Managed: A VIP Novel Part 27

Warm, muggy air slaps heavy against my skin. I draw in a breath, smell the sour stench of garbage and the musky fug of wet cobbles. Doesn't matter. I breathe in again, slow, long. Dizziness threatens, and I lean against the slimy back wall of the theater.

My suit will be ruined. People will notice.

I don't sodding care. Not anymore.

Staring up at the bleak, orange light flickering by the door, I wonder who the h.e.l.l I am now. Scottie is crumbling. The cracks of his venerable armor are appearing over my weary body. And Gabriel? Only one person calls me that name anymore. Only one person makes me feel like a man of tender flesh and not a cold machine. And I let her down.

The image of Sophie's battered face fills my mind. The way that f.u.c.king c.o.c.kwomble bashed her with his elbow. Twice. Before I could get to her.

My heart beats so hard, my s.h.i.+rt trembles. Again, I am short of breath, struggling to get enough in my tight lungs. The ground beneath me tilts and rolls. I'm going to be sick.

Two rapid steps have me hunched over a rubbish bin. I retch until there's nothing left. Until my throat burns.

f.u.c.k, I hate that it takes me an eternity to stand straight, and that even when I do, my head throbs, feels both too heavy and too light. I hate that my hand still shakes as I take the silk handkerchief from my breast pocket to wipe my mouth.

Warm wetness rolls along my lip. The white silk handkerchief is stained crimson. Another nosebleed. My fingers go cold. I think of Mum when she faded-the dizziness, fainting spells, nose bleeds.

Another wave of cold washes through me.

The t.i.tter of feminine laughter rings through the night. Little s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversation bleeds in and out-how hot Jax was during his solo, how this one prefers watching Whip beat his drums, the other wants to have Killian's love child. Concertgoers leaving the show, enjoying themselves. They're calling this the best night of their lives.

I helped bring it to them. These girls will never know that, or care. As it should be. But the pride I feel in knowing I brought them a bit of happiness is there all the same.

If I'm gone, someone else will do the job. But will they do it as well? Will they watch out for my boys and make certain everything runs like silk? Or will they think only of their own gain?

The fact that there are no guarantees chafes.

Laughter rings out again, husky, unfettered femininity. It reminds me of Sophie's laugh, though hers always has a tinge of self-deprecation to it, as though she's part of the joke, never ridiculing.

I've never been one to freely laugh and often found those who did rather annoying. Life isn't a joke-not for me. And yet I want to swim in the sound of Sophie's laughter, let it cleanse me and wash away all the heaviness in my life.

I don't know how to ask for that, or even how to let myself ask.

I called her mine. She'll want an explanation for that. I've none to give. It just is. Whether I f.u.c.k her or not, it doesn't matter; she has me now. Even if she doesn't want me.

A text buzzes on my phone.

Brenna: Car is here. Where the h.e.l.l are you?

The idea of sitting in a car with Brenna, Jules, and Sophie while I stink of vomit and most likely have blood smears on my face, makes my mouth sour even more. I don't have the imagination to come up with a plausible excuse for my appearance, nor do I want to lie-or tell the truth.

But lie I do. My thumb types out a quick message.

GS: Already left. Have some business to attend to. Be safe.

That last message is for Sophie, and Brenna will know this.

Sophie. She'll be hurting and is probably unsettled. It was clear she isn't accustomed to being hit or treated with violence, and thank Christ for that small mercy. I should be with her, offering her comfort. Our bed-because it's ours and has been from the moment she laid down in it-will be cool and soft.

But if I get into it with her tonight, I don't know how I'll react. I've already shown too much of myself to her. Exposure has never been easy. I can't do more of it right now without losing the hold I've kept on myself for years.

Sophie. Regret pinches my chest.

I tap out one last message to Brenna.

GS: I'll be a while. Make certain Sophie is settled and icing her eye.

Little dots appear on my screen.

Brenna: You know it, boss man. Be safe yourself.

I suspect Brenna knows exactly what I plan to do, even though the urge has just registered in my own head. But I need it. I need the release.

Scrolling through my contacts list, I find the one I want.

GS: What do you have available for tonight?

Not five seconds later, the answer comes.

Carmen: It's been too long, S. Beginning to think you'd forgotten all about me. Have a slot. 2am.

And address follows.

I tuck the phone away, feeling dirty, depraved. I shouldn't. I've nothing to be ashamed of. But I am. I always am when I give in to weakness.

