CHAPTER 39:
GABRIEL’S POV:
PARIS, FRANCE - 2 weeks later
For some reason, I figured that all I had to do was get to Paris to get to Annabelle.
Wrong.
I’ve been here for over a week, and for all I know, she could have already moved on by now. Visiting Marie Perrot again didn’t do any good, considering that her butler/bodyguard won’t even let me past the front door.
Max came with me to Paris, since I’m still healing from my gunshot wound. A wound that I wear like a badge of honor. My baby gave me this injury. Cause she loves me. If she didn’t truly love me, she would have walked away from me in New York without shooting me. Her shooting me was her way of saying that she was willing to give us another shot. Maybe when it’s all the way healed and just a scar, I’ll have the outline of a heart tattooed around it. Then make her kiss it all better everyday.
If I ever find her.
Max, of course, thinks I’m insane. ‘Crazy in love’ is what I tell him. Cause that’s how Anna and I roll. It was just a love cap. Max is not amused when I tell him these things. He usually mumbles something about us deserving each other, with the word ‘loco’ thrown in somewhere.
So, here I am again, almost two and a half years after the first time, trying to find Anna again in Paris. I swear, I’m going to somehow find someone who can implant a GPS chip in that girl. It’d take a satellite to keep track of her.
We always end up back together again, I have faith that this time will turn out no different. I’d prefer it not take months or years this time to find her again, though. At this point, it’s been two weeks since I saw her last, two frustrating weeks.
Two weeks ago, after getting shot in my damn underwear, and abandoned only minutes later, I pulled myself and my ego up off the ground, got dressed one-handedly, not even bothering to tie the laces on my boots and got the hell out of there. Thankfully, my leather jacket covered the gushing blood that I was so inadequately trying to stop with a hotel hand towel.
I’m really hoping that the room was on Jackson’s credit card and they charge him through the roof for all the blood on the floor. I should have rubbed it in real good. Of course, I was slowly bleeding to death, so there was no time for that sort of shenanigan.
I left my motorcycle in the hotel parking garage cause that just wasn’t happening. Throwing myself into the back of a taxi, I told the driver to take me to the nearest hospital, making sure to pull back where I had my leather jacket draped over my wound so he could see the urgency. Using my right hand only, I fished my cell out of my jeans pocket, dialing Max.
And that’s not a conversation that I ever want to have again. It took practically the entire ride to the hospital to convince him that, yes, I really did get shot and that, yes, Anna did it and that, no, I don’t want to call the cops and, hell no, he better not call Aunt Lucy.
Of course, the panic on his face when he rushed into the emergency room thirty minutes later will forever be priceless. You’d think I was having his baby or something. The doctor assured him that I was gonna be just fine. Good as new in just a few weeks.
The bullet hit far from anything vital, cause my baby loves me. What more proof do I need? She could have shot me straight through the heart if she’d wanted too. Even the lung, but no, she chose to inflict a minor gunshot wound in the shoulder.
The bullet, however, didn’t go straight through, so they had to dig around in there to get it out. Thank god for drugs, cause that would have hurt like hell.
I had to stay in the hospital for a whole day before they’d let me go. After that, Max insisted that I stay home a few days to rest, actually he threatened to tell his mom about the incident. A few days was all he got, cause I was on a plane to Paris four days later.
Which did me almost no good at all. I mean really, why couldn’t she make it easy for me, like go to Paris, Texas, where I wouldn’t have to search for her amongst millions of people? People who speak a whole other language than me and even when they are speaking my language, I’m not understanding it.
Max claims that if it’s a beautiful French woman, she’s always speaking his language. Max is a whore.
Today, I’m going to try Marie’s house again, because besides that, I got nothing.
As usual, I’m not let in past the front door. This time, however, the butler hands me a pink slip of paper before slamming the door in my face. Alright, what’s this?
I stand there on the steps, unfolding it. The feminine script reads:
Mr. Sanchez,
This is the last time that I assist you. There will be not be another chance.
OutrunMyGun@gmail.com
Think before you act this time,
Marie Perrot
Is this what I think it is? Annabelle’s email address? Skipping down the steps, feeling very hopeful, I get in the BMW parked at the curb that Max rented. He raises his eyebrows, from where he’s sitting in the driver’s seat, at the pink paper between my fingers, “Where to now?”
