Sylvain Reynard - Gabriel’s Redemption

A hush fell over those closest to the antagonists, their eyes shifting from Christa to Gabriel.

Julia took his hand in hers and tugged. “Let’s go. Please.”

Despite Gabriel’s fury he was conscious, all too conscious, of the now rapt attention of his peers. Still, it took every ounce of his self-control not to lunge forward and seize Christa by the throat.

Stifling a curse, he turned abruptly and took a single step away from his former student.

“I’m looking forward to your paper, Julianne.” Christa lifted her voice so more people could hear. “It’s unusual for a first-year student to be included in such an important conference. However did you manage it?”

Julia paused, looking at Christa over her shoulder.

“Professor Picton invited me.”

“Really?” Christa appeared puzzled. “Wouldn’t it have been better to invite Gabriel to speak? I mean, you’re probably repeating things you learned from him. Or maybe he simply wrote your paper for you.”

“I do my own research.” Julia’s voice was quiet but steely.

“I’m sure you do.” Christa made a point of glancing at Gabriel’s back. “But your ‘research’ can’t help you write a lecture. Unless you’re planning to tell us about all the professors you slept with in order to get into Harvard.”

Gabriel swore and released Julia’s hand. He turned around, casting furious eyes in Christa’s direction.

“That’s enough. You don’t speak to my wife. Do you understand?”

“Temper, temper, Gabriel.” Christa’s dark eyes shone with perverse amusement.

“It’s Professor Emerson,” he snapped.

Julia blocked his path with her body.

“Let’s go.” She placed a light hand on his chest, just under his bow tie.

“Get out of my way.” He looked like a dragon preparing to breathe fire.

“For me,” she begged, her expression pleading.

Before Gabriel could open his mouth, an authoritative voice sounded at his elbow.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Katherine Picton stood to his right, her white hair short and impeccably styled, her gray-blue eyes flashing behind her glasses. She eyed Professor Pacciani with distaste before turning her attention to Christa.

“Who are you?”

Christa’s posture shifted from defensive to ingratiating. She extended her hand.

“I’m Christa Peterson, from Columbia. We met at the University of Toronto.”

Katherine ignored the proffered hand. “I’m familiar with the faculty at Columbia. You aren’t one of them.”

Christa reddened, withdrawing her hand. “I’m a graduate student.”

“Then don’t present yourself as anything else,” Katherine snapped. “You aren’t from Columbia. You attend Columbia. I repeat, why are you here?”

When Christa didn’t respond, Professor Picton stepped closer, raising her voice.

“Are you hard of hearing? I asked you a question. What are you doing at my conference, insulting my guests?”

Christa almost faltered, feeling the energy in the room shift under Professor Picton’s antipathy. Even Professor Pacciani took a step back.

“I’m here to attend your lecture, like everyone else.”

Katherine straightened to her full five feet and looked up at the much taller and half-century younger graduate student.

“Your name isn’t on the guest list. I certainly didn’t invite you.”

“Professor Picton, excuse me. The young lady is a friend.” Professor Pacciani smoothly interceded. He bowed and moved to kiss Professor Picton’s hand, but she waved at him dismissively.

“As a companion of yours, Giuseppe, her attendance might be excusable. But barely.” She glared at him. “You need to teach her some manners.”

Katherine turned to address Christa directly.

“I know the havoc you wreaked in Toronto. Your lies almost destroyed my department. You’ll follow the rules of decorum here, or I’ll have you removed. Do you understand?”

Without waiting for a response, Katherine began scolding Pacciani in fluid Italian, pointing out in no uncertain terms that if his friend made her guests’ visit unpleasant in any way, she would hold him personally responsible.

She added that she had a perfect and unforgiving memory.

(It should be mentioned that she was correct.)

“Capisce?” She glared at him through her glasses.

“Certo, Professor.” He bowed, his face drawn and angry.

“I’m the injured party,” Christa protested. “When I was in Toronto, Gabriel—”

“Codswallop,” Katherine spat. “I’m old, not senile. I recognize a woman scorned when I see one. And so should everyone else.” At this, Katherine directed her scathing expression to the men who had surrounded Christa, eager to give ear to her gossip.

“What’s more, inviting yourself to an invitation-only event is unprofessional in the extreme. This isn’t a fraternity party.”

Professor Picton looked around the room once more, pausing as if to challenge anyone to contradict her. Under her withering stare, the prurient onlookers began shuffling their feet and backing away.

Seemingly satisfied, she turned her attention back to Miss Peterson and lifted her chin. “I believe I’m quite finished.”

With that, she favored Christa with her back. The other occupants of the room stood by, somewhat shell-shocked by just having witnessed the academic equivalent of a mud-wrestling match, handily won by a small (but feisty) septuagenarian.

“My dear friends, it’s good to see you. How was your flight?” Katherine placed her arm around Julia’s stiff shoulders, giving her a fraternal squeeze, before shaking Gabriel’s hand.

“The flight was fine. We spent a few days in London before arriving by train.” Gabriel kissed Professor Picton’s cheek. He tried to force a smile but failed.

“I’m not impressed with the fact that they’ve admitted riffraff.” Katherine sniffed. “I must speak to the conference organizers. It’s bad enough that you young people should be subjected to such a person, but to have to endure her in public. What a ridiculous girl.”

Professor Picton’s aged eyes quickly took in Julia’s expression of distress, and her demeanor softened.

