Gabriel's Inferno

“What if one of the waiters spilled a drink on her and sent her to the ladies’ room? Then maybe I could talk Gabriel into coming outside.”

“Do you think you can convince him?”

Julia blinked as she took a moment to consider it. “I don’t know. If we separate them, I’ll have a better chance. I doubt he can form a coherent thought with her plastic boobs in his face.”

O gods of all graduate-students-trying-really-hard-to-do-a-good-thing-for-an-old-friend, help me pry that Emerson whore off his dick. Please.

He laughed. “A bit cloak and dagger, don’t you think? But all right, I’m sure the bartender can help us out. He has a sense of humor. If Emerson gives you any trouble, ask the bartender to call me. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Ethan made a call on his cell phone, and within two minutes, he was signaling to Julia to go after Gabriel. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and walked back into the club. Gabriel was laughing. Something had struck him as funny, and he was howling, head thrown back, hands clutching his stomach.

Julia had to admit that he was even more handsome when he was smiling. He was wearing a pale-green dress shirt with the top two buttons open, revealing chest hair that was poking out like a few blades of grass over the snowy white of his t-shirt. Mercifully, he’d gotten out of the fifties and lost the bow tie; the silk tie he was wearing was striped black on black and hanging loosely around his neck. He was wearing a pair of black dress pants that fit him snugly and very shiny black shoes that were far too pointy.

In short, he was drunk, but he was perfect.

“Professor?”

He stopped laughing and turned to Julia, a wide smile spreading across his face. He seemed very happy to see her. Too happy.

“Miss Mitchell! To what do I owe this unexpected delight?” He took her hand in his and pressed it to his lips, holding it there for several seconds.

Julia couldn’t help but frown. He didn’t seem drunk, but he was being friendly, flirtatious even, so he must be drunk.

(Or he must have received a personality transplant from someone charming like, say, Daniel Craig.)

“Could you help me flag a cab? I need to get home.” Julia withdrew her hand, wincing at the lameness of her excuse.

“Anything for you, Miss Mitchel. And I do mean anything. May I buy you a drink first?” He smiled as he peeled off a few bills and handed them to the bartender.

“Um, no. I have one.” She held out her smoothie and waved it under his nose.

The bartender glared at her garish Styrofoam cup but settled Gabriel’s tab and then went about his business.

“Why are you drinking that? Does it pair well with couscous?” Gabriel chuckled.

Julia bit her lip.

He stopped chuckling immediately and frowned, somewhat roughly tugging at her lip with his thumb until he’d loosened it from her teeth. “Stop that. I don’t want you to bleed.” He pulled his thumb back and brought his face closer to hers — too close, actually. “I made a joke about couscous.”

Julia was still trying to catch her breath after the flash of heat that she experienced having his thumb in between her lips.

“It wasn’t funny, was it? It’s rude to make fun of someone’s poverty.

And you are a sweet little girl.”

Julia clenched her teeth, wondering just how much of his condescending attitude she could take before she decided to leave him (and his dick) in Christa’s clutches.

“Professor, I…”

“I was just talking to someone. You know her — she’s a real vixen.”

Gabriel’s drunken gaze lazily swept the room before coming to rest again on Julia. “She’s gone now. I’m glad. She’s a nasty bitch.”

Julia nodded. And smiled.

“She looked at you as if you were trash, but I fixed her. She bothers you again, and I drop her as a student. You’ll be fine, now.”

He brought his face close to hers again and licked his red and perfect lips slowly, very slowly. “You shouldn’t be in a place like this. It’s past your bedtime, isn’t it? You should be asleep in your little purple bed, curled up like a kitten. A pretty little kitten with big brown eyes. I’d like to pet you.”

Julia’s eyebrows shot up. Where the hell does he get this stuff?

“Um, I really need to go home. Now. Would you come outside and help me hail a cab? Please, Professor?” Julia gestured vaguely toward the exit, trying to place some distance between the two of them.

He grabbed his trench coat immediately. “I’m sorry. I left you to find your way home unescorted on Thursday. I won’t do that again. Let’s get you home, little kitten.”

He held out his arm in a very proper and old-fashioned way, and she took it, wondering who exactly was leading whom. When they got outside, Ethan was standing next to a cab, holding the rear passenger door open.

“Miss Mitchell,” Gabriel breathed, placing his hand at the small of her back, gently moving her toward the open door of the taxi.

“On second thought, I can walk,” she protested, trying to move out of the way.

But Gabriel was insistent and so was Ethan, probably because he was trying to get both of them out of there before Gabriel decided he didn’t want to leave and decked him. So for the sake of time and to avoid Christa, the Gollum who could reappear at any moment and try to snatch back the Precious, Julia crawled into the cab and slid over to the far side.

Gabriel climbed in after her. She held her nose slightly so she wouldn’t get an inhalant high from all the Scotch he’d imbibed. Ethan handed a few bills to the driver and closed the door behind them, waving at Julia as the cab sped away.

“Manulife Building,” said Gabriel to the cabbie.

Julia was just about to correct The Professor and give the cabbie her address when Gabriel interrupted her. “You didn’t come into The Vestibule for a drink.” He was looking at her clothes, his eyes resting somewhat hungrily on the flesh at her knees, exposed underneath her ripped jeans.

“Bad luck. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Hardly,” he breathed, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “I would say you have extremely good luck. And now that I’ve seen you, so have I.”

She sighed. It was too late to ask the cabbie to turn around now; they were driving in the opposite direction. She was going to have to see to it that The Professor made it inside safely before she could walk home. She shook her head and took a long sip from her smoothie.

“Were you spying on me?” His eyes shifted to hers suspiciously. “For Rachel?”

“Of course not. I was on my way home from the library when I saw you through the window.”

“You saw me and decided to come and talk to me?” He sounded surprised.

“Yes,” Julia lied.

“Why?”

“I only know two people in Toronto, Professor. You’re one of them.”

“That’s a shame. I suppose Paul is the other one.”

Julia eyed him cautiously but said nothing.

“Angelfucker.”

She frowned. “Why do you keep calling him that?”

“Because that’s what he is, Miss Mitchell. Or rather, what he hopes he will become. Over my dead body. You tell him that — tell him he fucks with the angel at his peril.”

Julia arched an eyebrow at his eccentric and obviously medieval profan-ity and its attendant explanation. She’d seen him drunk before, of course, and knew that his drunkenness vacillated between moments of absolute clarity and complete lunacy.

How exactly does one fuck with an angel? Angels are immaterial, spiritual creatures. They don’t