Managed:a VIP novel(26)

"You don't say."

I laugh. "Okay, really complicated. But even if I was with him, I wouldn't take sides or discuss anything we say."

"Shit, I'm sorry," Jules says with a breath. "I didn't mean that, you  know. I'm just … well, we're all kind of surprised that you and Scottie  are … complicated."

I knew there'd be talk, despite Gabriel's insane notion that if he  decreed silence, they'd obey. Deluded man. I'm not surprised by Jules's  confusion. Oddly, I don't really care if they all speculate or don't  understand. Because the flip side is that tonight I'm going to be  sleeping in Gabriel's bed.

A near giddy feeling of anticipation tickles my skin and tightens my  belly at the thought of being wrapped up in Gabriel; it's a full-body  experience lying with him. He's big enough to make me feel small and  delicate. Yet his need for my presence makes me feel strong and worthy.

It will be torture pressing up against that hard body, my lips far too  close to his smooth, tight skin that burns slightly hot. I love the way  he smells, and the steady cadence of his breathing. These things are  already indelibly marked in my memory and upon my skin.

Most of all, I love that I see a side of him no one else does. I want to  know this man. I've just told Jules I want to live in the moment, but  for the first time in years, I look toward the future with a bit of  wistfulness and some fear.

I close my eyes as "Thriller" starts up once more. "I'm not very good at  complicated," I tell Jules. "But for Gabriel, I'm willing to try."

"For his sake, I hope you succeed." The affection I hear in her voice  has me thinking she likes Gabriel more than she'll admit. "Because that  man needs a social life more than anyone I've ever met."





Chapter Eleven





Sophie







I stall until the last second to get myself on Gabriel's bus. Dusk has  settled over the parking lot where the buses are already idling, a  snakelike caravan that holds Kill John's tour. Gabriel's bus is toward  the end, a glossy black tube against the orange sky.

His driver, a very nice older gentleman named Daniel, greets me with a nod and a smile. "Made it by the skin of your teeth."

I think he knows I was stalling.

"Thanks for driving us," I tell him at the door. "You need anything? Coffee? Dinner?"         

     



 

"No, miss. I have a very nice setup in the front. Scottie makes certain of that."

As well he should since he's relying on Daniel to keep us alive and safe  while driving all night. I asked Brenna about the drivers. They sleep  during the day in whatever hotel we stop at and stay up all night  driving when we're on the move again. Most of them have been on multiple  tours with the band.

Then again, Gabriel truly does make certain every small detail of the  tour is attended to. Earlier today, he had Sara, one of the interns,  pack up my things while I was goofing off with Jules and put them away  in his bus. You'd think I'd find this invasive, but truthfully, I've  been living out of my suitcase, and not having to go through the awkward  task of unpacking, asking where I should put this or that while he  looks on, is a relief.

Instead, I received a text from Sara telling me where everything is. I  thanked her profusely and sent her a Starbucks gift certificate. Her  delight in a free frap makes me consider sending Gabriel's entire staff  certificates. All of them seem to spin constantly like cogs in the  well-oiled Kill John machine, with Gabriel at the helm. And while he  isn't cruel, he isn't exactly handing out praise for their efforts,  either. It's clear he expects jobs to be done right the first time, and  that goes for his as well.

The other buses are closing their doors, everyone tucked in for the trip.

I can stall no longer, and after wishing Daniel a good night, I step up  into the relative cool and quiet of the bus and close the door behind me  with a definitive thud. The pristine interior is empty, Gabriel nowhere  to be seen. I admit, I'm unpleasantly shocked. I'd expected him to be  lounging in a chair with his feral grace and vaguely admonishing  expression. Is he running late?

I glance around as the bus lurches forward. Bracing my legs, I wait  until I'm accustomed to the gentle rocking. I'm about to call out, or  maybe buzz Daniel to warn him that he's left his boss behind, when  Gabriel's deep voice comes from the bedroom.

"About bloody time. Were you trying to miss the bus, Darling?"

Relief swamps me so strongly I have to sag against the kitchenette countertop. "I like to be fashionably late," I call back.