“Take us back to the hotel,” I say happily. He eyes my smile warily, obviously looking for signs again that he needs to commit me. I wonder if I should email Anna naked pictures of myself. If that doesn’t send her running back to me, I don’t know what will.
ANNABELLE’S POV:
Laying on the hard floor, not wanting to get up because I’m so full. I tilt my head to the side to look at what’s left of the loaf of French bread. Not much. The butter is pretty decimated too. Why do I do this to myself? Whenever I leave Gabriel ‘for good’, I always pig out for weeks afterwards, then eventually turn to drinking. Not being a normal girl, I don’t run straight to the freezer for ice cream when I’m broken hearted. Nope, for me it’s all about the bread. Although, I do love me a good rainbow sherbet or cookies ‘n cream.
I came to the city that is the Mecca for bread too. Eventually, Jackson is going to finish his job in Hong Kong and find me here, dead with a chunk of sourdough lodged in my throat, choked to death. He texted me the other day asking if I was curled up in a fetal position on my bed at our Paris flat, ‘crying over loverboy’. Yeah, I was curled up in a fetal position from a freaking stomachache.
I think I have to admit that I have a problem when the nearest baker starts calling me ‘Bread Girl’ in French whenever I come in. Not funny when all his employees start laughing at me. Oh yeah, well I showed him. Today I went to another bakery for my bread fix.
The sound of a beep from my phone lets me know that I just got an email. Wow, my phone on the end table looks really far away from down here. Maybe I can ghetto-rig this almost empty bread bag and plastic tub of butter to make something that will hook onto my phone and drag it down to me. Aw hell, now that’s just ridiculously lazy. I crawl my soon-to-be-fat-ass over there.
While I’m putting forth so much effort, I decide to drag my getting-to-the-gym-tomorrow-ass onto the sofa. Oh yeah, that’s much better. I reach my hand up and back behind me to feel around for my phone on the table. There it is.
Going into my email, I see that I have something from SmoothCriminal@gmail.com Does Jackson have a new email? He used to sing that song to me when we were little. To taunt me because the lyrics say ‘Annie’ this-and-that over and over again. Being a little sister, I let it get to me even though it wasn’t even clever.
I open the email and read the first sentence, coming to an abrupt stop.
This is Gabriel. Marie gave me what I’m assuming is your email address.
Damn matchmaking former madams. Her expertise is in hooking up people for sex, not love. Of course, her advice to me the other day over the phone was to use sex for comfort instead of food. Something about burning calories instead of stuffing them down my throat. Something about putting my mouth to much better use. You can take the madam out of the brothel . . . .
I shake off my thoughts and get back to the unwanted email that’s probably going to send me to the bakery for the second time today.
I will search for you forever. I won’t stop until I find you. We belong together Anna. I know you feel it just as much as I do. Please email me back letting me know when and where we can meet. I’m desperate. Love you more than ever.
Wow, if I was into stalkers, this email would probably melt my heart.
For awhile, I just sit there, not knowing how to reply. Then inspiration hits me.
Very eloquently, I type:
No Hablo Ingles
Then I press ‘Send’.
I start dozing off when my phone beeps again. Argh! I’m going to set my phone to play a lullaby whenever I get a text or email. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star or something like that.
I pick the phone off my bloated belly where I placed it a few minutes ago before my five minute nap. I open the second email from Gabriel. Guess I should have picked another language other than Spanish because Gabriel totally habla espanol. After all, his dad was Hispanic and he grew up in Miami. Spanish is the unofficial language there.
Damn, now I’m thinking about Mexican bread. I love the pig-shaped pastry they make at panaderias.
Basically, Gabriel’s second email is the same as the first, but in Spanish. Along with a:
I know this is you, Annabelle.
Like I said, he’s speaking Stalkerish to me.
Just to be a punk, I send him an entire email in French. Take that stalker boy!
He answers back in English thirty minutes later . . . . .
I just had a hotel maid translate your email. No, I am not in love with your brother and using you to ‘get’ to him. And no, I don’t have Superman boxer briefs like Max. Mine are Spiderman. Attached to this email is a picture of me in them. By the way, I have to disagree with you, I am definitely useful for more than bringing you another loaf of bread.
Are you in Paris? Would posting your picture at all the bakeries in the city help me find you?
