Young Love Murder Part 33

"I love you. Goodbye Gabriel." Familiar words.

She fires. Something I was so not expecting. My body jerks back from where I'm standing. The sound of the shot is deafening for a moment. Or maybe that's my shock.

"And now I really do forgive you," I hear her say, sounding far away.

At first, I don't even understand where I've been shot. Standing there, looking dumbly down at my chest, I wait for the blood to appear. Not seeing a hole, I wonder if she missed me.

Jackson's the next person to speak, his deep voice rumbling with amus.e.m.e.nt, "A little higher, boy toy." My hand whips up to my throat, but comes back dry. I hear Jackson mumble, "Dumba.s.s." Yeah, because when he's been shot, he's so sharp.

The pain hits me suddenly in my left shoulder. This time my hand comes back red with blood. "Holy s.h.i.+t, Anna." I know it's unlikely to kill me in that spot, but d.a.m.n.

Leaning back against the wall, I slide down so I'm sitting on the ground, keeping eye contact with Anna the entire time. I'm relieved to see the pain in her eyes, that this wasn't easy for her. She walks closer to me, the carpet m.u.f.fling the sound of her heels. Jackson leaves the room then returns with a white hand towel, handing it to me with a bland look on his face.

Anna looks about ready to cry as she looks down on me, biting her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. The tough front only makes me love her all the more. I'm holding the towel against my shoulder now because it's not like Jackson was offering to do it for me. I'm trying to keep in what's left of the blood in my body. Hurts like a b.i.t.c.h. Glancing at the suitcases, I grunt out, "Where are we going?"

"I'm going to Paris. Jackson's off to Mexico City." She's regained her control and getting an unfocused look in her eyes, as if mentally somewhere else.

I raise one eyebrow, attempting to give her a look of sarcastic disbelief, but probably failing miserably. "You're actually telling me? Does that mean I'm invited?"

She slowly shakes her head. "No, Gabriel. You see, I finally do forgive you, but the cycle needs to end now. We're over." With that, she walks over to her suitcase and grips the handle. Jackson's already opening the suite door, rolling his own suitcase away.

As I watch her leave me once again, I shout out after her before the heavy door slowly closes itself, "You shot me in the shoulder, Annabelle! I know what that means! And I love you too, baby!"

Somehow, I manage to smile through my pain. She really does love me.

And that little tidbit about Paris was no goodbye.

That was an invitation.

Chapter 41.

Gabriel Paris, France - two weeks later I'd thought that all I needed to do was get to Paris to be with Annabelle. Wrong. It's not like I expected her to be waiting at the airport for me, but I figured she'd find me as she had before. I've been here for 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 her burly butler won't even let me past the front door.

Max came with me to Paris since I'm still healing from my gunshot 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, revealing indifference. Shooting me was her way of saying that she was willing to give us another shot. Pun intended. A crime of pa.s.sion is what it was, and it showed just how pa.s.sionate she still feels towards me. Maybe when the wound is all the way healed and just a scar, I'll have the outline of a heart tattooed around it. Then I'll make her kiss it all better every day.

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, trying to find Anna in Paris. I swear I'm going to find someone who can implant a GPS chip in that girl. It'd take a satellite to keep track of her. I wonder if Porky's still around . . . .

We always end up back together. 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, though. At this point, it's been two weeks since I saw her last. Two long, frustrating weeks.

Back in New York, after getting shot while in my d.a.m.n underwear, and abandoned only minutes later, I pulled both my body and ego up off the ground. After that, I got dressed one-handedly, not even bothering to tie the laces on my boots, and got the h.e.l.l out of there. Thankfully, my leather jacket covered the gus.h.i.+ng 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 charged 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 because driving it one-handedly just wasn't happening. Throwing myself into the back of a taxi, I told the driver to take me to the nearest hospital. I made sure to pull back where the leather jacket was draped over my wound so he could see the urgency. Using my right hand only, I then 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, h.e.l.l no, he better not call his mom.

