Gabriel's Inferno
Page 55

“Everyone is pretty enough in the dark,” she whispered.
“No, they are not.” He kissed her before pulling back abruptly, willing himself to stop.
She rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart and trying not to drink too deeply of the energy that charged between them.
“It just occurred to me, Julia, that I only seem to get honest answers out of you whenever we share a bed.”
She blushed, and even though it was dark, Gabriel knew it. He chuckled softly. “Why do you think that is?”
“When we’re in bed, you’re gentle with me. I feel…safe.”
“I don’t know how safe it is to be with me, Julianne, but I promise that I will try to be gentle with you always. Especially in bed.”
She hugged him tightly and nodded against his chest, as if she understood the full implication of what he was saying. But she didn’t. How could she?
“Are you going home for Thanksgiving?”
“Yes. I need to call my father to give him the good news.”
“I promised Richard I’d come home. Would you…consider flying out with me?”
“I’d like that.”
“Good.” He sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “It isn’t going to be a pleasant holiday.”
“I don’t like Thanksgiving. But Grace always made it nice.”
“Wasn’t it nice with your family?”
Julia squirmed. “We didn’t really celebrate it.”
“Why not?”
“I did all the cooking unless my mother was in recovery. And whenever I tried to do something special…” She shook her head.
Gabriel tightened his arms around her. “Tell me,” he whispered.
“You don’t want to hear this.”
She tried to turn away from him, but he held her fast. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just trying to know you.”
The tone of Gabriel’s voice was such that it tugged at her, more powerfully than his words or his arms. She drew a deep breath.
“During my last Thanksgiving in St. Louis, Sharon was on a bender with one of the boyfriends. But stupid me, I decided to cook a Martha Stewart recipe for stuffed roast chicken, twice-baked potatoes, and vegetables.” She stopped.
“I’m sure it was delicious,” he prompted.
“I never found out.”
“Why?”
“I kind of had an accident.”
“Julianne?” He tried to lift her chin so that he could look into her eyes, but she wouldn’t look at him. “What happened?”
“We didn’t have a kitchen table. So I set up a card table in the living room and set it for three. It was stupid, really. I shouldn’t have bothered. I put all the food on a tray to carry it to the table, and the boyfriend stuck out his foot and tripped me.”
“On purpose?”
“He saw me coming.”
Gabriel seethed with instantaneous anger, his hands curling into fists.
“I went flying. The dishes shattered. Food was everywhere.”
“How badly were you hurt?” he asked with clenched teeth.
“I don’t remember.” Julia’s voice instantly cooled.
“Did your mother help you?”
She shook her head.
Gabriel growled, low in his throat.
“They laughed. I must have looked pathetic on my hands and knees, crying, covered in gravy. The chicken skidded across the tiles and under one of the chairs.” She paused thoughtfully. “I was on my knees for a while.
You would have had a stroke if you’d seen me.”
Gabriel stifled the urge to ram his fist through the wal behind his head. “I wouldn’t have had a stroke. I would have beaten him and been sorely pressed not to horsewhip her.”
Julia traced his fist with one of her fingers. “They got bored and went into her bedroom to fuck. They didn’t even bother to close the door. That was my last Thanksgiving with Sharon.”
“Your mother sounds like Anne Sexton.”
“Sharon never wrote poetry.”
“My God, Julia.” Gabriel unclenched his fists and hugged her close.
“I cleaned up so that they wouldn’t get mad at me, and I hopped on a bus. I rode around aimlessly until I saw a Salvation Army mission. They were advertising a Thanksgiving meal for the homeless. I asked if I could volunteer in the kitchen, and they put me to work.”
“That’s how you spent Thanksgiving?”
She shrugged. “I couldn’t go home, and the people at the mission were friendly. After the guests were served, I had a turkey dinner with the volunteers. They even sent me home with leftovers. And pie.” Julia paused thoughtfully. “No one ever baked me a pie.”
He cleared his throat. “Julianne, why didn’t your father take you away from her?”
“It wasn’t always bad.” She began fidgeting with his t-shirt, gathering the soft cotton in between her fingers and tugging slightly.
“Ouch. Careful.” Gabriel chuckled. “You’re pul ing out what few chest hairs I have.”
“Sorry.” Julia nervously smoothed the cotton with her fingers. “Um, my dad lived with us until I was four, when my mom kicked him out. He went back to live in Selinsgrove, where he grew up. He used to call me on Sundays. I was talking to him one day, and I let slip the fact that one of the boyfriends had wandered into my room the night before, naked, thinking my room was the bathroom.” She cleared her throat and began speaking quickly, so Gabriel wouldn’t have a chance to ask that question.
