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“Yup. Battlements, swords hanging everywhere, bitter and twisted Lord and Lady torturing the serfs in their dungeon – the works.”
I know from his lyrics just how much Gabriel loathes his parents, but it’s strange to experience it in person – the twist in his lip and spark of hate in his eyes when he speaks of them. “You’re too fucking cool for words.”
Gabriel gazes at me, an odd smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t look so impressed, Mac. Everyone and their uncle has a castle in Britain. They practically give them away at the airport. I like it here much better.” He leans in to lovingly kiss the central heating controls. “Trust me, endure one British winter in a drafty stone hall with no central heating and the romance of a castle wears off.”
Intrigued, I pad across to the shelves, pulling out album sleeves at random, taking in the records. Progressive rock, indie, jazz, Scandinavian black metal… Gabriel’s tastes were diverse and intriguing. Many of the records are signed or limited editions, still in their sleeves.
It’s so odd being here, inside Gabriel’s private space. It’s not what I imagined. In rock magazines he’s always photographed in the midst of chaos – smoking a joint in a recording studio surrounded by trails of guitar leads snaking across the floor, or slumped over some bar in Budapest, or on stage, his hair whirling in all directions as his fingers fly over guitar strings.
“The bathroom’s through here if you want to wash that stuff off.” Gabriel holds a door open for me, and heat burns in my cheeks as I remember I’m still naked underneath Ms. Drysdale’s coat, my skin covered in scrawled words of power. I go into an enormous rain shower, scrubbing at the marker with fancy-smelling soap until the words fade a little. My mind conjures an image of Gabriel naked under this same shower, water cascading over his beautiful inked body, his long, dark hair plastered to his back. I blast the shower on cold, trying to drive out the need that heated my veins from the inside.
When I emerge wearing Ms. Drysdale’s clothes, Gabriel takes my hand and gives me a tour, showing off the hot tub on the deck overlooking the ocean, the walk-in pantry stocked with weird British candy, and the guest bedroom he’s converted into a studio space, stacked with guitars and recording equipment, the walls covered in tour posters and photographs I long to pore over. His bedroom is a mezzanine floor over the kitchen, open to the space below and the double-height windows overlooking the beach. Up here I can hear the trickle of the waterfall on the outside wall, and over it, the roar of the ocean outside.
I try not to look at Gabriel’s bed or think about Gabriel in his bed. I fail. My feet root themselves to the spot at the top of the stairs, and I’m in desperate danger of melting into a puddle on his shiny wood floor.
I try to cover my discomfort with snark. “With all that water running outside, how do you not wet the bed every night?”
Gabriel’s grin rends me. “Maybe I have better things to dream about than not reaching the bathroom on time.”
I swallow, taking in the diffused light, the rumpled comforter in soft grey, the band tees strewn around the laundry chute. “I’m surprised you don’t have an enormous round bed for your harem of groupies.”
“A shagrificial altar?” Gabriel smiles. “Why, Malloy, how little you must think of me. You’re the first girl I’ve ever brought here.”
I snort, assuming he’s lying. But Gabriel’s face is easy, free of tension. I wonder, if he’s being truthful, why he chose me to bring here, to step inside this private piece of him.
Gabriel flings open the balcony door. The roar of the surf rushes in, enveloping me. Gabriel sits on a recliner, crossing his boots on a small table. He lights up a joint. “I’m a rockstar. I’ve never had to look far for pussy and all the drama that goes along with it – I don’t need that shit cluttering up my home.”
Then why am I here? I ask inside my head as I lean back in a recliner and accept the joint from Gabriel. Smoke curls between us as we pass it back and forth in silence. He scrolls through his phone and selects a playlist. And a song comes over the built-in speakers – slow and sultry, mournful piano and two string instruments dueling for supremacy.
“This is my friend Dorien’s band, Broken Muse.” Gabriel flicks his tongue against the barbell in his labret. “He’s this hyper-intense goth dude, but he knows how to party. You’d hate him.”
“I hate most people.” I let the music fill me. It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before. I never knew classical instruments could create a sound like that.
“But not me?” He cocks an eyebrow.
“You’re tolerable.”
“So Mac, do you ever feel like you’re an imposter in your own life?”
I glare at him. “What happened to small talk?”
Gabriel shrugs. “People always talk bollocks around me. I got into music because I wanted to do something real, but instead I’m surrounded by fake people all the time. Go on, then. Do you ever feel like an imposter?”
So weed makes Gabriel pensive, then. I should have guessed, him being a sensitive, brooding rockstar and all. I nod, blowing a trail of smoke. “All the fucking time. What if I told you I’m not who you think I am?”
“I know you’re not,” Gabriel says, and I choke on the sweet smoke. But Gabriel’s smiling. He wouldn’t be smiling if he truly knew. “I know all your secrets, Mac. I know that beneath your Ice Queen facade beats the heart of an even colder Ice Queen.”
I punch him in the arm. “You’re a dick. And I’m not all ice. I’ve got layers.”
“Like an onion?” he grins.
“More like a triple-chocolate-cherry layer cake.”
He nods. “We should stop talking about food. You’re making me hungry. But yeah, you wear a mask. We all do. I don’t think you’ve taken yours off in a long time. I get that. The only time I ever took my mask off was when I played music, or when I was hanging with Dylan. But now—” Gabriel shrugs.
I notice his past tense. “You’re not playing music anymore?”
“I can’t. I haven’t played since Dylan died. We’re already late with the new album. Everyone’s on my arse to finish writing the songs – the band, the manager, the label. But I can’t. All my life, all I’ve had to do is listen and the songs appear, fully formed. It’s as if they already exist, and all I have to do is pluck them out of the air. But now, when I listen all I hear is this deafening, apocalyptic silence.”