“I’ll buy you a drink this evening, Julianne. I think it’s time for us to have a little chat.”

The professor’s words jarred Julia out of her quietude. A thinly veiled expression of terror flashed across her features.

Gabriel grasped her around the waist. “That’s very generous, Katherine, but why don’t you join us for dinner, instead?”

“Thank you, I’d enjoy that. But I’ll speak to Julianne first.” She turned to her former student, her expression kind. “Come and find me after the last lecture and we’ll walk to The Bird and Baby.”

Professor Picton took her leave and was immediately surrounded by several academic admirers.

It took a moment for Julia to regain her composure, but when she did, she leaned against Gabriel.

“I’m so embarrassed.”

“I’m sorry Katherine interrupted when she did. I would have liked to say a few words.”

Julia began wringing her hands. “I never should have answered Christa. We should have walked away.”

Gabriel’s expression tightened. He looked around, then brought his mouth close to her ear. “You stood up for yourself, which was the right thing to do. And I’m not going to stand there and let her call you a whore.”

“If we’d walked away, she wouldn’t have gotten that far.”

“Bullshit. She’s already slandering us. You said so yourself.”

Julia’s face was marked by disappointment. “I asked you to stop.”

“And I explained that I wasn’t about to let her speak to you that way.” He clenched his jaw and released it. “Let’s not fight because of that bitch. That’s precisely what she wants.”

“She was spoiling for a fight. And you gave it to her.” Julia glanced around the rapidly emptying room. “Tomorrow I have to stand up in front of everyone, knowing that they witnessed that embarrassing scene.”

“If I’d said nothing, if I’d done nothing, then it would look like I agreed with her.” Gabriel’s voice rumbled, low in his throat.

“I asked you to stop, and you brushed me off.” She gave him a wounded look. “I’m your wife. Not a speed bump.”

She clutched her old Fendi messenger bag and followed the crowd into the lecture theater.

Professor Emerson seethed with anger as he watched his wife walk away. He wanted to drag Christa Peterson outside by her hair and teach her a lesson. Unfortunately, based on her seductive behavior when she was his student, she’d probably enjoy it.

(And take photographs for her scrapbook.)

It was not like him to want to strike a woman.

Or perhaps it was. Perhaps it was precisely like him to want to strike a woman. Anger and violence were written in the bone, the product of DNA. Perhaps Gabriel was just like his father.

He closed his eyes. As quickly as the thought emerged, he tamped it down. Now was not the time to think of what he did and did not know about his biological parents.

Gabriel knew he had a temper. He tried to control it but frequently failed. On one such occasion, to his shame, he’d struck a woman.

He was teaching in Toronto. The women were beautiful and sexy; the city was ripe with diversions of music and art. Yet he’d been depressed. Paulina had been to see him and they’d resumed their sexual relationship—again. After every encounter, he’d swear it would be the last time. But every time she put her hands on him, he gave in.

He knew it was wrong. His continued involvement with her was damaging to both of them. But his spirit, although willing, was tied to flesh that was very, very weak.

After she went back to Boston, he began drinking heavily. He became a VIP at Lobby and fucked a different woman every night. Sometimes fucking more than one in a single Scotch-soaked evening. Sometimes fucking more than one at the same time.

Nothing helped. Haunted by his past, made all the more recent by his few days with Paulina, he felt as if he were one careless moment away from resuming his cocaine habit.

Then he met Ann. They shared an enthusiasm for fencing and fenced a few times at their club, only to retire to a darkened room on the last occasion for a brief but explosive sexual encounter.

Ann Singer promised new, tantalizing diversions. She whispered words of raw, intense pleasure the likes of which he’d never experienced.

He was intrigued. She had the power to drag his mind into his body and keep it there, unable to think or worry. And that was how he found himself in the basement of her town house in Toronto, naked, restrained, and on his knees.

She confused his senses by both pleasing and punishing him. With every strike, all his emotional pain seemed to bleed away. His single errant thought was why had he waited so long to use physical pain to alleviate his mental suffering. But even that thought was soon forgotten.

Then came the humiliation. Ann’s dominance was over the mind, as well as the body. As she bruised his flesh, she sought to break his will.

Gabriel realized what she was doing, and his psyche bristled. He desired physical pain and accepted it, but not psychological manipulation. His mind was fucked up enough thanks to his past.

He began to resist.

She accused him of attempting to top from the bottom and redoubled her efforts. She retold his life story, spinning a speculative myth based solely on her own armchair analysis. Some of it came perilously close to the truth. And the rest of it . . .

Without warning, something inside him snapped.

Standing in St. Anne’s College, Gabriel couldn’t recall exactly what Professor Singer said that set him off. He couldn’t remember how long the encounter lasted. He only remembered white-hot, blinding fury.

In one swift motion, he broke the restraint on his right wrist (a considerable feat) and backhanded her across the face. Her diminutive form crumpled to the tiled floor.

He stumbled to his feet and stood over her, breathing heavily. She didn’t move.

A door flew open and Gabriel found himself boxing one-handed with her bodyguard, who’d rushed to her defense. Bruised and bloodied, Gabriel was flung outside into the snow, his clothes scattered behind him.

That was his last sexual encounter with Ann and his final experience with BDSM. He was revolted by the fact that he’d lost control and hit her, and he was determined never to strike a woman again. Even now, the shame washed over him.