I’ve had enough of living by myself. I don’t need to feel like I’m in my space. I like being in his domain.
Normally, stepping inside his bus is a little like being wrapped up in the man himself; everything is cool, calm, orderly. It smells of him, crisp and expensive. It feels safe.
Right now, however, I don’t like it one bit. Because he isn’t here, and I don’t mind admitting that I want him here. I need him here. As much as I hate my weakness, my body hasn’t yet let the incident go. I keep shaking, my fingers and toes ice cold. My face hurts, despite taking painkillers and icing it.
I need the distraction of Gabriel. And quite frankly, I was holding on to the promise of eventually sliding into bed with him as a reward for getting through this miserable night.
He didn’t come home with us, telling Brenna he had business to attend to. The pinched expression on her face when she read his texts makes me think she knew more than she let on, and that whatever he was doing, she didn’t approve.
I didn’t text him. For once, pride wouldn’t let me. He abandoned me when I was scared and hurt. Maybe I shouldn’t look at it that way, but shaking that feeling has proven impossible.
Worse? He never came home.
It’s morning now, and my head hurts after a long, sleepless night of flopping around on the bed, trying to shut off my mind and let my body rest.
He made me promise every night. Every damn night.
Did that not imply the same for him? That he would be here Every.
Fucking. Night?
I slam a coffee cup down on his glossy black counter and pour a full cup. Yeah, that’s right, coffee. Not tea. Tea is not the answer to all of life’s problems. Sometimes dark, bitter as fuck, American-style coffee is the answer.
I glare at the door as I take a defiant sip, then wince. I actually don’t like black coffee. I’m more of cream and two sugars gal.
“Fucking tailored-suit-wearing Brit, making me drink black coffee,” I mutter, grabbing the sugar and cream. A blob of cream lands on the counter. I ignore it. Ha. I can imagine his sneer upon seeing it.
Unfortunately, petty, pathetic victories aren’t very satisfying.
I’m clutching my mug and curled up on one of the armchairs when he texts me. Apparently, I’ve lost all shame because I leap for the phone.
His message is a kick to the chest.
Sunshine: I’m away on business for a few days. Have already notified others. See you in Rome. Play nice with my boys.
A few days? He’s already told everyone else?
It’s embarrassing how disappointed I am. How…hurt.
This isn’t good. He’s doing his job, and I’m ready to stomp my foot like a disgruntled child.
Biting my lip, I answer him.
Me: I’m throwing a party in your coach with the band while you’re gone.
So clearly, being petty is not out of the picture yet. There isn’t even a pause before he answers.
Sunshine: Good. You shouldn’t be alone. Have Jules charge everything to me. Or find the black credit card I have tucked in my sock drawer.
That…that… My teeth snap together. I can’t think of a bad word to call him. Paying for my party as if he’s my dad or something. Off you go, Sophie. Behave now while I’m away. But he’s being nice. Great gravy, he’s actually agreeing to let people into his bus. Or is he calling my bluff?
Fine. I tap out. But I’m not going in your sock drawer. I might get the colors out of order and then where would you be?
The implacable jerk responds easily.
Sunshine: Reorganizing my socks. Have the party, chatty girl. It will be good for you. See you in a few days.
So that’s that. He’s left.
I need to nip this clingy feeling right in the bud. Setting my phone aside, I finish up my coffee and go to get dressed. I’m not going to mope around anymore. I’ve a party to plan.
 |
Gabriel
AN ELBOW CATCHES me on the cheekbone. The pain is white, exploding like a camera flash behind my lids. It crackles through me, rings in my ears. A kick to my side has me staggering back.
Jeers and shouts surround me, a blur of screaming faces. This I know. This joy of violence and greed, fed to me since childhood like milk and buttered toast.
Another punch flies. I dance away, and it misses me. I block a kick with my knee. Pull it together. Focus.
My opponent is hardened, likely fighting nightly. In my youth, I was better than him, but I’m now softened by a comfortable life. Yet I know how much I can handle. I can wear him down, wait for him to tire. But I’ll have to take a beating.
Bruises I can hide. Open cuts and split lips are another issue. This is my second night of fighting. I’m already battered. If I get cut up any worse, I’ll have to stay away from Sophie for too long.
Sophie. Sophie elbowed in the face. Twice. Rage pulses hot, pushes through me.
Hold it.
Another punch flies, grazing the edge of my jaw. Were this a professional fight, I’d already be knocked out. But we’re amateur entertainment, fighting each other in a pristine, white living room—marble floors, wall-to-wall windows overlooking the harbor—as rich, bored people watch.
It is perverse. Stinks of privilege. Blood splatters stark against white leather walls.
I don’t give a shit about them. All I need is the pain.
The man before me is a Spaniard, long and lean and fast. My mind morphs his appearance. He’s a cameraman, stocky and bloated, and hitting Sophie.
I promised I wouldn’t retaliate. She made me promise not to hurt him. I won’t. But this man here? He wants the fight.
All the rage, all the helpless fucking frustration builds, growing tighter, stronger. Anger goes cold and silent.
My fist connects with fleshy meat and bone. That’s another kind of pain, a bright, clean release.
Again, again. Controlled hits. Punch to face, knee to kidneys, elbow to jaw.
Sweaty, hot skin, metallic blood. Solid flesh giving under my knuckles.
I revel in it.
There is a point in fighting at which you are no longer a man. You become a machine. No more thinking, just reacting, giving yourself up to muscle memory and technique.
We grapple, locking up and breaking away. He stumbles back before charging.
A roundhouse kick, taking him on the jaw, ends the fight. My opponent falls back and hits the floor with a slap.
He remains down, chest heaving, head lolling.
Cheers erupt. They break me out of my haze and irritate my ears.
I stand, breath sawing in and out. My body throbs, burns. It is pure and real, as close as I can get to the release I truly want.
No one comes near me; they know better by now. Someone helps my opponent up.
My gaze goes to the windows, where the night is black ink and gold stars. Sophie isn’t here anymore. She’s headed to Rome.
Already I feel her absence in my soul, a tear that won’t mend. I’m battered and bleeding. I’ll have to stay away for days. The tear within me grows bigger. I ignore the feeling. I need time anyway. To regroup and calm down.
“Scottie, mi hombre hermoso, another win for me, si?” Carmen smiles up at me, blood red lips, glossy raven hair. “Ah, but I have missed seeing you fight. I’d forgotten how coldly you play your game. Come.” Gold- tipped nails glide up my arm. “I have a room ready. Shall we?”
Lust and anticipation lower her lids as she looks me over, her gaze lingering on my bare chest. Subtlety was never Carmen’s style.
I move away from her touch. “A cab is all I require.” Pouting, she snaps her fingers, and a woman comes forth.
“Teresa will take you to a room where you can change back into your suit.” Now that she’s been denied, Carmen is all business. I appreciate that about her. “And your winnings?”
“Make the usual donations.”
A thin smile pulls at her lips. “To battered women’s shelters. You, mi amigo, have a perverse sense of humor.”
Sophie thinks I’m a goof. I miss her. I need her. I can’t go back to looking like this. “So they tell me. Buenas noches, Carmen. I won’t be returning tomorrow.”
I head out into the darkness and back to my hotel. But I won’t be sleeping.
