“Huh?” He tries to lift his head.
“No, don’t look,” I scold. “That’ll make it worse. You touched everything in the bathroom. Who knows what kind of infections you’re at risk for. It’s either disinfect the wound or go to the hospital right now.”
“Fine,” he mumbles.
“Don’t be a baby, okay?” It’s wild sarcasm, of course. This is going to hurt like a bitch. I douse his hand in the antiseptic. Gabriel’s whole forearm starts to shake, his veins inflaming right before my eyes. But he’s brave and doesn’t pull away. He grits his teeth tightly, but a low guttural moan of agony slips through.Dammit.I should’ve given him something to bite down on. Feeling terrible, I still drench his hand again, just for good measure. After the second coat, I put down the antiseptic andbegin to massage his trembling forearm. “There you go. It’s over now.”
I unwrap six packages of gauze and pile them on top of his wound. Again, he winces but doesn’t rip his hand away. He’s patient as I wrap the surgical tape around the gauze, securing it in place.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
His head is still on the pillow, and his eyes shut. “Like I love you a little less now.”
I let out a small, breathy laugh. “Okay. Good to know.” After gently setting his arm back on the mattress, I grab a few spare throw pillows from the ottoman at the foot of the bed. Bending his elbow, I prop his hand up. “Keep this at an angle. I’ll get you some fresh clothes, then call your doctor.”
“I didn’t get this drunk because of you, Fiona,” Gabriel suddenly says.
I stop rummaging through his dresser and turn around to look at Gabriel. His eyes are on the ceiling, and a single tear falls from the corner of his eye. He didn’t cry from the searing, burning pain of me drenching his open wound in alcohol. Whatever he’s thinking about must hurt much worse.
“I didn’t say you did,” I whisper.
“She was there tonight,” Gabriel continues. “I thought I could handle it.” He doesn’t look at me. His eyes are still fixed on the ceiling fan above his bed. It seems like he’s talking more to himself than me.
“Sugar?” I ask, even though I’m well aware of who he’s talking about.
Evading my question, he answers, “She wouldn’t even look me in the eye.”
“Do you still love her, Gabriel?”
He takes in an audible inhale, his breath shaking. “I’m trying not to.”
I could curse Vienne’s name a hundred ways to hell. Why is she doing this to Gabriel? He was basically a child when she used him and then threw him away like he meant nothing—and that still wasn’t enough. Now, she flaunts her marriage and her status right in his face. Why keep him around? Inviting him to President Baker’s birthday was torture. Gabriel isn’t the devil in disguise…
Vienne is.
“What would help? Is there anything I can do to help you move on?”
“Yeah… Ditch the Secret Service guy and stop running out on me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, making absolutely no promises. It’s getting harder and harder to lie to him. This is over. As of tomorrow, I’m telling Vesper everything…which is essentially nothing. Vienne’s jig is up. She has to figure out a different way to hide her affair and protect her husband’s legacy than trying to silence her secret lover with death.
Gabriel doesn’t respond to my apology. I step closer to the bed to see his eyes are shut, and his chest is rhythmically rising and falling. Sleep finally overcomes him after what I can only assume was one of the worst nights of his life.
TWENTY-FIVE
CRICKET
I’m not a skilled cook,but I can manage a breakfast quesadilla. It seems offensive to cook something so simple in Gabriel’s lavish kitchen. This looks like a professional chef’s kitchen. There’s even a hanging vent hood over the gas burners embedded in the kitchen island. As homage to the extravagant kitchen, I doll up my quesadilla with chopped onions, tomatoes, and a little breakfast sausage I found in the fridge.
Surprisingly, Gabriel’s fridge is fully stocked. I expected him to be an eat-out-every-night kind of guy. Then again, it’s probably Gabriel’s staff that cooks here, not him. He won’t be cooking for a while anyway with his damaged hand.
Gabriel’s doctor came within thirty minutes after I called him last night. He told me disinfecting the wound was a smart idea, but he wore a heavy scowl the entire time he was assessing my handiwork with the gauze and bandages. Gabriel pierced a major ligament but didn’t sever it entirely. Outside of a gruesome scar, his hand will be fine, eventually.
The doctor was reluctant to give him a sedative with his blood alcohol level, but I assured him I’d watch him like a hawk all night. I all but begged the doctor to ease Gabriel’s pain. Oncehe agreed, I cleaned up the broken glass in the kitchen. The culprit of the whole debacle was a 2010 Argentinian Malbec. Gabriel never even got the cork out. He must’ve dropped it and, in his drunken stupor, grabbed the jagged glass.
Once I’m satisfied with the crispy brown crust on the quesadilla, I slide it onto a plate to join two ramekins of sour cream and salsa. After I pour him a tall glass of orange juice, I grab the tray from the living room and collect Gabriel’s breakfast.
Using my elbow, I push down the door handle, then nudge it open with my hips. Gabriel is sitting up in bed. The mattress, which is on an adjustable frame, is angled at ninety degrees. He’s still under the covers from the waist down.
