I'm in the middle of a Clark Kent/Diana Prince cosplay fantasy when Jax shatters my dream by loudly declaring, "‘Son of a Preacher Man' is a song that can never be replicated."
Rye leans back in an armchair and idly plucks on a ukulele he unearthed from somewhere. "Okay, I'll give you that."
"Play that song," Jax says, "and women fucking melt, man."
"Someone save me from hearing any more of Jax's seduction routine." Rye looks around desperately.
"Take notes, son, and learn something," Jax drawls.
"Etta James singing ‘At Last'," Killian butts in. "Fucking timeless."
"Beyoncé did a pretty good version," Libby says.
"Pretty good," Killian repeats. "But it didn't top the original. Etta still rules that song."
Whip taps on his knees as if he can't keep still. "Don't let the Bee Hive hear that. They'll sting you bad, bro."
Killian shudders. "You're right. I'm sorry, Bees," he shouts to the air. "Don't slay me! I love Queen Bey!"
"Man, I keep waiting for her to break up with Jay Z. Then I'm all in."
"Dude, your dream is dead in the water," Jax says. "You don't have a chance in hell with her."
"You're gonna eat your words," Whip promises. "Our love is destined. She totally winked at me during that charity concert we all did last month."
"It was windy," Killian says with a snort. "She had dust in her eyes."
"She had me in her eyes."
Rye shakes his head, and then his blue eyes find me. "What about you, Sophie? Got a song?"
They all turn to me. I'm supposed to play? Fuck. I love music, but my knowledge isn't encyclopedic like these guys'. I think for a minute. "‘Sabotage'."
"Beastie Boys?" Rye gives me a high five. "Excellent."
"Nobody can replicate the Beastie Boys," Jax agrees, clinking his beer bottle to mine. He's relaxed, his pretty green gaze slumberous. I know the guys worry over him, and I don't blame them, but he appears to be taking things easy now. "Hell, I need to get my blood pumping or I'll fall asleep." He looks at Killian. "You got ‘Sabotage' on your phone?"
"You have to ask?" Killian jumps up and plugs his phone into the input set up in the wall. "Hold on to your butts."
The familiar hard bass riff pounds through the speakers, followed by discordant record scratches and an angry scream of defiance. Killian immediately starts dancing around, grabbing Libby to join him. She laughs and bumps hips with him.
Jax catches my eye. "At the risk of having Scottie hand me my balls later … " He holds out his hand.
Jax has the most to resent me for. I should feel guilty even being in the same room with him. But I'm comfortable in his presence. He looks at me as if he knows exactly how shitty my job was back then, exactly how soulless I'd become, and he's sorry for it. It's that more than anything that has me taking his hand.
I dance full out, swinging my head, hopping around like a mad woman-there's no way to appreciate the song but to go wild. And the guys surround me, jumping and thrashing, and likely making the entire bus rock as it hurtles down the highway. We don't care. We're young and free. It's a beautiful thing. And we dance for many more songs.
I almost forget about the man on the other bus. Only when the guys finally crash for the night, when I'm tucked away in my tiny bunk by the bathroom and can't sleep at all, do I stare into the darkness and think of Gabriel.
Chapter Nine
Gabriel
"Everything for France is basically set. But Chrissy called about the final T-shirt numbers in Rome. The vendors are expecting high sales and … Scottie? Scottie? Mr. Scott?"
Jules's voice buzzes like a fly in my ear and pulls me from the fog that's taken up residence in my head. I blink, force myself to focus. She peers up at me with a frown.
"Why did you stop speaking?" It's nearly a snap, but I don't like what I see in her expression. The boss cannot afford to be worried over. I am the one in control. At all times.
Jules flinches, and I feel it in my gut. Perfect. I've upset the girl for no valid reason.
"Sorry, sir. I thought … " She grimaces.
"You thought what?" I have to will myself not to lean farther into the soft embrace of my chair. I shouldn't have sat down. It's too tempting to slump, and usually I stand when hearing a progress report. Better to focus.