“Dad freaked out, wanting to know if the boyfriend had touched me.
He hadn’t. He wanted to speak to my mom, and when I explained that I wasn’t supposed to bother her when one of the boyfriends was over, he told me to go into my room and lock the door. Of course, I didn’t have a lock.
First thing the next morning, Dad showed up to take me to Selinsgrove. I guess it was a good thing the boyfriend was gone by the time he arrived. I think my father would have killed him.”
“So you left?”
“Yes. Dad told Sharon that if she didn’t get rid of the boyfriends and get off the alcohol, he was going to take me away from her permanently.
She agreed to go into rehab, and I went to live with him.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight.”
“Why didn’t you stay with him?”
“He was never home. He had a day job that was very busy and sometimes he had to work weekends. Plus, he was a volunteer with the fire department. When school finished for the year, he sent me back to St.
Louis. Sharon was out of rehab by then and working in a nail salon. He thought I’d be fine.”
“But you came back?”
She hesitated.
“You can tell me, Julianne.” He squeezed her tightly and waited, softly stroking her hair. “It’s all right.”
She swallowed. Hard. “The summer before I turned seventeen, Dad brought me back.”
“Why?”
“Um, Sharon hit me. I fell against the corner of the kitchen counter, hitting my head. I called my dad from the hospital and said that if he didn’t come and get me I was going to run away. And that was it. I never saw my mother again.”
“Do you have a scar?”
She took his hand and brought it up to the back of her head, pressing his fingers against a raised line of flesh where hair no longer grew.
“I’m sorry for this.” He traced it a few times and pressed his lips against it. “I’m sorry that those things happened to you. If I could, I’d beat them all senseless…starting with the bastard who is your father.”
“I was pretty lucky, actually. Sharon only hit me once.”
“Nothing you have told me sounds even remotely lucky.”
“I’m lucky now. No one hits me here. And I have a friend who feeds me.”
Gabriel shook his head and cursed. “You should have been cuddled and adored and treated like a princess. That’s what Rachel had.”
“I don’t believe in fairy tales,” she breathed.
“I’d like to make you believe.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead.
“Reality is better than fantasy, Gabriel.”
“Not if reality is the fantasy.”
She shook her head, but smiled. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
Her smile faded. “Do you have any scars?”
Gabriel’s face was impassive. “You can’t hit something that you don’t know is there.”
Julia leaned up and pressed her cheek into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s difficult to know what’s worse — being hit or being ignored. I guess it depends on what kind of pain you prefer.”
“I’m so sorry, Gabriel. I didn’t know.”
She took his hand in hers and wrapped their fingers together. Taking a deep breath, she asked, “Are you going to go home now?”
“Not unless you want me to leave.” He stroked her hair again, carefully avoiding the place where the flesh was raised.
She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. “I want you to stay with me.”
“Then I’ll stay.”
Julia fell asleep while Gabriel remained awake contemplating the scars she had shown him, wondering with queasiness and anger about the scars she had not revealed.
“Julia?” he whispered. Her regular breathing and lack of response indicated that she was sleeping.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you.” He kissed her cheek softly. “Least of all myself.”
Chapter 19
Julia awoke the next morning to the sounds of the shower. She was trying to work out how someone other than she could be in her washroom when the sounds stopped and a tall, brown-haired man wrapped in a small, purple towel came through the door. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she gasped, clapping a hand over her open mouth.
“Good morning,” said Gabriel, clutching the towel that was slung low on his hips with one hand while grabbing his clothes with the other.
Julia stared. And she wasn’t staring at his face.
Regardless of what she was staring at, his hair was wet and sticking out in unruly spikes from his head. Beads of water clung to his shoulders and chest and glistened off the surface of his tattoo. The contours of sinew, muscle and veins, symmetry and balance, idealized proportion, and classical lines would be breathtaking even to the casual observer. But Julia was anything but a casual observer, for she had spent the entire night with this very body in her bed, spooning her close and playing with her hair. And this body was attached to a damn fine mind and a very deep, passionate soul.
Nevertheless, Julia was staring at his physical form, and thus the term aquatic demi-god flitted through her consciousness.
Gabriel grinned. “I said good morning, Julianne.”
She closed her mouth. “Um, good morning.”
He walked over and leaned down, pressing a firm but gentle opened-mouth kiss against her lips. A few droplets of water splashed around her on the sheets. “Did you sleep well?”