“You’re just asking me that because you know I’m naked under this coat.”
Gabriel’s eyebrow shoots up. “I didn’t, actually. But now I’mveryinterested.”
I glance down the street, at the bus rounding the corner toward my stop. There’s not another bus for an hour.
Gabriel smiles. The barbell in his lip jiggles.
I take the joint. I’m only human. “What do you have in mind?”
21
Mackenzie
As we cut across the park toward the beach, Gabriel throws his arms around my shoulders, like it’s a totally normal thing to do. My chest tightens, and I find myself struggling for breath.
Gabriel Fallen has his arm around my shoulder.
Chill, bitch.
I don’t remember a moment of the walk. Gabriel chats with ease about things that are completely foreign to me – psycho fans, stadiums packed with people screaming his name, sharing a shower with four other guys on a cramped tour bus. He asks me questions about myself, and I struggle to remember my name, let alone keep my story straight. I’m relieved when he turns off the pavement.
“We’re here.”
Hereis a block of ultra-modern apartments overlooking a private beach. The facades are painted a stark white with all kinds of weird angles and invisible gutterings – the kind of design architects go nuts for but would be a complete disaster to maintain.
From his blazer pocket, Gabriel pulls out an electronic fob on the end of a chain. He holds it up to a security box, and the metal gate swings open. We walk down winding sandstone steps to a grand front entrance. One entire wall is rough-hewn granite with a waterfall cascading over the top.
Gabriel nods to the waterfall. “I had that installed over the summer. It’s too quiet here, even with the surf roaring. I’m so used to being on tour sometimes it’s hard to sleep without noise.”
Riiiight. He needed some noise, so instead of blasting some music he makes a waterfall down the side of his house. That’s totally normal.
“This is yours?” I step into the open-plan kitchen, living, and dining space, taking in the vaulted ceiling with exposed beams and the industrial features. One entire wall is filled with a big-screen TV and state-of-the-art speakers – on the opposite wall, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are crammed with books and vinyl records.
“Yup. I purchased it when our last album hit it big. I wanted somewhere I could come between tours so I don’t ever have to go back to Fallen Castle.”
“Your parents have a castle?” I knew Gabriel’s family was wealthy, but that’s a whole other level.
“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.”
