Managed:a VIP novel(10)

Is it some kind of dire secret? I'm veering back toward them being  international spies. And I'm only half-joking. "Well, getting him to  give me his name was like pulling teeth, but yes."

This seems to placate her because she relaxes in her seat and, after  ordering a pot of coffee, black, surveys me with a discerning eye.

"Would you like to view my portfolio?" I ask, handing over the thick leather case I brought along with me.

But she waves me off. "No need. I viewed your work before asking you here."

"Of course." Heat flushes my cheeks. "Sorry, I'm a bit nervous."

She touches my hand. "Don't be. You survived the trip sitting next to Scottie. That's the biggest trial by fire."

I eye her warily. "Did you put me in that seat? I thought I'd been bumped, but now I'm not so sure."

The waitress arrives with her coffee, and Brenna is quick to pour herself a cup.

"Of course I did." She takes a sip and sighs with appreciation before  turning her sharp gaze on me. "As an enticement to working for us. Not  so you'd have to deal with him. I'm not cruel."

"I didn't realize it would be a cruelty."         

     



 

"Well, most people wouldn't, until he opens his mouth and eviscerates a poor soul with a few words."

I have to smile at that. "I don't know if he even has to speak. That glare of his would probably do the trick."

"But you survived," she says again, staring at me as if I'm a rare bird.

A weird sort of protectiveness rises up in me. Not that Gabriel needs  it, but I can't stop myself from defending him. "I had fun."

Her red brow wings up at that. "Fun?"

There's so much skepticism in her voice, she's practically choking on it.

"It was a lovely flight," I assure. "Thank you for putting me in first class. I'll never forget it."

She clears her throat. "Yes, well, that's … good. I'm glad. Ah, anyway, I  figured Scottie would have that divider panel up before his fine ass hit  the leather."

I don't mention the broken panel.

Brenna glances at her phone. "The guys are ready. Shall we head to the interview now?"

Nerves flutter to life in my belly. "Guys? There's a group interviewing me?"

"More or less." She gives me a small smile. "You'll see. Come on. We have a private room set up."

"Okay." My legs are suddenly wobbly as I stand. "Is Gabriel going to be there as well?"

A small part of me doesn't want him to witness this. I don't know if  I'll be able to concentrate under his laser gaze. But the needier, base  part of me wants to see him again. He's familiar. And oddly, I feel  confident when he's around.

Brenna halts a step. "Yes, Gabriel will be there." We walk a few paces  before she glances at me from under her lashes. "Though, maybe call him  Scottie from now on."

"Why?" I don't get the nickname or why someone like Gabriel would allow  it. Scottie doesn't fit him at all. Scottie is a dude who yells, "We  need more time, Captain!" Not an impeccably dressed man who looks like a  male model and speaks like an ornery duke.

Brenna's heels click on the floor as she guides us to a back room. "It's  what everyone in the business calls him. Honestly, I haven't I've heard  anyone refer to him as Gabriel for years."

I'm glad I didn't tell her I also called him Sunshine. She'd probably up  and die on me. Or maybe I'd lose the job. I decide not to talk about  Gabriel aka Scottie any more than necessary from now on.

We enter a room, and a group of men turn our way en masse. My first  thought is that maybe Gabriel and Brenna run a modeling agency, because  they're all gorgeous in their own way. But then I really look at them,  and horror hits me with a cold slap. I know these guys. I know them  well.

Kill John. The biggest rock band in the world. My eyes flit over them.  Their expressions range from welcoming to mildly curious to sexually  interested. Rye Peterson, the bassist, massively muscled and boyishly  handsome, gives me an open grin. Whip Dexter, the drummer, nods  politely. Jax Blackwood, the infamous guitarist and sometime singer is  the curious one, though he doesn't seem upset.

I shy away from his green gaze, feeling ill and unsteady on my feet.

Then there's Killian James. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark expression. He  stood as we entered, his head cocking as if trying to place me.

My heart starts to pound. Fuck. I need to get out of here.

I take a step back and collide with a body. The scent of expensive cologne and fine wool hits my nostrils.

