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Chapter Seven
- Gabriel -
As usual, I checkedmy phone as soon as I woke up. It was almost one. I had a good sleep - no urgent messages, no emergency phone calls because some shithead had fucked something up. No one was hurt, and no one had been sent to jail. Those were the only things they were allowed to call me about. Until they heard from me, they were to go about their business as usual.
I did have the one text I had hoped for. When my eyes had finally closed just before dawn, my last memorable thoughts were of Suzanne. About how, if she’d been anyone else, we’d be sleeping in the soundproof bedroom I had in the basement of The Beast. It’s not as weird as it sounds. There were several rooms I used when going home wasn’t an option. One was a private lounge used for entertaining clients and business partners. There was a kitchen for when we got hungry. There were only so many times I could eat off The Beast’s menu before I needed something else to chew on. Behind them was a soundproof bedroom I occasionally used for “entertainment” purposes, but mostly so I could catch a quick nap when I didn’t have the luxury of returning home.
I rubbed my hand over my eyes and tried to blot out the picture of Suzanne stretched across the black sheets - her hair messy and disheveled, her lips red and swollen, her eyes saying she had been well fucked. I’d have to leave. She’d beg me to stay. I’d make her beg more before I knelt between her legs.
Fuck.
The cold shower I’d have to take would wake me up as its iciness purged her from my mind. But it wouldn’t last. It was one o’clock, and I told her I’d pick her up at six. I just didn’t know where I was taking her yet.
I opened her text.
Her: Good morning!
She’d sent it at eight am. Please, God, tell me she’s not always a morning person. It was Sunday. Did she ever sleep in?
Her: I know it’s early. Text me when you can. I wanted to see if you wanted to go dancing tonight?
Dancing? I’d rather shoot myself in the foot.
Her: My friend waitresses at The Right Stuff, that new 80’s/90’s club.
Even worse. I could slow dance with her all night if she wanted to, but I didn’t vogue, or cabbage patch, or breakdance, or anything else that didn’t involve holding her in my arms and pressing her as close to me as I dared to in public.
Her: We don’t have to stay long. It’s their opening weekend, and I wanted to support her. If that doesn’t sound good to you, we can do something else.
If I were going to be around long enough, I’d have to teach her how to have a backbone. She was too damn nice, especially to me. While that worked in my favor, it worried me - for reasons I didn’t understand.
Me: Sounds good. We’ll have to get there early. I have to work later.
Though my text was hours after hers, she answered right away.
Her:Hello.(Laughing emoji)We get to talk about you for a change. What mysterious work do you do late at night on a Sunday?
Me: Vampire hunter.
Her: Should I bring my wooden stakes?
Me: I hunt them. I’m not one.
Her: I could help.
Me: I don’t want you to get hurt. See you tonight.
Her: Later, Gabriel, Vampire Hunter.
I took my cold shower with a hard dick and a smile on my face.
It had been years since I had enjoyed a good turn around the dancefloor. Probably not since my senior prom.
After that, I was too busy running a crime conglomerate. My father had always kept me under his wing, but by the time I entered high school, my grooming intensified and changed from potentialnext-in-linetofuture crime lord.
“This is your destiny, Gabriel.”
If I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times. When I turned fifteen, my future crime lord lessons went from how to avoid a tail to how to organize an untraceable hit. Weekend parties. Keggers. College. I skipped the usual rites of passage and went right to my first kill at age seventeen - a long, sordid story I kept buried in the recesses of my mind, in the deep dark place I tried not to visit unless something I had no control over forced the memories to surface.
