Managed:a VIP novel(13)

Brenna: Asshole. Jules took her out to lunch at that gastropub down the street.

GS: A little early for lunch, isn't it?

Brenna: Seriously? Translation: she took her to have a much needed drink on account of you and Killian acting like dicks.

Ah, guilt. I had become unacquainted with the emotion over the past  decade. Experiencing it now, I cannot say I enjoy the sensation. At all.  Tucking my phone in my pocket, I pivot and head back down the street.

It isn't hard to locate Sophie and Jules in the pub. They're bright  spots of color in a sea of old wood paneling. Tucked away at a corner  table, the two women have their heads close together, Sophie's white  blond hair like moonbeams besides the full flower of Jules's tight  fuchsia curls.

Their backs are to me as they nurse pints of Guinness-the breakfast of  champions, as Rye often lovingly refers to the rich stout.

"I'm not gonna lie," Jules is saying. "If you're expecting praise or  kind words from him, it'll never happen. He's just not that kind of  boss."

"He isn't going to be my boss at all," Sophie mutters, taking a long  drink. Creamy white foam lingers on the soft curve of her upper lip  before she licks it away, and my cock grows heavy.

Hell.

"Don't kid yourself," Jules says. "He's everyone's boss. Even the guys.  What Scottie says goes. But don't worry. He's not a tyrant. He's just … "         

     



 

I can't help but lean in a little, wondering what she'll say. They  haven't seen me yet, and I'm not about to make my presence known now.

"Exacting," Jules settles on.

Sophie snorts inelegantly. "He's an arrogant assmunch."

Lovely.

"And why the hell does everyone call him Scottie? The name doesn't fit  him at all. Beelzebub would be better." Sophie spreads her hands in  exasperation, and I struggle not to snort.

Jules laughs into her glass. "Girl, I thought the same thing. According  to roadie legend, Killian and Jax came up with the name when they were  all starting out. It's some joke about Star Trek."

"I was preparing to study engineering," I say, startling them both.

They whirl in their seats, mouths agape.

"Scotty was the Enterprise's engineer," I continue, rounding the table  to take a seat. "Star Trek was on, and Rye pointed out that I shared a  last name with Scotty. That was that. Little bastards started calling me  Scottie, but with an -ie so people would be able to tell us apart."

I give the women a dry look as if the whole business is tiresome, but  the dark truth is that I never tried to put a stop to the name. It had  cemented my inclusion in their group, and I'd never been a part of one  before. It was the first time anyone had thought to give me a nickname  that wasn't meant as an insult.

The second time I was given such a nickname was on a plane with the  gorgeous, chatty girl who currently sits glaring at me as if I've spit  in her beer.

"Sophie. Jules." I give them each a nod.

The freckles scattered across Jules's cheeks start to stand out in sharp  relief as her pale brown skin goes ashy gray. "I … ah …  That is … I was  explaining to Sophie that … "

I put her out of her misery. "It's all right if you want to flee. I won't hold it against you."

Jules jumps up, grabbing the massive green hobo bag she's constantly hauling around.

Sophie sits straight, her brows rising. "Hey! She doesn't have to go  anywhere. In fact, you should go." She points her finger at me like a  weapon.

"No, no," Jules says, already backing away from the table. "He's right. I totally want to flee."

And she does, nearly creating a breeze in her haste. Sophie sits back  with a huff, crossing her arms over her ample chest. "God, it's like  you're Darth Vader or something."

I missed you. The unwanted thought doesn't even make sense; it's been  less than an hour since I last saw her. But that doesn't change the  feeling that I've been granted clemency just by sitting here with her.

"We've already established that I'm the engineer of this production," I say lightly. "And you're mixing space dramas."

Her nose wrinkles, and she looks away, giving me her profile. I use the  moment to steal her Guinness and take a sip. It's room temperature,  thick and dark and perfect. Truly the breakfast of champions.

"Hey!" she snatches the glass from me. "Get your own."