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 a.s.sured him that I was gonna be fine. Good as new in just a few weeks. The bullet hit far from anything vital, because 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 through a lung. But no, she chose to inflict a minor gunshot wound in the shoulder.

The bullet, however, didn't go straight through. They had to dig around in there to get it out. Thank G.o.d for drugs and sedation, because that would have hurt like h.e.l.l. I had to stay in the hospital for a whole two days before they'd release me. After that, Max insisted that I stay home a few days to rest. Actually, he threatened to tell his mom about the incident. That's what kept my a.s.s in bed. A few days was all he got and 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 and go to Paris, Texas, where I wouldn't have to search for her amongst millions of people? People here speak a whole other language than me and even when they are speaking my language, I don't understand it. Really slows the search down.

Max claims that when it's a beautiful French woman, she's always speaking his language. Max is a wh.o.r.e.

Today I'm going to try Marie's house again, because besides that, I got nothing. As usual, I don't get 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 a.s.sist you. There will not be another chance.

[email protected] 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. From where he's sitting in the driver's seat, he raises his eyebrows at the pink paper between my fingers. "Where to now?"

"Take us back to the hotel," I cheerfully order him. He eyes my exuberant smile warily, obviously looking for signs again that he needs to commit me. I wonder, should I email Anna naked pictures of myself right off the bat? If that doesn't send her running back to me, I don't know what will.

Annabelle Lying 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 b.u.t.ter is pretty decimated too. Why do I do this to myself? Whenever I leave Gabriel 'for good', I always pig out for weeks afterwards, acting like a demented carbivore. Then eventually turn to drinking. Not being a girl on TV, 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. Though, I do love me a good rainbow sherbet or cookies 'n cream.

I came to the city that is the Mecca for bread. Eventually, Jackson is going to finish his job in Mexico City and find me here, dead with a chunk of sourdough lodged in my throat, choked to death. He texted me the other day and asked 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 have to admit that I may 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 beeping sound 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 b.u.t.ter to make something that'll hook onto my phone and drag it down to me. Aw h.e.l.l, now you're being ridiculously lazy, Annabelle. After a moment of building up a feeling of martyrdom, I crawl my soon-to-be-fat-a.s.s over there to fetch it.

While I'm putting forth so much effort, I decide to drag my getting-to-the-gym-tomorrow-a.s.s onto the sofa too. Oh yeah, that's much better. Reaching my hand up and back behind me, I feel around for my phone on the end table. There it is.

Going into my email, I see that I have something from Does Jackson have a new email address? He used to sing that song to me when we were little. Basically, he did it 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 clever.

I open the email and read the first sentence, coming to an abrupt stop.

This is Gabriel. Marie gave me what I'm a.s.suming is your email address.

d.a.m.n matchmaking former Madams! Will their meddling ways never cease? Her expertise is in hooking up people for s.e.x, not love. Of course, her advice to me the other day over the phone was to use s.e.x 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.

Baby, I will search for you forever. I won't give up until I find you. We belong together, Annabelle. 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 a while, 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 soothing like that. Maybe the sound of waves cras.h.i.+ng on the sh.o.r.e.

I pick the phone up off my bloated belly, where I'd placed it before my five minute nap. I open the second email from Gabriel. Guess I should have picked a 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 second language there.

d.a.m.n, now I'm thinking about Mexican bread. That stuff is delicioso. I should have joined Jackson on his a.s.signment in Mexico City. 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. Aunt Lucy got them for us last Christmas. 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.

The 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 so I must have slept for a long time. Jackson bought this couch and trust a man to know how to pick out a comfortable couch. Checking my phone, I 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 black skinny jeans and a fitted scoop-neck red cashmere sweater. Now I'm bored. I pick up my phone and send Gabriel an email: I'm awake. Stalk away . . .

