Saving Abel (Rocker Series) (13 page)

“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.

I stood in his living room taking it all in—his unique taste in home décor, his scent permeating the room, the lush red velvet drapes hanging heavy in the windows. All were phallic symbols of one kind or another, all very representative of him, of his masterful presence. I cracked my knuckles in anticipation. Anxiety zip-lined through my veins. My hands fisted. I was prepared for it all.

I made my way to a corridor off the kitchen lit with melting candles and stood there for a minute, straining to listen. I could hear soft lyrical whispers, the kind of whispers that caused nausea to build inside me, mounting with the energy of a volcanic eruption.
Oh, fuck.
My legs forced my body forward. This could all end here and now. Passing by the erotic art lining the walls of the hallway, I approached two massive wooden doors with ornately carved underworld scenes. The left door featured a grinning demon holding a human heart. The right had two strangely beautiful horned creatures fornicating. I took the deeper meaning of these beautifully twisted images to be that Abel was a tortured soul. His torture brought light to my heart. Could I be the one to save him, to help him move past his darkness? And in so doing, might I find my own way, my truth? And could I even live in truth? My reality was reprehensible—sickening. Could truth ever be my reality? Could we help one another move beyond a lifetime of hurt to live in the light?

My heart wanted light. It didn’t want to be the ugly dark broken organ it was. That much I knew. What scared me was the process of getting there—the commitment it would take, and the courage it would take to be truthful. Was I that courageous? Sure, I had the guts to sneak into his apartment. But, could I, would I, be courageous enough to live in the moment of total transparency? That I doubted.

Laying my ear against the door, I gripped the cold steal doorknob and listened. He was humming something—I wasn’t quite sure what. I could hear the strumming of his guitar. Was he singing to somebody? Oh God, I hoped not. Gently. I opened the door an inch to take a peek. Abel was perched on the windowsill wearing low-hanging sweatpants, a baseball cap turned backwards, and holding his guitar across his lap. His tatted, muscled body in all its magnificence was just sitting there in the window, picture-perfect, for all the world to see. In his gruff voice, he was softly crooning Rihanna’s “Stay.” As with anything Abel touched, he made it his. And his was the most beautiful, heartbreaking, and gut-wrenching version of the song I had ever heard.

His hair billowed softly in the breeze. The lyrics danced over my skin and embedded themselves in my heart. Hesitantly, I stepped forward, sensing no obvious threat in the form of the stunning bimbo-twat from Blue.

“Abel,” I whispered, scared to death. And I sure didn’t want to scare him, either. But the thought of him throwing me out of here made black spots form around the edges of my vision. He never stopped fingering his guitar. Did he not hear me? I moved a few steps closer, but kept near enough to the door in case I needed to exit quickly.

“Gia, I saw you on the security cam. How do you think you made it this far?” he asked, focusing his gaze on the world outside the window. His fingers stopped mid-melody. It was deathly quiet in the room. I spoke to break the awkwardness.

“I’m not going to get into why you left the club without letting me give you an explanation. I came here to give one in private. I want to explain what happened. And if you don’t accept my explanation, I’ll leave.” I moved farther into the room to sit in the chair facing him. He wouldn’t look at me. Instead, he continued to stare out the window, his hand white-knuckling the neck of his guitar. It was obvious he was pissed. I needed to tread lightly.

“Abel, hand up to God, I thought it was you behind me. Not for one minute did I
ever
think it was anyone else—let alone Ender.
Bible
,” I said, with one hand on my heart and the other up to God. His eyes met mine in the window’s reflection. I was sure I looked ridiculously childish—until I saw a small smirk pulling on his lips. I wanted to fist-pump. But it was way too premature to celebrate. I wanted to go to him, but first I needed to know that he accepted my explanation. It was better to let him come to me. So, I waited until finally he swung his legs off the ledge and placed his guitar against the wall. He stood up tall and proud, and looked me in the eye.

“It’s very simple, Gia. If I say something’s mine, it’s mine—meaning you will only be touched by me. You will only be fucked by me. You will only come for me. You will only dance with me. And I don’t dance. Any pleasure you receive will be mine—unless I say otherwise. Are we clear?”