"Going the wrong way, chatty girl," Gabriel murmurs in my ear, gently nudging me forward.

But I need to escape.

Killian is still staring at me like a nearly solved puzzle. At his side  is a pretty woman with dark blond hair-the woman who was eating  breakfast earlier. She's Liberty Bell, I realize with a start. Killian's  wife and a singer in her own right. I should have recognized her  sooner. I should have realized that good things do not, in fact, happen  to me.

I glance at Gabriel. He's wearing his neutral façade, but there's a  small glimmer of encouragement in his eyes. I don't want to look away  from him. He'll be gone soon enough, and it hurts. Too much for such a  short acquaintance.

Brenna is introducing me. She takes the portfolio from my nerveless  fingers and hands it to the guys. "Sophie used to be a photojournalist-"

Killian makes a strangled sound before exploding. "Oh, fuck no! Now I  recognize her. Are you kidding me with this shit?" He takes a step in my  direction, anger infusing his cheeks with red. "You have some nerve  coming here, lady."

I hold my ground, even though my pride is imploding. I don't know any other way.         

     



 

But Gabriel puts himself between us. "Calm yourself," he snaps at Killian. "Ms. Darling did not come here to be harassed."

"Oh, that's fucking rich," Killian says with a sneer. His eyes are not kind. "Isn't that a pap's job?"

The other guys look confused.

"Kills, man," Rye says. "Ease up. Lots of people are photojournalists without being a sleazy paparazzi."

Oh, if only that were true of me.

"No." Killian slashes a hand through the air. "She's not just a pap.  She's the one who took those pics of Jax. Weren't you, honey? Think I  didn't see you there, with your fucking camera? Shoving it in my face  when he was fucking dying on me?"

Gabriel's head snaps up. "What?"

"You heard me. It was her. She was the one who sold those pictures of Jax."

"Impossible," Gabriel spits out. "Martin Shear sold those pictures. I  ought to know; I spent the better part of a year having our lawyers go  after that tosspot."

He lifts a hand as if to say he rests his case. I can't decide if he's  trying to rationalize my actions or if he's just that logical. I'm  afraid it's the latter. His cold demeanor hasn't thawed. And he's  waiting for an answer, his brow quirked in that arrogant, impatient way.

I take a shallow breath. "Martin was my boyfriend at the time."

Gabriel's head rears back as if I've slapped him. The look on his face,  the utter disappointment mixed with growing disgust-I'm ruined in his  eyes. I can see that clearly. I don't blame him. I'm disgusted too. It's  amazing how low a person craving love can sink when she thinks she's  found it.

If the ground could swallow me up now, I'd be grateful. But it wouldn't  change the thick, gritty sludge of regret that fills my insides every  time I think about that night, about taking those pictures of Jax  Blackwood, unconscious and covered in vomit. I can still hear Killian  shout his name as security rushed in. I'd been so blind then, only  focused on my next paycheck, egged on by Martin to never think of the  subject as human but as potential dollar signs.

I'd been the ugliest, darkest version of myself. So confused and lost. And now that past is staring me in the face.

"Martin was-is-a dickbag," I say. "I know this now. At the time … well, I  don't really have a good excuse. I met him at a low point, and he had a  strange sort of charisma. He made his job sound fun: easy money,  providing a service for fans."

Several annoyed scoffs sound in the room.

"They were the lies I let myself believe," I admit. "I wanted to quit,  but I hadn't found anything else to do. And then that night happened.  When I got home, I told Martin where I'd been. He was … " I clear my  throat. "He was over-the-moon happy, said those pictures would have me  set financially for at least a year."

I can't miss the way the guys flinch, or the way Gabriel ducks his head,  grinding his teeth as if he's fighting not to explode. My stomach  flips, and my fingers are ice. But I continue.

"God, I wanted that money. I won't lie. I'd had a slow year and was  living off ramen. I could have quit with that money, taken the time to  find a decent job. But I looked at the shots, and they were awful.  Painful."

It hurts even now to remember them.