by Gina Whitney
“And?” She nudged me, smiling maniacally. She looked like the deranged joker from Batman. Anyone could see she was happy for me, even if deep down she was hesitant. She meant well. She just didn’t want to see me get my heart broken. Neither did I. Which had me pondering. Fate. That word had never entered my mind—ever. Now it swirled around in my head like a wind-blown leaf. I didn’t believe in fate. However, I did believe in happenstance. This plan was an enormous gamble, my royal flush in life. It was all about how to win the top prize—Abel. Fuck. What was I doing? I dropped my head hard on the table, feeling defeated already, then proceeded to thump it a few times, thinking, what the fuck am I doing?
“Hello? Come in, Tokyo. What the fuck did he do to you, chick?” Cin asked, brushing my hair out of my eyes. She didn’t know my plan. Yeah, she was my chick. But she would never be on board with this level of scheming. I needed to throw some chick bull-shit at her quickly. So I plastered a wild smile on my face, as I slowly picked my head up off the table.
“I’m still having an out-of-body experience, Cin. I mean … talk about being worked over. You have no possible fucking idea. True story.” I held up my hand, swearing. She looked at me warily for a moment. But she took the bait. Bingo.
“Okay. Okay. Okay. Holy fuck.” She bounced up and down, fanning herself. “Tell me already,” she panted.
“Let me put it simply. With Abel, fucking is not the answer. Fucking is the question. Yes is the answer,” I said matter-of-factly.
“What the fucking fuck? English please, not Giabonics. Give it to me straight, chick-slit.” She seized my arm, shaking me.
“He’s a tatted, pierced God,” I said—which still didn’t come close to fully describing him. I contemplated this for a moment. She pinched my leg under the table.
“Ow! Seriously? Pinching. Really?” I rubbed my leg. Perfect timing. The blonde train-wreck Barbie was back with a bottle of Jameson, a Fireball, and a few pitchers of beer. Perfect. I immediately grabbed the bottle I wanted.
“Shots?” I held up the Jamo bottle to Cindy. Yeah, she wanted a glimpse into what I’d like to hope was mere foreplay. I needed more of Abel. Now was not the time for girl-dishing. It was party-fucking-time. And I felt as if it were New Year’s Eve.
“I’ll let it go for now. But you know you’re spilling your shit tomorrow morning, right?” Smiling, she grabbed the Fireball bottle. We did a couple of shots beer-chased. We needed to catch up to the rest of the guys. Abel had fucked me straight, fucked the effects of the alcohol right out of me. If Cindy’s condition was any indication, the rest of the boys were probably loaded as well.
Speaking of Abel, where the fuck was he? I was getting itchy and punchy thinking about what he could be up to or into. Woody walked up behind Cindy, squeezing her waist. She giggled and returned a drunken grin. Oh, hell. I decided to go on an exploratory and check out the dance floor. Hmm. Where were the rest of the boys? The dance floor looked like a mosh-pit.
But there was something going on in back, in one roped-off corner. Lethal Abel’s security team was back there in force. What the hell was going on? Nosy, I moved down the marble steps carefully for a closer look. I could see Ender’s distinctive tatted arm fist-pumping to Jay Z’s “Show Me What You Got” alongside some brunette amazon. She was showing him what she had, too. Huh? Who knew that dude even danced? He was Spanish, though, and Spanish people were a passionate culture. Made perfect sense he had natural rhythm. And Ender seemed to be a very passionate man. From what I could see, security was having a tough time containing the crowd around him. He was doing some form of modern salsa-style break-dancing, which didn’t help crowd control. Girls cheered him on. Dudes left the dance floor in defeat. There was no use competing with Ender. There was no contending with that boy’s moves. Damn. The ladies certainly adored him. It didn’t surprise me that he was a gifted dancer. He mastered everything he tasked.
People-watching was one pastime Cindy and I enjoyed together—especially when we were drinking. The more trashed people got, the more idiotic they behaved. It was just more goofing material for us. I turned to see if Abel had come back to the table—but he had not. What I did see was a very lip-locked Woody and Cindy. Good for her. And I meant it. She was a good girl. A fucking fantastic friend. They started mixing “Clarity” video2 into the song. Before I could turn around to get Cindy, she managed to slam into me—which sent my drink sailing all over the poor guy next to me.
