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A text buzzes on my phone.

Brenna: Car is here. Where the hell are you?

The idea of sitting in a car with Brenna, Jules, and Sophie while I  stink of vomit and most likely have blood smears on my face, makes my  mouth sour even more. I don't have the imagination to come up with a  plausible excuse for my appearance, nor do I want to lie-or tell the  truth.

But lie I do. My thumb types out a quick message.

GS: Already left. Have some business to attend to. Be safe.

That last message is for Sophie, and Brenna will know this.

Sophie. She'll be hurting and is probably unsettled. It was clear she  isn't accustomed to being hit or treated with violence, and thank Christ  for that small mercy. I should be with her, offering her comfort. Our  bed-because it's ours and has been from the moment she laid down in  it-will be cool and soft.

But if I get into it with her tonight, I don't know how I'll react. I've  already shown too much of myself to her. Exposure has never been easy. I  can't do more of it right now without losing the hold I've kept on  myself for years.

Sophie. Regret pinches my chest.

I tap out one last message to Brenna.

GS: I'll be a while. Make certain Sophie is settled and icing her eye.

Little dots appear on my screen.

Brenna: You know it, boss man. Be safe yourself.

I suspect Brenna knows exactly what I plan to do, even though the urge  has just registered in my own head. But I need it. I need the release.

Scrolling through my contacts list, I find the one I want.

GS: What do you have available for tonight?

Not five seconds later, the answer comes.

Carmen: It's been too long, S. Beginning to think you'd forgotten all about me. Have a slot. 2am.

And address follows.

I tuck the phone away, feeling dirty, depraved. I shouldn't. I've  nothing to be ashamed of. But I am. I always am when I give in to  weakness.





Chapter Seventeen





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?"