“I can see that. They all basically sound American. Especially Killian and Rye. I mean, sometimes I hear a faint English accent when Jax speaks,” I say, thinking back on our conversations. “And Whip has a slight Irish lilt.”
“Jax and Whip—or John and William, as they were known back then—spent more of their time in the UK than Killian and Rye, so that isn’t surprising. At any rate, they decided I was worth adopting, and they wouldn’t go away. I was doomed.”
“Poor baby.”
Gabriel stops and turns toward the breeze coming in from the water. “It’s…hard letting people in. My dad was a drunk, almost never home. Mum was gone. And here were these four rich boys trying to take me in like I was Oliver fucking Twist.”
“And yet here we are,” I say softly.
He nods, almost absently. “Some things are hard to resist, no matter how badly you try to maintain your distance.” He begins walking again, back toward the waiting town car. “I spent summers at Jax’s house, went on holiday with Killian or Rye or Whip’s family. And I saw how life could be.”
We near the car, and he glances my way. “And when they began their band, their talent was brilliant, even then. But their organization was shit. So I stepped in, promised their parents I would do my mates right. Always.”
I stop short. “Gabriel.”
He stops as well, his brow quirking. Framed against the French Rivera, the massive yachts and sleek sailboats resting in crystalline waters, his pale suit cut to perfection and highlighting his dusky skin, he looks every inch the international playboy. I can’t even picture him poor and struggling. Until I meet his eyes.
Such beautiful eyes. But the fine lines around them, and the weariness that always seems to linger in those stark depths, tell me a new story now. All he knows is to fight and protect, both himself and those loyal to him.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
He blinks, a slow sweep of long lashes, and his expression goes blank.
“I mean it.” I take a step closer. “None of it. Not your mom. Not Jax.”
It’s as if I’ve slapped him. His head jerks back, and his lips flatten. For a second, I think he might shout at me. But then he gives me a one of those fake-ass polite looks he saves for sponsors and record executives.
“This conversation has run away from me. I hadn’t meant to go on a poor-me walk down memory lane.”
“Stop.” I touch his cheek and find him so tense, I imagine he might shatter. “We don’t have to talk about this any more. But I’m not backing down from what I said. We can’t control the actions of others. It will never happen. We can only control our own. Kill John would not be what they are without you. And those guys wouldn’t love you like they do if you weren’t worthy.”
His shoulders don’t lose their starch. If anything, he seems to harden all over, his armor forming right in front of my eyes. But then the corner of his mouth lifts.
“Is this how it’s going to be?” he asks in a slightly husky voice. “You championing me, whether I want it or not?”
“Someone has to do it, sunshine.” I give his cheek a gentle pat then get my ass in the car before he can say another word.
Chapter Thirteen
Gabriel
* * *
“Why…the…fuck…did I agree…to go on this death run with you?” Jax’s panting whine is pathetically weak as we make our way through El Retiro Park in Madrid.
“You asked to go,” I say, not breaking stride. Perspiration trickles down my skin; my heart pumps steady and sure. “Said you needed the exercise.” I glance at Jax stumbling along beside me, his chest shining with sweat. “You weren’t wrong.”
He gives me the finger, apparently past talking, and I take pity on him, slowing down.
“Enjoy the scenery.” I nod toward the manmade pond that reflects the monument to Alfonso XII. Couples row around it, laughing, kissing, or lounging in the sun.
I wonder if Sophie has been here yet. She’d probably head straight for the boat, demanding that I row as she took pictures of it all.
I shake my head. I do not row women around in boats like some sort of cliché sap.
But you’d do it for her. Lie to yourself all you like. You’d do it and love every second.
I tell myself to shut it.
“I can’t appreciate the scenery,” Jax grumps, “when my legs are on fire and my lungs are waving the white flag. I mean, what the fuck? I perform every night on stage. For fucking hours.”
Jax doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him, but he’s kept so much to himself this past year and a half that he’s grown weaker than he once was.
“Different type of endurance, mate.”