“Gavin!” Cindy cried, hugging me and screaming drunkenly over the music. “It’s totally Gavin’s and Em’s song,” she said, leading me onto the dance floor. We always danced to this song.
“OMG. Remember last summer when Gail McHugh’s Pulse came out? Best summer ever!” Cin squealed.
“Let’s pay tribute,” I yelled back. We were book nerds. Fucking glammed-up hot smutty-book-nerds. We had decided “Clarity” was Gavin’s and Em’s song last year. We were enraptured by that book: fucking Gail. She had killed it. It had been an awesome action-packed summer. Nostalgia hit me hard. She led the way to the dance floor. I happily followed. We found a small piece of real estate and danced our asses off. Not a care in the world. We were wrapped up in the adoring girl love we had for each other. My hands were in the air waving back and forth.
Then, during mid-sway, I felt strong arms wrapping around my waist. Abel. He pulled me against his hardened cock. Oh, my. He was insatiable. I loved that. I closed my eyes, relishing the feel of his toned body grinding my ass into his hard-on. I was thrilled that he was dancing with me. Thrilled for everyone to see that I was his. I went for my signature move, “dropping my eagle.” I pulled out the whole fucking repertoire of dance moves. Yep, I was going to show him what he would be getting later. Some would say my moves could make a stripper blush. But move I could, and I liked to show it.
The song changed to a slower song. I needed another drink, anyway. That’s when I noticed Cindy’s wide-eyed expression. The fuck. I grabbed Abel’s hands to keep them on me while I turned around. Searching the crowd, I saw Abel standing on the steps to the dance floor. My breath caught. My stomach churned in angst. What in the fuck. I released the hands I was holding and whirled around to throat-punch the fucker whose hands were on me. It was Ender’s face I saw. He caught my fist mid-punch.
“Ah ah ah, little girl. Violence never solves anything. Weren’t you taught that?” He winked at me, continuing to dance. This was no dancing situation. My body stiffly moved on its own accord towards Abel. The expression on his face was a mixture of anger and something else. I picked up my pace, slamming into people to get to him. I needed to explain. I thought it was him. I would never do that. Ever. Ever. Ever.
“Get the fuck out of the way, people!” I shrieked, panicking. Oh fuck, this was bad. My legs felt shaky and weak. I was probably going to faint: my heart was pounding so hard it echoed in my ears. Oh Christ … please, please, please, God. I never asked you for anything. Please let him forgive me, let him at least listen to my explanation.
However, it was not meant to be. Some fucking stunning motherfucking bimbo twat was coiled around him like a snake. My fists balled. She was going to get a fistful of wrath when I got hold of her. I was going to rip her fucking hair out—every last strand. I went to lunge at her when Ender and Cindy thwarted me.
“Don’t do it, Gia,” Cindy pleaded, yanking me towards the booth. Oh, fuck. The room was out of focus. Could you actually see pain—physically see it? Fire pushed through my veins. The air felt thick. I couldn’t breathe. My hands gripped my head for fear it would explode. This was too much.
“I need to talk to Abel,” I insisted, as I stood up holding my head, ready to pull my hair out. Yep, it was that bad: I felt like I could actually rip my own hair out. God, my neck felt tight and my throat swollen. Ender and Cindy just stared at each other, their gaze heavy with meaning.
“What the fuck?” I screamed. “I’m going to find him.” I started off in the direction I had last seen him, looking for that head-turnin
g twat.
“He left, Gia,” Cindy said. Ender nodded in confirmation.
I rubbed my eyes with my fingers. They were burning. Or was it the tears? I never cried. I didn’t think I could. But I had the living proof running down my face right now. Maybe if I rubbed my face hard enough I’d be a new person—one worthy of Abel. I needed to rub something, even if it meant I hurt myself. Fat tears ran torrently down either side of my cheeks. This was bad … real fucking bad. My body was numb. I couldn’t feel or hear anything. I wanted to die. Just die. Anything to get away from the pain …
And that thought only made me cry harder. After all, I was the person who had found my twelve-year-old brother hanging from the bathroom shower rod. His jerky movements had left an undeniable mark on my psyche. What fourteen-year-old girl would ever be the same again after seeing that? The 911 operator had instructed not to touch him. But over the years, the constant replaying of that event in my head had left me wondering: maybe I could have helped him had they let me cut him down. However, at this very moment, I wanted to trade places with my brother. I wanted to be dead. I was the one who deserved it. Not him. He was innocent. A good boy. I was the doppelganger to my mother, and, as such, I deserved this apocalyptic shit. And this was apocalyptic. My world as I had known it was over. Steepling my fingers, I took a deep breath and contemplated my next move. My eyes focused on the swirls in the carpet. Depression was seeping in. I could feel the cold isolation already. All around me was the sound of nothingness. I was scared for the first time in my life. Would I ever feel him again? Abel.
