After Raiden left the party, Gabriel tried to sober up. He murmured apologies as he accidentally stepped on people’s toes. He smiled at the other guests until he was baring his teeth. Although fully aware of the Joker-like quality his grin incarnated, Gabriel could not soften it.
For the next hour, he chatted mindlessly with the plastic people surrounding him like a human cage. He had little clue as to the point of their exchanges, but still managed to supply the proper reactions to their meaningless babble. He reached his limit, however, when some moronic woman with tacky hair extensions and a gown the color of ugly coquettishly batted her eyelashes at him, crooning, “Where is that darling little doll you had with you? The Asian boy with blond hair. Wherever did he run off to? I’m sure he’s lonely without your company.”
Gabriel grinned down at her with barbaric ferocity. She took a step backward. Her flirtatious expression faltered.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” he said. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must leave. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”
He stumbled away, leaving the woman confused. Ignoring the suspicious looks cast in his direction, he uttered a hasty goodbye to the recently reemerged Baza.
As Gabriel walked out the front door, Ken’s number flashed on his cell phone, but he ignored it. The valet brought his rental car around. Although Gabriel knew he was drunk, and well beyond the legal blood alcohol limit, he did not care. Being reckless sounded enticing at the moment.
As he drove away, he caught a glimpse of blurry features in the side view mirror. A stranger’s face stared back at him.
Oh, wait, he realized. That’s me.
* * *
Gabriel pounded his bare fists against the punching bag with vicious force, wishing he were pounding his own face. The punishment was necessarily brutal, given his uncouth actions last night. He knew his behavior at the party had been atrocious. Fawning all over Raiden like a ridiculous schoolgirl; taking any opportunity to touch him; hiding his raging hard-on by leaning forward over crossed legs—Gabriel was guilty of many transgressions.
His masochistic streak, dormant since January, had bloomed during his stay in Metro Detroit. ‘Tis the season. Birds and bees. Spring. A humorless chortle crackled from his mouth like a dry twig. He cringed at the sound. Bloody sweat dripped down his wrists in cherry rivulets. The bones in his hands released muted squeals of pain.
Pain. At least it was something he could still feel. Gabriel clung to this thought as he continued his exercise in self-destruction. Discipline unwavering, he pummeled the bag with rapid, disturbing precision. Spurts of blood gushed down his forearms in torrents, splattering the ground like spray paint. Strange, lovely patterns emerged from the spatters: art born from violence. Even as his fists grew numb, Gabriel realized that he never failed to create something beautiful. The artist in him just would not quit.
He smiled even as his left forefinger fractured. Silent tears stood unshed in his eyes. He punched the bag even harder. Before he passed out, he again berated his sloppy approach to seducing Raiden. Usually, his conduct was impeccable, but meeting his idol had brought out his inner fanboy.
I blew it.
* * *
He awoke—dry-skinned and cotton-mouthed, tangled in the sheets—with a powerful feeling of foreboding.
I’m dead. I finally went through with it. No more second chances.
A startled cry escaped his throat as a ray of light caught his eye. The sun peeked around the corners of the curtains and pierced his corneas. He welcomed the discomfort, thankful to discover that his brain still cared enough to send signals shooting through his nerves. He was alive, but something was wrong.
He lay there for countless minutes, trying in vain to make sense of the situation. Too groggy, feeling disembodied, he failed to pinpoint the exact problem. When he finally attempted sitting up, the room teetered crazily like the world’s most nauseating merry-go-round. He puked over the side of the bed. As he grasped the sheets to steady himself, scorching soreness attacked his left forefinger down to the bone. He shrieked at a glass-breaking pitch.
At once, a figure burst through the bedroom door.
“Gabriel, are you okay? Talk to me!”
Groaning, he put a pillow over his ears in a futile effort to block out the vaguely familiar voice.
“Gabe, what the goddamn fuck is going on? Did you—”
The voice cut off as its owner eyed the still-steaming splash of vomit. A dainty noise of disgust sounded.
Gabriel, recognizing the speaker at last, groaned again. His rusty vocal cords croaked when he opened his mouth. “What the hell are you doing here, Ken? You’re supposed to be in the tropics.”
“I flew away from a hot piece of tail in the Bahamas to come nurse your sorry ass back to health, so you’d better show some respect.”
“Spare me the lecture and unwelcome allusions to your alleged saintliness.”
His costar-cum-roomie grinned. “But you know it’s true. I’m a fucking saint.”
“Stop dicking me around. I have a right to know what happened to my own body.”
“You scared the shit out of me, hollering like that. I didn’t know what to think.” Ken removed the sheet from his head and gingerly touched his hair.
“Ow! Hair hurts, don’t pet,” Gabriel whimpered.
“What did you expect, brainless? You knocked yourself out.”
The exasperated smile in Ken’s voice faded. His fingers tightened around Gabriel’s locks, sending renewed ripples of nausea through his seasick stomach.
“Goddamnit!”
Ken dug his nails into Gabriel’s scalp. For a split-second, the cruel fingers squeezed harder. Then, they relaxed.
He moaned in relief. “That hurt.”
“You deserved it. You wanted pain, remember? Not from me, I know, but you wanted it all the same. Why else would you have lost a fight to a punching bag?” The disdain in Ken’s voice put him to shame.
Oh. So that’s what happened, he realized. Guess my exercise in self-punishment went a little too far.
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