I’m staying at The Four Seasons. Room 212. Please call me.
Love of your life,
Gabriel
Okay, so maybe the picture of him in his underwear makes me laugh. And even in Spiderman boxer briefs, he’s still hot.
I finally send him an email in English:
I’m taking a nap. Don’t bug me for the next few hours. Stalker!
It’s dark when I wake up. I must have slept for a long time. Jackson bought this couch. Trust a man to know how to pick out a comfortable couch. I check my phone and see that there are no new emails or text messages. Forcing myself to leave my comfortable horizontal position, I get up and throw away the mess on the floor. Wheeling out a vacuum, I clean up the crumbs from my feeding frenzy. Now how did that happen?
After a nice long shower, I get dressed in a pair of jeans and a fitted scoop-neck sweater. Now I’m bored. I pick up my phone and send Gabriel an email:
I’m awake. Stalk away.
I’m surprised when it takes a whole fifteen minutes for me to receive his reply:
You’re not being very nice, Anna.
I laugh and email him back:
Oh, I’m sorry. Cause we’re usually so nice to each other. Your gun or mine?
He responds:
Just tell me if you’re in Paris.
Typing, I shake my head:
I’m in Paris. And what?
His next email comes even faster:
Where can we meet?
I laugh, typing:
Well I kind of didn’t think we’d meet again until we were in hell
He obviously doesn’t find me funny:
Ha ha ha. Just give me an address
Feeling that I’m safe giving it out to him, I type out my home address. I mean, what’s he going to do? Shoot me again? Now he knows I’ll shoot his ass back. I type out the address to my flat. Then I add:
BYOB
He’s understandably confused:
Bring my own beer?
I send him one last message:
No, Bring Your Own Bread . . . Duh!
And three hours later, he still hasn’t shown up, or answered my ‘Where the hell are you?’ email. Four hours later, I’m thinking that he was murdered on his way here. Four and a half hours later, I’m knocking on room 212 at The Four Seasons.
Max answers, in his underwear, looking surprised to see me. And I have to admit, looking like he’s a little scared of me. I give him a wry look, “Don’t worry. I won’t shoot you unless you shoot me first. Now, where the heck is your cousin?”
He visibly relaxes and leans his shoulder against the doorframe. “What do you need him for when I’m right here?”
I roll my eyes, “Oh plea--”
I’m cut off by a French accent, a female one. “Max, come back to bed!”
Crossing my arms, I raise my eyebrows at him, giving him a sweet smile, “Now Max, what do you need me for when you have her?”
He laughs, “He’s in his room.” With that, Max leaves the door open for me and saunters back into his own room. Whatever.
Not bothering to knock on what I can now assume is Gabriel’s door, I barge in. There better not be a French girl in here with him too. Cause I just don’t think there’s enough bullets in the world for that. No French girls, but what do I find? Oh, just Gabriel lounging on the bed, reading a goddamn book!
He looks up, as though surprised to see me. I take in the fact that he’s not even dressed except for the pair of plaid pajama pants.
I shut the door behind me and narrow my eyes at him, “You didn’t show up.”
Very carefully, he dog-ears the corner of the page he’s on and shuts the book. It doesn’t escape my notice that the front cover looks like a paranormal romance, with a hot dude on the front cover, tribal tattoos covering his naked torso. Gabriel gives me a nonchalant look, “Oh yeah, the time must have ran away with me.” He taps the cover of the book, “This is a really good book.”
Clenching my fists, I say “I gave you my home address. Not even Brent has that.”
At Brent’s name, I can see a tick in his jaw, “Is Brent so special that he’s a ‘Not even Brent’?”
Giving him a false look of guilt, I wave a hand in the air in a dismissive gesture, “He’s the past, it’s not important.”
That gets Gabriel’s ass off the bed real quick, and within kicking distance of me, “You dated Brent when I thought you were dead? When I was mourning you?”
Okay, I can’t hold it back, I bust out with laughter, “I’m just messing with you. I would never date Brent. Anyone who’s had a threesome with my brother is on the even-if-he-were-the-last-man-on-earth list. I was just saying that because, besides Jackson, he’s my best friend.”
Gabriel looks somewhat placated, but still plenty irritated, somewhat pouty, “I want to be your best friend.”
Giving him a pointed look, I tell him, “Gabriel, you were never my friend.”