“I’m so sorry, babe,” Cindy whispered, stroking my hair. So was I. “You want to leave?” she asked carefully. She didn’t know what to expect: she had never seen me like this.
“Wait a minute!” I exclaimed. “Ender, can’t you talk to him? I mean, it’s totally your fucking fault.” I drove my index finger into his chest. He just smirked. He thought this shit was real fucking funny. Fury was taking hold.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, anyway?” I lashed out. “Why would you pull that shit? Huh?” Raging, I stepped close enough to spit in his face.
“What? I was only dancing with you, mommy. Besides, what’s the problem, anyway? We’re two single adults, right? Why wouldn’t we dance, Chicka?” He thought his explanation was perfectly reasonable. Boy, was he a thick one.
“Don’t call me mommy! And I was with Abel—Ender!” I screamed furiously. Did he not get that? What was with the feigning innocence routine? Cindy grabbed the bottle of Jameson off the table, thrusting it at me. That’s exactly what I needed. I tipped the bottle, taking a long swig. The burn actually felt refreshing. I wanted the pain. Pain was what I needed. Physical pain and motherfucking agony.
“First of all,” he began, “I didn’t know you two hooked up. When was this? Tonight? If so, I wasn’t around, remember? I was hooking up myself. Do you think I would honestly do that to my bro? I have more fuckin’ pride and self-respect than that. I take that shit seriously. I don’t fuck over my dudes for pussy. Sorry, but no. I like to piss Abel off when I can—especially because he always goes all cerebral and shit. I can assure you, he’s not pissed at me,” he huffed, rolling his eyes. He grabbed his beer for a long guzzle while turning to cruise the crowd. Oh hell to the no.
“Oh, thanks a lot, you selfish Latin Lothario prick.” I pushed him up against the table. I needed to get out of here quickly before I got arrested for assault.
“Whoa whoa whoa, chick,” Cindy interjected. “Maybe giving you the bottle wasn’t my best idea. Give it back, Gia. Things are getting out of hand, chick.” She motioned with her fingers for the bottle.
“Here.” I handed it to her. I realized I needed to straighten up and be on my game for what I was about to do. I feigned going to the bathroom to freshen up so I could grab one of Abel’s bodyguards without those two knowing. The giant dude was kissing some twit against the wall in the hallway. Nice. Real fucking nice.
“Ahem, sorry to intrude. I really am, but I need a favor. Abel told me to meet him at his house. We got separated by fanatical fans and security got him out of here. He’s probably worried and my phone is dead. Can you take me to him—please?” I begged, giving him my best puppy dog expression. The skank just rolled her eyes. I rubbed my face with my middle finger and smirked. She glowered. Ha! Fuck her.
“You’re Gia, right?” He went to pull out his cell. Oh, shit.
“Wait!” I seized his arm while looking seductively up through my lashes. “I’d love to surprise him. I have something … kinda sexy planned. I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise,” I purred, winking at him.
He stared at me as he tried to decide what to do. I took action at his moment of indecisiveness. I grabbed his arm, dragging him through the crowd. I needed to take charge here. I made sure to sneak around Ender and Cindy. Where the hell was the rest of the crew? Probably hooked up themselves. There were a few limos out front. The one we had arrived in was gone. I sighed as sadness hit me hard in my gut.
The giant of a security man walked me to a blacked-out stretch Mercedes, opening the door. I guessed it was one of the Lethal Abel fleet cars. I had no time to ponder such niceties. I needed a plan. I needed to salvage my four-hour relationship that I had spent countless days cultivating. The car started with a purr.
“May I have your cell, please?” I asked the bodyguard. “I just want to text Abel to let him know I’m safe and on my way.”
He handed me his phone through the privacy divider. I texted Abel, posing as the bodyguard who was now driving me to him: “Hey, just checking you’re home safely. If you need anything, please let me know.”