She makes a point of wiping the rim with a soggy cocktail napkin.

"Do you fear I might have cooties?"

"I'm surprised you even know that word."

"I know quite a few."

I've missed sparring with her most of all. Sophie is … fun. When was the last time I had any fun?

"Which reminds me … " I lean in close. "While I do enjoy anal play with a woman now and then, I have never munched an ass."

Sophie chokes on her beer, sending droplets of it across the battered  table, as her cheeks flame scarlet. Trying not to grin in victory, I  hand her another napkin.

She glares at me as she dabs her chin. "If you're here to try to talk me  into going home, don't bother. I'm staying, and you can't do anything  about it." She lifts her chin as if to say, So there!

I sit back in my chair. "You were right, you know." When her brow  wrinkles, I go on. "Business is personal. I simply hadn't thought of it  as such until you put it that way."

Her expression goes darker. I nudge the beer glass out of her reach, and  she rolls her eyes, but there's a reluctant smile on her lips. It  strikes me that my day is already better just for seeing it. Weakness. I  don't want any. But some things are stronger.

Honor. Honesty. Need.

"I have hated those pictures and what they represent as much as I hate what happened to Jax," I tell her quietly.

Anger melts off her face, and she stares at me with wide, pained eyes.

"No," I correct. "I hated them more. They created a monument to that  ugliness. That … " My throat closes, and I have to clear it. "Pain."         

     



 

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "You'll never know how sorry."

"I believe you. I know what it is to lose yourself in a job. We were all  spinning out of control before Jax. There were days I'd wake up and not  remember what country we were in. Because everything was a blur of  having fun and believing the crap lines people fed us. I understand the  lies you tell yourself to get through the day."

"I can't imagine that of you."

"Chatty girl, you spin castles on social media. I spin them for the  music business. The suits, the mannerisms, the whole fucking façade is  part of the arsenal. Back in that room, you saw it full force." My  finger touches a drop of beer. "I reacted out of an old anger."

When she answers, it's soft and hesitant. "Are you sure it's old anger and not fresh?"

I meet her gaze and am hit anew with that strange punch of sensation  just beneath my ribs. Pain, resentment, remorse, tenderness, it's all  jumbled together, making it difficult to settle on one emotion. I want  to tell her I'm sorry for hurting her. I want to send her away so I  don't have to experience this discomfort.

She is dangerous because I cannot control her. And she is utterly  beautiful, like molten glass that tempts you to touch even though you  know you'll be burned.

But for all that, there is one emotion I do not feel. "I am not angry with you."

When she nods, an awkward jerk of her little chin, I reach into my  billfold and pull out a few pounds. My fingers are unsteady as I drop  the money on the table. "Do the tour," I tell her. "I will not stand in  your way but welcome you as a valuable asset to the band."

Then I flee, just as desperately as Jules did minutes before. Because  I've just consigned myself to months of hell and temptation.







Sophie







We're staying in London for a week, so I work with the guys, combing  through their social media and making adjustments. In other words,  adding myself as admin to all their accounts and acting as them from  time to time.

And I take pictures. All the time. It isn't difficult with Kill John as  the subject matter. All the guys are exceedingly photogenic. I've often  wondered about fame. It's rare to find famous people who aren't  photogenic, even if they aren't classically attractive. Why is that? Is  it the gloss of fame that makes them more compelling? Or is it something  within them that draws the eye and facilitates fame?

Whatever the case, shooting moments with Kill John is a pleasure. Not that it's without a few struggles.

Killian is still fairly pissy with me. He gives me a glare as I take a  picture of him laughing with Jax while they work through a chord  progression in a studio they've rented for the week. "Do you mind?"

"Nope." I snap another shot. "In fact, if you want to give me a big ol' smile and ham it up, even better."

"Jesus. You're relentless. Go away."

"Kills," Jax says with a sigh. "Just fucking let it go." He turns to me and sticks out his tongue, crossing his green eyes.