Iburst into the restroom, stumble into the nearest cubicle, and trap the door shut with my back. Germs be damned; nothing in this cootie-infested stall could possibly be filthier than the heat rolling beneath my skin.
Jesus Christ. I knew I shouldn't have come tonight because deep down, I knew this would happen.
And down even deeper, I'd hoped it would.
The moment I stepped out of the elevator, my heart slid south and thumped where it shouldn't. Gabriel Visconti was exactly where I didn't want him: bang center in the middle of the cave, wedged between Rory and Rafe. In other words, impossible to avoid.
He sure did a good job of avoiding me though.
If he'd noticed I'd slipped into the seat opposite him, he didn't show it.
He didn't toss me so much as a glance over the table, let alone say a word.
He sat there, carved from the damn rock itself, his only movement a lazy turn of his inked hand to deal another card.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I let out a groan wrapped in fire. I'm burning up and breathless, and replaying what just happened only adds fuel to the flames.
I'd smiled and ordered a lemonade.
The server grinned and asked if I was sure I didn't want anything stronger.
Aside from nearly spilling a tray of drinks on me when I arrived, his only crime was being annoying and yet Gabriel went from zero to one hundred with no stops in between.
"She said, she'll have a lemonade."
Under the flashing holiday lights, he rose like sin in stop-motion. A human in green, a monster in red, and as his shadow bled across the felt and swallowed me whole, I discovered what it felt like to be both terrified and turned on.
It wasn't that Gabriel had lost his temper.
It was that he'd lost it because of me.
A lick of fire shoots up my core. I'd made such a flippant comment about him having a crush on me on the tender yacht, but Christ, the thought of it potentially being true…
The restroom door flies open.
"Wren?"
I mutter a silent curse at the sound of Tayce's voice.
"Wren!" She barks again, hammering on the door so hard my bones rattle.
"I'm busy," I grit back. I brace myself against the cold metal, too, because I've seen her kick through doors with sturdier locks and in higher heels.
"No, you're not. You've never used a club toilet in your life."
"Yeah, well," I sniff. "Desperate times call for desperate measures."
The door opens again, and I know better than to hope it's her leaving.
"Hi, babe," she chirps to someone else, sugar in her tone. "You might want to use the other restroom. My friend, Wren Harlow, is in there, currently doing the biggest, stinkiest—"
A jolt of panic rockets through me. I wrench at the lock and bolt out of the cubicle. "I am not!" I squeal, cheeks burning.
The girl freezes mid-step, eyes flicking from Tayce to me and back again. Her mouth opens and shuts, then she throws her hands up like I'm holding her at gunpoint.
"My bad…" she mutters, backing up toward the door. "I'll just, uh—yeah."
"I swear, I was just fixing my dress—"
The door thumps shut on my protest. Huffing out a breath of annoyance, I spin around and glare at Tayce. She's grinning like a Cheshire cat, but when her gaze flickers across my face and down to the flush on my chest, it fades.
"What the hell was that?"
"I told you I was sick," I mutter.
Her eyes track me as I move to the sink and slam my purse on the counter. I nudge the tap with my elbow and glare down at the water spitting out of it. Anything to avoid her stare burning into my reflection in the mirror.
The faucet hisses. Pipes gurgle. Heels click across the tiles, then Tayce is beside me.
"Wren…" Her hips knock against the counter as she leans back on her palms. "Are you fucking Gabe?"
Her question catches me off guard and my laugh is loud and manic. It echoes off the walls and raises Tayce's brows. "Me? Gabe? That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard all year."
"I mean, it's totally okay if you are."
My eyes slide sideways, suspicion crackling through me. "What?"
She gives a careless shrug, her face showing no traces of humor.
"Eh. He's fucking hot. I've tattooed him a million times and I still forget my own name when he takes his shirt off.
" Pushing off the sink, she turns around and studies her red lipstick in the mirror. "That body is criminal, honestly."