Jules's freckles stand out like cinnamon flecks over her round cheeks. "I thought you … " She swallows hard. "Well, I thought you weren't listening."
I wasn't. Not with the attention I usually give. My head is fucking pounding like my brain is trying to jackhammer its way out of my skull. The floor is either defective and slanted or I'm imagining things. Given that no one else has commented on it, I'm guessing I'm the one off kilter.
"You were speaking of vendors." I know I heard something about shirts. Hell. I want to rub my face in the nearest pillow. But it won't work. I can't sleep. I cannot fucking sleep. And I've tried. Every fucking night I try. But nothing has worked, save for one night in London. We're in Scotland now.
At this point, it's so bad I'm nearly weeping by three in the morning when, yet again, I'm staring up at the ceiling, unable to shut my brain off.
"Yes, the vendors," Jules says happily. She rattles on again, and I try to keep my eyes open.
It wouldn't even matter if I closed them. My body wouldn't shut down anyway. There's a weight on my chest that makes breathing a chore. Weakness. I loathe it. But I'm getting weaker every day, and I don't know what to do.
Brenna would tell me to visit a doctor. The mere thought of doing so sends cold dread down my spine. A violent protest screams in my mind. No doctors. Never. I had my fill of them when I was a lad. And nothing short of death will get me to go back.
Best knock on wood, a nasty voice in my head whispers.
The pain in my head expands outward, down my neck, digging into the tops of my shoulders.
Jules keeps nattering on about contracts and dates.
My jaw throbs.
Breathe. Get through this. Then you can crawl to your room and take a hot shower. The lure of taking a sleeping pill is so strong at this point, my hands fist tight. Jax nearly died swallowing a bottle of those bloody pills, mixed with heroin. When I think about it-and I try very bloody hard not to think about it-nausea churns my guts and bile surges upward.
I swallow hard, grab my water bottle. My hand shakes as I lift it to my lips. No way to hide the fact other than drinking fast and setting my arm down as soon as possible. The shakes are getting worse.
"What should I tell him?"
With a jolt, I glance at Jules, who waits expectedly. Fuck.
"What do you think you should tell him?" Teaching moment. That works.
She frowns, her brow knitting in confusion.
Or it doesn't.
"You'll need to make these decisions one day, yes?" I prompt. Arse. You're cocking it up. Get your head back in the game.
Her mouth opens and shuts before she tentatively speaks. "I … uh … I don't think Jax will be asking me if I want to join him for poker. I thought that was your … uh … guy thing."
Sod it.
"Well, you never know." I clear my throat. "And, really, he should be asking me directly about personal things, which is your answer."
I lever myself out of the chair, ignoring the way the room sways. "You are my assistant, not my bloody personal calendar. Tell Jax as much."
"Right." Likely, she's mentally telling me to go bugger myself.
That sits heavily on me as well. I've never given my work or my crew anything less than one hundred percent. I am ashamed of myself. If only I could get some rest.
"Oh, and I'll have those personnel files sent to you by the end of the day," Jules calls toward my retreating back.
"Very good." I have no earthly idea what she's talking about. A vague memory prods at the corners of my mind, but I'm distracted.
A whiff of lemon tart and warm woman spice drifts through the air. My cock reacts as if it's being tugged. Annoyed at myself, I look up, knowing exactly who I'll find.
At some point, Sophie has gone and had her hair colored. It's now a pale rose gold, shining like a nimbus around her smiling face. The color sets off the dark warmth of her eyes and the pink in her lips. Hell.
"Hey there, sunshine," she says, perky as ever. Her bouncy tits are barely restrained in some sort of off-the-shoulder black knit top. Which means the only thing holding the fabric up are her breasts. One good tug …
"Eyes up, hon."
Immediately, my chin lifts. She's grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
"Is that appropriate attire?" Shut up. Just shut up now, you git.
She apparently feels the same. Her hand lands on one well-rounded hip. "As opposed to what? The tit parade we all see on a nightly basis around here? At least I'm wearing a shirt."