I'm surprised and possibly a little miffed when it takes a whole fifteen minutes for me to receive his reply: You're not being very nice, Anna.

I laugh obnoxiously for my own benefit 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 chuckle softly, typing: Well I kind of didn't think we'd meet again until we were in h.e.l.l.

He obviously doesn't find me funny: Ha, ha, ha. Just give me an address, even if it's in h.e.l.l.

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 a.s.s 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!

A little voice in my head named Reason wants to know what the h.e.l.l I'm doing by inviting Gabriel over. I logically tell that voice that I'll need to confront Gabriel to get him to go home to New York. Reason calls me a liar. I tell Reason where he can shove it. Reason must be a guy, because only a male can be that big of a pain in the a.s.s.

And three hours later, Gabriel still hasn't shown up, or answered my 'Where the h.e.l.l 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, ready to kick some a.s.s.

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 h.e.l.l 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 my best sweet smile. "Now Max, what do you need me for when you have her?"

He laughs good-naturedly. "He's in his room." With that, Max leaves the door open for me and saunters back into his own room. Whatever. Hope he's aware that French chicks can carry STDs too.

Wow, this hotel suite is just asking for two twenty-year-old guys to trash it. The foyer leads to a sitting room filled with pretentious period furniture, with two bedrooms branching off on either side.

Not bothering to knock on what I can now a.s.sume is Gabriel's door, I barge in. There better not be a French girl in here with him too. Because I just don't think there are enough bullets in the world for that scenario. No French girls, but what do I find? Oh, just Gabriel lounging on the bed, on top of a cream and baby blue damask comforter, reading a G.o.dd.a.m.n book!

He looks up, as though surprised to see me. I take in the fact that he's not even dressed except for a pair of blue plaid pajama pants. I shut the door firmly behind me and narrow my eyes at him. "You didn't show up." Well, that much is obvious.

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 the paranormal romances I've seen at the bookstores in airports, with a ripped dude on the front cover and tribal tattoos covering his naked torso. Gabriel gives me a serene look. "Oh yeah, the time must have ran away with me." He taps the cover of the paperback. "This is a really good book."

Clenching my fists, I tell him, "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'?" Score one for Annabelle.

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 a.s.s 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 burst out in laughter. "I'm just messing with you. I would never date Brent. Anyone who's shared a s.l.u.t with my brother is on the not-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, and to my amus.e.m.e.nt, very pouty. "I want to be your best friend."

Giving him a pointed look, I say to him, "Gabriel, you were never my friend."

He shrugs. "We were young, only testing the waters of being in a serious relations.h.i.+p. 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, I'm just a man in love and devoted to the only girl that will ever do."

I dodge the arms he's trying to wrap around me. "So, you don't still think I'm a murdering b.i.t.c.h in need of being put down?"

His arms still manage to find themselves around my waist as he pulls my body up against his larger one. In a condescending voice he says softly, "Aw baby, you're still a murdering b.i.t.c.h, but you're my murdering b.i.t.c.h."

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d," I mutter, even though he's just saying it like it is. Then, feeling like a stupid girl, I shyly ask him, "What about that girl I saw you at the restaurant with?" Yes, even an a.s.sa.s.sin can feel embarra.s.sed every once in a while. And I'm d.a.m.n embarra.s.sed to be acting like the jealous ex.

"What girl?" he plays dumb, looking confused. "The only girl I saw was you."

Is that my heart melting? Oh h.e.l.l no! That traitorous organ has caused me enough trouble. Glowering at him, I push him away from me. Walking over to his suitcase, where it's sitting atop a hotel luggage rack against the wall, I rudely start rifling through it. I wonder if I'll find anything interesting.

"What are you doing?" he asks suspiciously and I can feel the heat from his hotness as he comes up behind me.

"None of your business," I say irritably. Really, I'm just using nosiness as an excuse to put some distance between us. I pull out another paranormal romance. Is he for real? I spin around, asking, "What's up with your reading material?"