There, it was done. Now I waited for the return text while I fixed my make-up. I was a mess. I couldn’t face him like this. I made sure my own phone was turned off and waited for what felt like hours …
Then bing!—the text popped in.
Abel: Thanks, man. I’m good. Home. Enjoy the rest of your night. Ttyl.
Great. I deleted the message and passed the cell back to the giant. “Thanks a lot.” He nodded in the rearview mirror.
I burrowed into the buttery-soft leather seats, with my head resting comfortably against the back. Dwelling on the emotional trauma of the evening, which had sucker-punched me in the heart, I wondered: did I have a choice? This was Abel—the hottest, sexiest, wealthiest, alpha male I’d ever had the pleasure of knowing.
The limo slowed as we approached an Art Deco building with beautifully lit landscaping. The building was impressive in size and décor. It housed the Who’s Who of Colorado’s bachelors. As a teenager I would walk by to daydream, imagining what it would be like to live there, to not have to worry about wealth or social status. If you lived at this address, you had already arrived. It was as simple as that. Your address was your calling card. It spoke volumes about your pedigree.
The building was sophisticated with an old-world charm. Damn. He had to have some serious cash—which put him completely out of my league. We weren’t even on the same playing field. But if I’d learned anything from my mother, Medusa, it was to stay committed and on task. Set your sights on the prize. Hold on tight, with just enough constriction that eventually your prey would weaken and succumb, leaving you the victor. To the victor go the spoils. Yeah, that was it. I smiled. Game on.
A salt-and-pepper-haired older fellow opened the car door for me to exit. He grabbed my hand to escort me safely into the building. Now what? I smiled kindly, giving him my most heartwarming grin.
“I’m here by invitation for Mr. Abel Gunner,” I said, worrying my hands. Fuck. Shit. Crap. Cock. I kept smiling, hoping he would fancy me enough not to ask any pertinent questions. I blinked more than usual, hoping to come off as an airhead. They do that, right? I didn’t even have a clue what floor or apartment number. My panic rose in my throat, tasting vaguely of vomit. Gross. Or was that the Fireball? Christ Almighty, give me some help, please.
“Follow me, little darling,” he said, winking as he walked
me toward a separate elevator bank. He had a slow southern drawl. Funny he didn’t look like a southern gentlemen, but his slow gait and comfortable speech made me feel secure. That was a blessing. I doubted they had girls like me where he was from. A beautiful smile didn’t necessarily guarantee you had a beautiful heart. And mine was black.
When we arrived at the elevator, he inserted a special key and motioned for me to get in. I nodded in thanks.
“One question, Sir. How do I know which place is his? I’m embarrassed to say I wasn’t paying attention last time.” I winked. He nodded, blushing.
“The car will let you out in his penthouse.” He smiled knowingly and walked back to his post. The elevator door closed promptly. Oh, my fucking God. The car rose. So did my bile. I wanted to hide. Somewhere. Anywhere. I needed to think. Needed time to think. Suppose he wasn’t alone. Suppose he …
And then the elevator door opened. Of all times to have an efficient elevator. Why. Why. Why.
Defcon Two: Fast pace. Next step to nuclear war. Be ready to engage and deploy in less than six minutes.
That’s how serious this shit was. And to top it all off, the fucking elevator dinged loudly—and kept dinging. Those were possibly the loudest dings in the history of dings. Christ, my anxiety reached hypertensive levels. If I survived this without going into full cardiac arrest, that would be saying something about Medusa’s genes. However, I refused to give up.
The scene set before me was a violent one: a guitar smashed into pieces, a bottle of empty Jack on the area rug next to a zebra-haired chair, and eclectic artsy pieces, including nude marble sculptures in erotic poses, were strewn around the penthouse. Photos and paintings adorned the walls. But what captured my eye was the huge life-like portrait of Abel hanging above the mantle fireplace: in it, he held a rope in one hand while dangling a red scarf in the other.
My body stiffened. I had seen that face tonight. His was the bellicose, daring, fiery countenance typical of an alpha. I knew everybody had their own ideas about what constituted an alpha. To me, a man didn’t have alpha “tendencies”: he either was an all-out alpha or he wasn’t. It’s that simple. If you were an alpha, you were balls-to-the-wall, with no pussy mush mixed in. And Abel Gunner was an alpha for sure.