"Just remember," he retorts, still talking from the depths of the bedroom, "the caravan waits for no one."

"It waited for me just now." I stroll toward the bedroom but come to an  abrupt halt at the threshold. For a second, I can only gape at the sight  that greets me. It's so shocking, I turn around to check whether there  are cameras rolling and I'm being punked.

"Why are you looking about like that?" Gabriel drawls, not taking his eyes from the TV.

"Just checking to make sure I hadn't wandered into an alternate reality."

"Amusing as always, Darling."

Who could blame me for being suspicious? Gabriel Scott is out of his  suit and wearing a soft, gray long-sleeve thermal and black sweats. This  is shocking enough-but at least I've seen it before. The fact that he's  lounging in his bed, while eating some sort of dessert out of a bowl,  is what has me flabbergasted.

"You're staring," he says dryly as he …

"Are you watching Buffy?" My voice has a tinge of a squeal.

He rolls his eyes. "Deal with it."

"I'm just so … " My hand flutters to my chest. "Are you sure I'm not being punked?"

A snort escapes him. "You're not famous, so no. I, on the other hand, have my moments of doubt that you aren't here to punk me."

I'm so happy, I have to fight grinning like a loon as I kick off my  shoes and crawl onto the end of the bed. "If I were to punk you, I'd  change out all your suits for polyester."

At that, his eyes finally slide to mine, and his skin actually pales. "That's just cruel, Darling."

"Stop calling me that." I steal his spoon.

"It's your name."

"Are you sure that's what you're calling me by?" I ask suspiciously, as he moves his bowl out of reach.

"What else would I be doing?" There's a glint in his eye that leads me to answer in a sing-song voice.

"A term of endearment? Declaring your undying lurve for me."

His nose wrinkles. "You're going to put me off my pudding."

"Pudding? Is that what you're eating?" I lunge for the bowl, but he's too quick, and I end up sprawled across his chest.

We both go still, me clutching the spoon in one hand, my other palm  pressed against the firm swell of his pec, him with one arm still  outstretched, his other one pinned beneath me.         

     



 

His breathing goes deep and strong as he peers down at me. My attention  drifts to his lips, beautifully sculpted and softly parted. How would he  kiss? Would he start off slow, taking little nibbles, testing the  waters? Or would he be the type to go all in, possess my mouth with his?

Heat floods my body, fluttering through my belly.

Gabriel's lids lower, and his breath catches.

In the background, someone is shouting Buffy's name. It's enough to snap  me out of whatever fog that touching Gabriel has pulled me into.

"You smell like apple pie," I whisper inanely.

His gaze darts from my mouth to my eyes. "It's crumble. Apple crumble."

"Why did you call it pudding?"

"It's what we Brits call dessert." He's still staring at my mouth. Dessert indeed.

My lips part, sheer lust making them plump. "Give me a bite."

With an audible swallow, he slowly takes the spoon from my hand. I don't  look away from his eyes as he scoops up a bit of the crumble.

The spoon shakes just a little. Cool metal slides over my lower lip, and  hot crumble fills my mouth. I barely suppress a moan, my lips closing  around the spoon as he slowly draws it back out. He grunts in response, a  short, helpless sort of sound that he quickly smothers.

"Delicious," I say, licking the corner of my lips.

The wall comes down once more, and he's back to his implacable self.  With gentle hands he moves me to the side. "Off you go," he says  lightly. "You're making me miss Buffy."

It takes me a moment to settle myself. I push my hair away from my face  and snuggle back into the nest of pillows propped against the headboard.  "I cannot believe you're watching this. With pride, even."

His big shoulder lifts on a shrug as he goes back to eating his crumble.  "You're living here now; it's not as though I can hide my viewing  preferences. And I'm not about to forego the small pleasures I get to  enjoy."

"Geeking out on sci-fi shows and eating desserts?" I make a sound of amusement. "Try to contain yourself, party man."

He cuts me a look. "For the first few years of Kill John's existence, I  fucked, drank, and partied my way across the globe. I can safely say I'm  worn out on that life and completely bored with it."