There were other dangers in the world, too, ones his size offered no defense against. There’d been a girl. His first. Just a street kid. She traded sex for protection. Nowadays, he’d never take advantage of a woman that way, but at seventeen, if a girl was offering it . . . yes, he’d taken it. Right up until the night he woke with a knife poised a lot lower than his throat, as her real boyfriend helped her steal a thousand dollars of his college savings—and all of his pride.
It was a mistake he never made again. Sex was an instinct, like hunger or thirst, one to be dealt with but controlled, so it would never again pose a threat to the pursuit of his goals. Keep his eyes on the future. Don’t get distracted. Slow down to admire the scenery and the world will overtake you. Or devour you.
So he had the Coke and the stew and the money and the weapons. And it all added up to one thing: fear. It didn’t matter how old he was or how big he’d grown or how successful he’d become. He was safely up here, above the city, behind locks and a security system, and there were still nights when he bolted awake, heart pounding so hard he could barely breathe. The only thing that helped was knowing everything he needed was here, everything he hadn’t had half a lifetime ago.
Olivia admired him for overcoming his past. He could see it in her face when the subject arose. It had taken him to a level in her estimation that “Gabriel Walsh, attorney-at-law” could never reach. He’d come from the streets and had a million-dollar condo before the age of thirty. That spoke to her of strength. Of victory.
And this? The Coke and the stew and the money and the weapons? They told a very different story. They said that Gabriel Walsh hadn’t sailed out of that life unscathed. The frightened and hungry kid who’d lived on the streets wasn’t gone. He was hiding up here, with his security blankets.
There was no reason for Olivia to know that. What he presented to her wasn’t a false front. She was happy with the ninety percent of him that she saw, and that’s what he wanted. Olivia to be happy.
Except, right now, Olivia was not happy. He should have gone after her. That was the proper procedure. He’d behaved poorly, and she was hurt. She’d stormed off. He should have followed. Except he couldn’t. She’d left him. He would not follow. He knew well what a psychiatrist would say about that, tracing it back to Seanna’s abandonment. He didn’t care. It was what it was.
He could rectify that now. Send a text. I’m sorry. I behaved badly.
Please come back.
Gabriel made a noise in his throat and turned on his heel, shoe squeaking on the polished floor.
He would not say that last part, of course. He would never say that. But it was what he wanted—for Olivia to read his apology and understand how hard it was to make it, and even if she was lying beside Ricky, for her to leave his bed and come back. To give him another chance.
Which was pathetic. Weak and pathetic and desperate. He’d made a mistake, a relatively small one. By tomorrow, he wouldn’t even need to apologize.
But he should.
When his cell phone rang, he jumped, then cursed himself for startling like a spooked cat. It rang again, and the surprise and the annoyance fell away as he thought, It’s her. Olivia. Calling to tell him what a jerk he was. He didn’t care. She was calling.
He hit the button so fast that it wasn’t until he’d already pressed it that he actually saw the name: James Morgan.
He almost hung up as the line connected. He would have, if it couldn’t be seen as a sign of cowardice. He almost swore, too. That wasn’t quite as great a faux pas, but it was a personal line he preferred not to cross. The world liked to paint him as a thug. His size, his choice of clients, his moral ambiguity—it all added up to that conclusion. Gabriel Walsh was an ill-bred, uncouth thug. He would not give them the satisfaction of hearing him speak like one. He would watch his word choice and his diction, and not be what they expected.
So he didn’t curse when the line connected.
“Olivia isn’t here,” he snapped in greeting.
A pause. Then, “I should hope not. It’s ten at night. Whatever mistakes she’s making, that’s not going to be one of them.”
Any other time, the insult would have rolled off. Morgan was an idiot. He didn’t know Olivia. Didn’t understand her. Mocking Gabriel was the desperate, weak ploy of a desperate, weak man. But now Gabriel had fucked up and Olivia had walked out, and this asshole sneered at the very suggestion she might have stayed.
“What do you want?” Gabriel managed to say.
“I have copies.”
“Copies?”
“Of the file I sent Olivia. I just learned that it was routed to your office, which explains why I haven’t heard from her. You think that by shoving it through the shredder you can stop her from finding out about you.”
Gabriel laughed. The sound was sharp as a blade, and Morgan should have taken the hint.
“I’m glad you find this funny,” Morgan said.
“Oh, I don’t find it funny at all. You’re so certain you know what happened, because you’re so certain you know Olivia. If she’d read that file, she’d have come running back and thrown herself into your arms, begging for forgiveness and protection. Is that how your fantasies run, Morgan?”
Silence.
“I’m sure they do, which only proves you are a bigger fool than I imagined. Olivia read the file, and I would suggest that you are lucky she didn’t pay you a visit. It would not have gone well.”
“Bullshit.”
“I can ask her to confirm receipt tomorrow if you like.”
“What did you say to her? No, wait—I don’t need to ask. You said it was lies. All lies. Poor Gabriel Walsh, unfairly persecuted.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I said, because she knows I would never stoop to something as distasteful as blackmail or intimidation. It would be like accepting money to protect my client.”
Silence as Morgan thought this through. Gabriel resisted the urge to call him an idiot again. He wasn’t really. He couldn’t be, having achieved his level of success. But Morgan had a technical mind, which served him well in his chosen field. Beyond that he was, functionally, an idiot.