Unfortunately, I've seen him shirtless too. Only once, then many times over, every time I close my damn eyes.
A pinch of something ugly twists low in my stomach.
I can't stop it. The jealousy is sharp and sour, and I know it's ridiculous, because Tayce has seen half of the coast naked.
And Gabriel Visconti isn't mine to react over.
He's not even mine to look at. But the thought still coils tight around my ribs.
I pump soap into my hands and scrub them if only to hide my tremor.
She doesn't look like she's leaving anytime soon, so I reach for the soap again and set the record straight. "I am not sleeping with him," I say quietly.
"But you want to?"
"No—"
"But you totally would, right?"
"No, I—"
"Because I'll be honest, Wren, that David dude is a drip."
I scowl up at her. "Are you kidding me? You told me I needed to kiss frogs!"
She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, frogs. David's more of a tadpole. He's…" She gestures around the restroom, looking for the right insult. "Weird and slimy."
"But Gabriel's not a frog either. He's a whole-ass dragon," I snap back, before hastening to add: "Not that I've ever even thought about kissing him."
Her gaze sparks. "Uh-huh."
Ears burning from embarrassment, I turn away and shove my hands under the dryer. I glare at the crude graffiti on the wall behind it, wrestling with the confession itching at the back of my throat.
But Uncle Finn once told me that the worst thing a guilty person can do is confess to a lesser crime. Piercing the conscience leads to open wounds. If I admitted I had a sick, twisted crush on Gabriel, who knows what I'd admit to next.
No. Instead, I steel my spine, spin around, and put up my best defense.
"First you tell me that he's not as scary as he looks, then Rory insists he doesn't carry a gun. But I'm not as naive as you think I am, Tayce. I know he's a dangerous man. Jeez." I fold my arms across my chest. "If you weren't my best friend, I'd think you'd want me dead or something."
A hollow beat passes; she doesn't shoot down my dramatic claim. Instead, she palms the sink, her fingers tracing the cracked porcelain. When her gaze finally lifts to meet mine in the mirror, she looks a decade older.
"There are two types of dangerous men in this world, Wren. The ones you run from, and the ones you run toward to escape the first kind." She lets out a breath halfway between a laugh and a sigh, then straightens up.
"Trust me: I didn't need to witness Gabe's outburst tonight to know which camp he falls into. "
Her words hang in the silence, light as steam, yet dense enough to punch me in the gut.
I'm so busy wrestling with my own demons, I forget Tayce is fighting with her own. The only difference between us is that she wraps hers in black and one-night stands, and I bury mine under pink and good deeds.
Guilt tugs on my heartstrings and stings the backs of my eyes. "Tayce—"
She cuts me off. "Anyway, I've gotta get out of here before I catch an STD," she says, screwing up her nose at the suspicious brown smear on the paper towel dispenser. "You coming?"
Glancing at the door, I hesitate. I'm not sane enough to deal with what's behind it yet, so I shake my head. "I'll be out in a minute."
She studies me for a moment, before giving a decisive nod. "Fine, but if I don't see you in five minutes, I'm sending out a search party."
She blows me a kiss and then she's gone, leaving me alone with nothing but the ghost of Gabriel's outburst echoing off the tiles.
She said, she'll have a lemonade.
They crackle down my core and light a spark between my thighs. When it fizzles out, it leaves me with this hollow, desperate ache. I guess I'm not your conventional addict, but the withdrawals hit hard and fast all the same.
I drift back over to the sink and stare at myself in the mirror.
This is that really unrealistic part in movies where the heroine splashes their face with cold water. Though I'm spinning out of my damn mind, I don't think I'll ever be crazy enough to do that.
Instead, I dig out my makeup and touch up my eyeshadow and reapply my blush. I coat on two layers of lipgloss too many. When I drop the tube back into my purse, my cell vibrates against my knuckles.
Three years. Every day, for three years.
And for the first time in those three years, the panic brings relief.