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And I wonder if that silence has something to do with the waterfall outside. And if Gabriel’s silence is anything like the silence of being a ghost inside an empty house for four years. But I don’t say that, because I don’t want to talk about myself. I just want to fill my head with THC and listen to Gabriel talk forever. “Is it because of Dylan that you can’t play?”
Gabriel takes another long toke. “Dylan’s family worked on our estate – we’ve been mates since we could crawl, raising hell everywhere we went. We spent so much time hanging out together, going hunting in our forest, that I didn’t notice the things that divided us. Like, Dylan couldn’t go to my posh school. As soon as he was old enough, he had to work on the estate. He and his family came on all our fancy holidays, but they were still expected to cook and serve and ferry us around. I never thought any of that mattered, because I’m a self-obsessed wanker. And then I read his suicide note. He spent his childhood watching my spoiled arse get everything I wanted, and then when my music – our music – took off, he was still in the background cleaning up after me, holding my hair while I threw up, dragging me away from bad situations. No wonder he hated me. I’m not surprised the music died with him.”
I study Gabriel as he talks. His flirty, happy mask slides away, revealing the dark edges of his soul. His fingers tremble as he brings the joint to his mouth, and I long to rest my hand on his leg, to pull him into my arms, to kiss away the horror of what he saw in that hotel room.
“Right.” He gives me this sad smile. “I’ve spilled my guts. Your turn. Why have you been a ghost all these years, Mackenzie Malloy?”
The words trip over my tongue, desperate to escape. For four years, Gabriel has been the moonlight shining through the bars of my prison window. He sings the stars and the blood and the rain. I’d give anything to give him back the stars to sing again, even reveal my darkest secrets.
Nope. Not happening.
I snap my mouth shut and glare at him. This is why I shouldn’t be here, why getting close to people is dangerous. Especially sexy British rockstar type-people.
Gabriel leans forward, his face inches from mine. The raw beauty of his pain slips away as quickly as it appeared, tucked back in its heart-shaped box inside him. His sugary, smoky scent mingles with the pot in the air, making the warnings in my head float away as soon as they appear. Gabriel’s flirty smile draws me deeper, and I sit on my hands to stop myself from reaching up and pulling him to me, taking that barbell between my teeth and tugging it until he begs for me—
“Come to a party with me on Saturday,” he says in that cocksure way. It’s not a question. Gabriel Fallen isn’t used to hearing no. “Normally, I’d say Stonehurst parties are bollocks, but I have a feeling with you on my arm, we’ll fuck shit up.”
“Whose party?” I can barely get the words out.
“Daphne Ballantyne. She’s Noah’s ex. He’ll be pissed I invited you, which is even more reason why you should be there.”
“I’m not sure I want to further incur the wrath of Noah, in addition to all the other enemies I made.” I tear my gaze from his and rub my arm, where the words ‘I AM MACKENZIE MALLOY’ were still visible on my skin. I’d be scrubbing myself raw tonight to get the rest of it off before cheerleading trials.
Worth it.
“I’ll protect you. I’m not Noah’s bitch.” Gabriel’s face lights up with that wicked grin – the one that promised all sorts of delightful and filthy shenanigans. “I do what I want, and I want us to go to this party together.”
“I’ll go on one condition.”
“Mmmm?” Gabriel tilts his head to the side. A lock of dark hair falls over his eye, and I think I might swoon.
“I’m not talking about where I’ve been the last four years. Don’t ask. Don’t ply me with alcohol or tell me sob stories about Dylan in an attempt to make me talk. Mention my past, and I’m gone. Got it?”
“Oh, phew.” Gabriel pretends to wipe sweat off his brow. “And here I was thinking you wanted me to do something taxing, but ignoring deep-rooted emotional trauma to clear the path for superficial fun? That’s my specialty. It would be an honor to have you as my never-talk-about-anything-serious-again date. Now, this is a costume party. You got any ideas?”
I rub my hands together. “Fallen, you and I are going to overthrow kings.”
Mackenzie
Rich people must go to a ton of fancy-dress parties, because my so-called mother has an entire bay of her extensive closet dedicated to glittering costumes. Not a single one of them contains enough fabric. I try on several different options before settling on a gold gladiator costume with a skirt so short an anime schoolgirl would raise her eyebrows.
I surprise myself by how annoyed I am at its lack of historical accuracy. I’m a gladiator, and I don’t even have a weapon. At least I could do something about that. I hunt through a closet behind the sauna filled with unused sports gear until I find a small fishing net. I pull the end of the handle off and hide my knife inside.
Outside, in the groundskeepers shed, I find an old gardening pitchfork. I wipe off the dust and spiders and spray-paint it and the net gold to match my outfit. It’s still not historically accurate, but when I add gold spike-heeled sandals that lace up my thighs, I know I look fierce.
Plus, if anyone says shit to me, I’ll stab ’em through with my trident.
I sneak out through the maintenance shed and wait on the corner of Santa Casilda Drive for Gabriel to pick me up in his Jaguar Mark 1. Such an obnoxious Brit. He’s dressed as Julius Caesar in a purple-edged toga, with stems of laurel twisted through his hair. Tattoos encircle every inch of his exposed skin, and I swallow a lump of desire as I take him in.
Gabriel’s eyes rake over my body as I slide into the seat next to him, propping my trident and net between my legs. “What’s the net for?”
“I’m a retiarius. It’s a type of Roman gladiator who fought in the ring using a trident and net.”
“I thought you were trying for a sexy Poseidon or something. Fishing ain’t hot.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “It is when I do it.”
Gabriel tosses his head back and laughs. When he pulls his chin in again, he looks kind of shocked, like he hasn’t laughed in so long he’s forgotten what it felt like. He pulls me close, his arm around me, his fingers dancing ghosts along my bare arm.