He shrugs, “We were young, only testing the waters of being in a serious relationship. Things are different now.”
Ignoring his confidence, I ask, “So, when you were mourning me, did you cry into your pillow every night?”
His sly smile should have warned me of the nature of his next comment, “I did something in bed thinking about you every night.”
A laugh escapes, despite not wanting to encourage him, “You’re a pervert.”
He steps closer, “Nope, just a man in love and devoted to the only girl that will do.”
I pull away from the arms he’s trying to wrap around me, “So, you don’t still think I’m a murdering bitch in need of being put down?”
His arms still manage to find themselves around my waist and he pulls me into him, then in a condescending voice he says softly, “Aw baby, you’re still a murdering bitch, but you’re my murdering bitch and I’ll have no other.”
“Bastard,” I mutter. Even though he’s just saying it like it is. Then I shyly ask him, “What about that girl I saw you at the restaurant with?” Yes, even an assassin can feel shy every once in a while.
“What girl?” he plays dumb. “The only girl I saw there was you.”
Is that my heart melting? Oh hell no! That damn organ has caused me enough trouble. I push him away from me, walking away from him and right to his suitcase. I bend over and start rifling through it.
“What are you doing?” he asks suspiciously and I can feel him come up behind me.
“None of your business,” I say irritably. Really, I’m just using being nosy as an excuse to put some distance between us. I pull out another paranormal romance. Is he for real? I spin around, “What’ s up with your reading material?”
He takes the book out of my hand, “Nothing wrong with these. They have good plots.”
“Uh-huh. Yeah, and Playboy magazine has good articles.” Stepping around him, I march towards the door, “I’m outta here. You’ve put me in the mood to walk through a bad neighborhood.”
He beats me to the door and skids to a stop in front of me, leaning his back against my only escape. Unless there’s a fire escape out the window. “Are you mad at me because I didn’t come running to your apartment as soon as you gave me the address? Cause you had to come to me?”
“To be mad, Gabriel. I’d have to care. What I feel at this moment is indifference.”
“Indifference my ass. You love me, Anna. You want me to slip off these pants and push you back onto the bed to ravish you.”
I laugh in his face, “You really need to stop reading those books.”
“You really need to start reading them.”
Invading my space even more and causing me to take a step back, he says, “How about it, baby? Want me to read you a bedtime story?”
“That has to be the lamest line I’ve ever heard,” I tell him in a disappointed tone. “And believe me, I’ve heard it all, in multiple languages.”
He makes a scoffing sound, “That was awesome and you know it.” He walks over and sits on the bed, patting his thigh, like he wants me to sit on it, “But, your plans for seducing me are going to have to wait, Annabelle. We need to have a talk first. Come take a seat.”
On his lap? No thanks. I walk over to a settee before the curtained window and sit down, “So, talk.”
Giving me an indulgent look, he gets straight to the point, “You shot me.”
Giving him back a smart-alecky smirk, I glance at the small white bandage he still has over the wound, “So I did.”
“I’m pretty sure I know the answer, but have to ask, what made you change your mind about shooting me from that night to the next morning?”
Still grinning, I tell him, “Well, I wasn’t going to shoot you that night when you were acting like a freaking martyr. There was no element of surprise.” Thinking back to when he shot me, I still feel a spark of hurt and anger, but it‘s not as bad as before. “It wasn’t like when you shot me. I had to wait until you weren’t expecting it for us to be even.”
Instead of getting upset, he looks approving. “That’s what I thought. Now, you may proceed with the seducing.” He lays back on the bed, “I’m all yours.”
Before I can get out the sarcastic comment in my head, I hear a crashing sound from out in the living room of the suite. The sound of splintering wood when a door is kicked down. I jump up out of my seat and pull the gun out from the holster underneath my leather jacket. I’m staring at the door of Gabriel’s room and see him pull on a shirt and shoes out of the corner of my eye.
When the first man holding a gun comes barreling through the door that I didn’t think to lock earlier, I throw the blade I’m gripping at his throat. He stumbles back out of sight. The second guy gets a bullet between the eyes. I hear Max shout from the other room and the familiar popping sound of a silenced 9mm.
**************VOTE*********************VOTE**************VOTE************************
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This is one of my favorite chapters so far?
Which one is yours?
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