“If you wish to speak to Olivia on this matter, I will ask her to call you,” Gabriel said. “After that conversation, you will make no further attempts to contact her. Your obsession is becoming wearisome. Cut your losses. Walk away.”
It was a mistake he never made again. Sex was an instinct, like hunger or thirst, one to be dealt with but controlled, so it would never again pose a threat to the pursuit of his goals. Keep his eyes on the future. Don’t get distracted. Slow down to admire the scenery and the world will overtake you. Or devour you.
So he had the Coke and the stew and the money and the weapons. And it all added up to one thing: fear. It didn’t matter how old he was or how big he’d grown or how successful he’d become. He was safely up here, above the city, behind locks and a security system, and there were still nights when he bolted awake, heart pounding so hard he could barely breathe. The only thing that helped was knowing everything he needed was here, everything he hadn’t had half a lifetime ago.
Olivia admired him for overcoming his past. He could see it in her face when the subject arose. It had taken him to a level in her estimation that “Gabriel Walsh, attorney-at-law” could never reach. He’d come from the streets and had a million-dollar condo before the age of thirty. That spoke to her of strength. Of victory.
And this? The Coke and the stew and the money and the weapons? They told a very different story. They said that Gabriel Walsh hadn’t sailed out of that life unscathed. The frightened and hungry kid who’d lived on the streets wasn’t gone. He was hiding up here, with his security blankets.
There was no reason for Olivia to know that. What he presented to her wasn’t a false front. She was happy with the ninety percent of him that she saw, and that’s what he wanted. Olivia to be happy.
Except, right now, Olivia was not happy. He should have gone after her. That was the proper procedure. He’d behaved poorly, and she was hurt. She’d stormed off. He should have followed. Except he couldn’t. She’d left him. He would not follow. He knew well what a psychiatrist would say about that, tracing it back to Seanna’s abandonment. He didn’t care. It was what it was.
He could rectify that now. Send a text. I’m sorry. I behaved badly.
Please come back.
Gabriel made a noise in his throat and turned on his heel, shoe squeaking on the polished floor.
He would not say that last part, of course. He would never say that. But it was what he wanted—for Olivia to read his apology and understand how hard it was to make it, and even if she was lying beside Ricky, for her to leave his bed and come back. To give him another chance.
Which was pathetic. Weak and pathetic and desperate. He’d made a mistake, a relatively small one. By tomorrow, he wouldn’t even need to apologize.
But he should.
When his cell phone rang, he jumped, then cursed himself for startling like a spooked cat. It rang again, and the surprise and the annoyance fell away as he thought, It’s her. Olivia. Calling to tell him what a jerk he was. He didn’t care. She was calling.
He hit the button so fast that it wasn’t until he’d already pressed it that he actually saw the name: James Morgan.
He almost hung up as the line connected. He would have, if it couldn’t be seen as a sign of cowardice. He almost swore, too. That wasn’t quite as great a faux pas, but it was a personal line he preferred not to cross. The world liked to paint him as a thug. His size, his choice of clients, his moral ambiguity—it all added up to that conclusion. Gabriel Walsh was an ill-bred, uncouth thug. He would not give them the satisfaction of hearing him speak like one. He would watch his word choice and his diction, and not be what they expected.
So he didn’t curse when the line connected.
“Olivia isn’t here,” he snapped in greeting.
A pause. Then, “I should hope not. It’s ten at night. Whatever mistakes she’s making, that’s not going to be one of them.”
Any other time, the insult would have rolled off. Morgan was an idiot. He didn’t know Olivia. Didn’t understand her. Mocking Gabriel was the desperate, weak ploy of a desperate, weak man. But now Gabriel had fucked up and Olivia had walked out, and this asshole sneered at the very suggestion she might have stayed.
“What do you want?” Gabriel managed to say.
“I have copies.”
“Copies?”
“Of the file I sent Olivia. I just learned that it was routed to your office, which explains why I haven’t heard from her. You think that by shoving it through the shredder you can stop her from finding out about you.”
Gabriel laughed. The sound was sharp as a blade, and Morgan should have taken the hint.
“I’m glad you find this funny,” Morgan said.
“Oh, I don’t find it funny at all. You’re so certain you know what happened, because you’re so certain you know Olivia. If she’d read that file, she’d have come running back and thrown herself into your arms, begging for forgiveness and protection. Is that how your fantasies run, Morgan?”
Silence.
“I’m sure they do, which only proves you are a bigger fool than I imagined. Olivia read the file, and I would suggest that you are lucky she didn’t pay you a visit. It would not have gone well.”
“Bullshit.”
“I can ask her to confirm receipt tomorrow if you like.”
“What did you say to her? No, wait—I don’t need to ask. You said it was lies. All lies. Poor Gabriel Walsh, unfairly persecuted.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I said, because she knows I would never stoop to something as distasteful as blackmail or intimidation. It would be like accepting money to protect my client.”
Silence as Morgan thought this through. Gabriel resisted the urge to call him an idiot again. He wasn’t really. He couldn’t be, having achieved his level of success. But Morgan had a technical mind, which served him well in his chosen field. Beyond that he was, functionally, an idiot.
“If you wish to speak to Olivia on this matter, I will ask her to call you,” Gabriel said. “After that conversation, you will make no further attempts to contact her. Your obsession is becoming wearisome. Cut your losses. Walk away.”
