Page 124 of Angel Eyes

Gabriel

Iwoke from a restless sleep to the sound of my phone vibrating somewhere on the floor.

Opening one bleary eye, I peeled myself off the couch in my studio where I’d passed out last night—and the night before that and the one before that too. Rolling into a seated position, I groaned and dropped my head into my hands as a dull pain throbbed in my temples.

Why on earth was the phone so loud?

I shoved aside a near-empty whiskey bottle and reached for the device, wincing as the screen lit up with Nora’s name. I hit Ignore and chucked it aside, pushing to my feet and staggering toward the bathroom. I flipped on the faucet and splashed my face with water, willing myself not to vomit. After another round of binge drinking yesterday, it was a miracle I could even stand upright.

Swaying, I returned to my studio and shuffled over to my gym bag in search of clean clothes. I hadn’t been home in three days. After the disaster at the restaurant, I had gone back to the apartment long enough to pack a bag and grab a bottle of whiskey before coming here. I couldn’t bear to be there with Juliet’s things, though, doubtless she’d gone to collect them by now.

My eyes drifted down to the photo of us on Bastille Day. It was like taking a bullet, seeing her face bright with laughter, her eyes fixed on me like I was the center of her universe. Right. What a joke that turned out to be. I turned the photo over and braced my hands on the desk, dropping my head between my shoulders.

I still couldn’t believe it. The idea that Juliet—the girl who loved sweaters and art and French DJs, who laughed and danced and was always so full of joy, who smelled like lavender and tasted like sunshine—the idea that she would betray me was unfathomable. I’d woken up more than once over the past few nights wondering whether it had just been a bad dream. But no—I had seen it with my own eyes. She brought me to my father’s restaurant; she knew Lucien. And the bracelet. That had been the nail in the coffin. No, I’d had every right to end things with her.

So why did I feel like absolute shit?

My phone vibrated again, and I growled irritably, snatching it off the floor. Did no one have respect for a man’s privacy? Blinking at the screen, I saw a new voicemail from Jean-Claude and pressed play.

“Gabriel, mon cher,” his voice boomed, setting off a fresh wave of pounding in my head, “comment ça va? I was just calling to see what time you wanted to do the final walkthrough at the gallery. I know you probably have it all under control, but you’ll forgive me for wanting to confirm in person that everything is set for Wednesday. Give me a call. Bonne journée.”

Right—the gallery opening was this week. The culmination of all my hard work, my dream finally coming true. Except, for some reason, it didn’t seem as important as it used to.

I jolted as someone pounded on the front door, hard enough to rattle the glass.

“Gabriel, are you in there?” called a muffled voice. “Open up, asshole.”

I flung open the door of my studio, hissing as a bar of sunlight hit me directly in the face. Shading my eyes, I stumbled across the room, pausing to brace myself against a wall as a wave of nausea rolled through me. Once I was certain I wouldn’t vomit all over the newly waxed floors, I proceeded to the entrance with the caution of a man approaching the gallows, squinting at a silhouetted figure standing in the doorway.

When I saw who it was, I stiffened.

“I know you see me, Gabriel,” Lucien growled, pacing like a caged predator. “Let me in. I need to talk to you.”

I bristled, opening the door. “What part of you’re dead to me did you not understand?”

He stopped pacing, casting a resentful look in my direction. “I don’t give a fuck about that. You can hate me until we’re both cold in our graves. I’m here because of Juliet.”

My eyes flew wide before narrowing into slits. “How dare you come here and say her name to me after what you’ve done? You ruined everything.”

“Yes, I screwed up,” he said, his gray eyes burning with a cold intensity. “But so did you.” He took a step toward me, evidently in the mood to be reckless with his life. “Tell me you didn’t break up with Juliet.”

“She told you, did she?” A rush of jealousy seized me. “I suppose you’ve been to see her?”

“I have,” he said curtly. “The question is, why haven’t you? Seriously, you can’t be this stupid. But on the off chance you are, let me spell it out for you—letting go of her was a huge mistake, the biggest one you’ll ever make. You want to hate me? Fine. But for her sake, give me fifteen minutes of your time. I’ll even throw in a free punch to the face as a bonus.”

I blinked at him in bewilderment.

There were many things I didn’t understand about my cousin, but of one thing I was certain—Lucien was the poster child of vanity. I had no reason to hear him out, no reason to trust a single word he said. But the fact that he was willing to risk damage to his face spoke volumes.

Lucien would rather sell his soul than damage his good looks.

I regarded him skeptically. “I’ll give you ten minutes and not a second longer.”

He followed me inside, trailing behind me as I reentered my studio. Leaning against the desk, I watched him cross the threshold, his eyes sweeping from one end of the room to the other.

“This is a nice space, Gabriel,” he said, making a slow circuit before stopping to examine one of my newly finished paintings. “It has an intimate but rustic feel. It’s very you.”

“Sorry, but did you come here to talk about the furnishings? Because if so, you can leave.”

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