Page 103 of Gabriel's Album

“Yes.”

Sebastian doesn’t even hesitate to give this answer, and I look past him to Cooper. I see Cooper’s expression cloud over for a moment before he clears it as Sebastian continues.

“We didn’t have sex, so she wouldn’t have a clue what I’m like in bed. As for the other claim…well, short of me dropping my jeans right here, you’ll just have to take my word for it that she’s lying.”

The crowd of reporters laughs at his joke. A few more questions get asked before another one is directed at me.

“What did you think of Stacey calling you a ‘puppy dog,’ Gabriel?”

I roll my eyes. I want to tell them everything, but instead I tread very lightly. At the end of the day, I would’ve walked to the ends of the Earth for Ariana. Too bad she didn’t feel the same way.

This bitter thought is ringing through my mind as I reply with a grim smile, “I don’t know what sorts of relationships Stacey has been in, but when you love someone, you do everything you can to care for them and support them. If that’s being a ‘puppy dog’ then, fine, I’m a puppy dog, I guess.”

The crowd of journalists all chuckle, and a woman calls out, “I wish more men were ‘puppy dogs’ like you.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, and she beams at me.

The press conference ends shortly after that, with Tristan wrapping it up with his usual firmness and tact. “Thank you so much for your time today. We appreciate you giving up your day to allow Cruise Control the opportunity to give you the truth.”

We walk quietly away from the conference room, but as soon as we’re out of earshot, standing in front of the bank of elevators, Sebastian says, “I think that went okay?”

“Yes, it went well,” Tristan confirms with a smile. “We do still have the rest of the interviews to do. Hopefully, this will mitigate some of the damage.”

The elevator arrives to take us upstairs, and I tell the guys I’m tired and will turn in for the rest of the evening. As soon as I’m safely in my room, I pull out my phone to look at pictures of Ariana. Bitterness engulfs me as I check my messages and calls to see she hasn’t contacted me.

I glare at the picture of her smiling at the camera and think about the last two hours and how stressful it was. I know that in this frame of mind, I shouldn’t call her, but I do.

“Ari. I was just in the middle of the worst press conference of my life; people were asking about you. Even now, I’m respecting your wishes and not telling anyone about us, but you won’t even return my fucking calls. Nice,” I say in a cold tone I can barely recognize as my own.

I lay on the bed for thirty more minutes, just turning everything over in my mind, before I pick up my phone and dial Ariana again.

“…leave a message after the tone and I’ll get back to you.”

“Liar,” I growl at the phone in the second after her voice stops talking and before the beep sounds in my ear. “Ari. How hard is it to pick up the fucking phone and answer my calls? Seriously. Just. Call. Me.”

I end the call and drop the phone on the bed next to me. I take a few moments to try and calm down before I pick up my phone and start reading news articles about the press conference. I know this is probably not healthy, but I can’t stop myself.

I glare at my phone, constantly hoping it will tell me Ariana is contacting me. Instead, it remains silent while I read the news. Finally, I press the button to call her, since she obviously won’t be calling me.

“Ari. Call me,” I bite out through gritted teeth.

I don’t know what else I can say at this point, so I hang up. I force myself to sit through a movie that I come across on the TV. I can barely focus the whole time it’s playing. I keep thinking about Ariana, about Stacey, about the paparazzi. Anger and resentment are welling up inside me, and when the movie finishes, I call Ariana again.

I let out an annoyed grunt when the call diverts to voicemail. “Ariana, for fuck’s sake. Please call me.”

I get a call from Harrison asking me if I want to join them for dinner again tonight, and I decline. I tell him that I have a headache, and I’m not feeling well enough for company. I know he doesn’t really believe me, but I don’t care. I need to speak to Ariana; I need to know she’s okay. At this point, that’s all I think I’ll get from her.

The resentment wages war with my guilt over the messages I’ve left her today. I know that they’ve been harsh, and I feel bad. The resentment wins the battle when my concern about her safety comes rushing back. Against my better judgment, I dial her number.

“Ari. Are you going to call? If you’re not going to call, the least you could do is let someone know you’re okay. As far as we know, you could be lying in a ditch somewhere.”

By the time I’m ready for sleep, my anger has seeped away, and I’m left feeling nothing but the pain of my shattered heart. I cry for some time before I call Ariana one last time for the day.

“Ari. I know I’ve left a lot of messages, and I’m sorry for blowing up your phone, but I’m doing my best here.”

I take a deep breath and exhale it slowly. I can practically feel Ariana in my arms, and I yearn for her to be with me again. I press my hand against my empty chest cavity, trying to put pressure against the wound where my heart used to be before she broke it, and I sigh.

“I’m hurting, and I just want to hear your voice. I’m going to bed, but please just call me.”

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