In her high-pitched voice, my prim, proper, and overly stuffy mother, Alice O’Keefe, replies, “You have one second to explain yourself, Gabriel.”
I reach for another towel, rubbing my head, removing the excess water from my hair. “If I knew what you wanted to know then I could explain myself.”
“First, a sex club,” she snaps. “Now, this. Do you know what you’re doing to me? The stress and embarrassment you’re causing me?”
I’m on immediate alert now, and I don’t need her to say anything more. I toss the towel over my shoulder and open the browser on my cellphone, navigating to the Gotcha! website. The screen loads . . . dammit!
Last night I knew there would be an article about McKenna and me in the tabloid this morning, and there would also be a picture. Truth is, I didn’t think it would be this bad, and there’s a lot I don’t like in front of me.
Gabe O’Keefe likes it rough! Signs are so does his new lover. But our sources tell us that friends are beginning to be concerned for her safety.
My pulse races, pumping my blood rapidly through my veins at the photograph of McKenna and me outside the strip club last night. She’s in my arms, and I’m examining the mark on her eye. Her other fingers are holding the side of her face. The photograph below that one is a close-up of her face, showing the red mark that Tommy gave her last night.
Fury burns in my blood, and my voice is rough when I speak again. “Are you suggesting, Mother, that you believe I’m capable of hitting a woman?”
“No, of course not,” my mother replies, voice hard. “But, Gabriel, what are you doing in a strip club, and why does that woman have a clear injury on her face?”
“You need to stop looking at these damn tabloids,” I tell her, frustrated at myself for not being diligent enough to check for paparazzi when we left the club. McKenna was all I was thinking about last night. Her safety, not mine. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, nothing in these magazines is real.”
“You are clearly at the strip club,” she points out.
“Clearly,” is my response.
Silence falls, and she snorts disapprovingly. “This is damaging to your image. You’ve become the talk of the town, even in our inner circle. I’m tired of having to defend you. It’s embarrassing. These stories are horrific.” She pauses, then her voice becomes snappier. “Is this girl even real or has she been paid for?”
I sigh and rip the towel off my shoulder, draping it over the sink next to my cell. “Yes, McKenna is real. She’s a bartender at the pub, you’ve met her.”
As I reach for my gel on the cabinet next to me, my mother adds, “Well, anyway, you must stop the tabloids’ sudden interest in you. Go and pay them off, even threaten to sue them. Do whatever you have to do to make this go away.”
I can’t blame her for caring what others think of her son. She comes from a different time, a different world even, and she was born into old money. Her family, the Lockwoods, lived a privilege life, and she had been born and raised to be a socialite. The opinions of others are all that matter to her. And that was the very reason I had kept Afterglow a secret. I like what I like, and I’ve never been ashamed of that, but I kept my silence to protect my mother.
Though my life is mine. “I will not pay a cent to that tabloid.” And because I know her well, I add, “And neither will you.”
“Gabriel.”
“No, Mother.” I glare down at my cellphone. “They’re selling lies and selling me out. We will not be paying them a goddamn cent. Do you hear me?” That’s where I stand on this. Yes, I could both pay and threaten to sue them, but I want to win this battle, and I plan to—after we get Evan to safety.
A long moment passes and then Mother finally huffs in defeat. “Fine, I hear you,” she quips. “Tell me about this girl then so I know how to answer people. What is her last name? Does she have connections that I can speak of?”
“I refuse to answer that question, Mother,” is all I say, scooping up some gel and rubbing it between my hands.
I can almost see my mother’s frown as she warns, “You remember who you are, Gabriel?”
“Of course, I do.” I’d lived through a world of expectations growing up. But it was when
I decided to hire a CEO instead of running O’Keefe’s myself that I broke free from my mother’s restraints. That choice is still one we can’t discuss to this day without her experiencing a slight meltdown. “You never will let me forget,” I add, spiking up my hair.
Her heavy sigh sounds like static over the phone. “Will you deal with the tabloids in some manner to make this go away?”
“I’m handling it,” is my final reply, as I turn on the water and wash my hands.
Another huff. “I’m still not pleased about this at all, Gabriel.” A pause. Then, “Here, your father wants to speak to you.”
There’s rustling on the phone line as I dry my hands on the towel. When I move to pick up my boxer briefs, my father’s warm voice fills my bathroom, “Gabriel, son, how are things?”
Where my mother is cold, my father, Arthur O’Keefe, is the opposite. Wise, kind, proud, he’s everything I hope to be at his age of fifty-nine. “Things have been interesting,” I say with a snort.
Dad laughs. “Your mother has kept me up to date on things in San Francisco.”