Chapter Seventeen.

Sophie

It feels wrong somehow to hang out alone in Gabriel's coach. Oh, he's made it perfectly clear that I should consider this my s.p.a.ce as well. But I don't. Every inch of the place is all Gabriel-something I actually enjoy. Over the years, I've had enough of living by myself. I don't need to feel like I'm in my s.p.a.ce. I like being in his domain.

Normally, stepping inside his bus is a little like being wrapped up in the man himself; everything is cool, calm, orderly. It smells of him, crisp and expensive. It feels safe.

Right now, however, I don't like it one bit. Because he isn't here, and I don't mind admitting that I want him here. I need him here. As much as I hate my weakness, my body hasn't yet let the incident go. I keep shaking, my fingers and toes ice cold. My face hurts, despite taking painkillers and icing it.

I need the distraction of Gabriel. And quite frankly, I was holding on to the promise of eventually sliding into bed with him as a reward for getting through this miserable night.

He didn't come home with us, telling Brenna he had business to attend to. The pinched expression on her face when she read his texts makes me think she knew more than she let on, and that whatever he was doing, she didn't approve.

I didn't text him. For once, pride wouldn't let me. He abandoned me when I was scared and hurt. Maybe I shouldn't look at it that way, but shaking that feeling has proven impossible.

Worse? He never came home.

It's morning now, and my head hurts after a long, sleepless night of flopping around on the bed, trying to shut off my mind and let my body rest.

He made me promise every night. Every d.a.m.n night.

Did that not imply the same for him? That he would be here Every. f.u.c.king. Night?

I slam a coffee cup down on his glossy black counter and pour a full cup. Yeah, that's right, coffee. Not tea. Tea is not the answer to all of life's problems. Sometimes dark, bitter as f.u.c.k, American-style coffee is the answer.

I glare at the door as I take a defiant sip, then wince. I actually don't like black coffee. I'm more of cream and two sugars gal.

"f.u.c.king tailored-suit-wearing Brit, making me drink black coffee," I mutter, grabbing the sugar and cream. A blob of cream lands on the counter. I ignore it. Ha. I can imagine his sneer upon seeing it.

Unfortunately, petty, pathetic victories aren't very satisfying.

I'm clutching my mug and curled up on one of the armchairs when he texts me. Apparently, I've lost all shame because I leap for the phone.

His message is a kick to the chest.

Suns.h.i.+ne: I'm away on business for a few days. Have already notified others. See you in Rome. Play nice with my boys.

A few days? He's already told everyone else?

It's embarra.s.sing how disappointed I am. How...hurt.

This isn't good. He's doing his job, and I'm ready to stomp my foot like a disgruntled child.

Biting my lip, I answer him.

Me: I'm throwing a party in your coach with the band while you're gone.

So clearly, being petty is not out of the picture yet.

There isn't even a pause before he answers.

Suns.h.i.+ne: Good. You shouldn't be alone. Have Jules charge everything to me. Or find the black credit card I have tucked in my sock drawer.

That...that... My teeth snap together. I can't think of a bad word to call him. Paying for my party as if he's my dad or something. Off you go, Sophie. Behave now while I'm away. But he's being nice. Great gravy, he's actually agreeing to let people into his bus. Or is he calling my bluff?

Fine. I tap out. But I'm not going in your sock drawer. I might get the colors out of order and then where would you be?

The implacable jerk responds easily.

Suns.h.i.+ne: Reorganizing my socks. Have the party, chatty girl. It will be good for you. See you in a few days.

So that's that. He's left.

I need to nip this clingy feeling right in the bud. Setting my phone aside, I finish up my coffee and go to get dressed. I'm not going to mope around anymore. I've a party to plan.

Gabriel

An elbow catches me on the cheekbone. The pain is white, exploding like a camera flash behind my lids. It crackles through me, rings in my ears. A kick to my side has me staggering back.

Jeers and shouts surround me, a blur of screaming faces. This I know. This joy of violence and greed, fed to me since childhood like milk and b.u.t.tered toast.

Another punch flies. I dance away, and it misses me. I block a kick with my knee. Pull it together. Focus.

My opponent is hardened, likely fighting nightly. In my youth, I was better than him, but I'm now softened by a comfortable life. Yet I know how much I can handle. I can wear him down, wait for him to tire. But I'll have to take a beating.

Bruises I can hide. Open cuts and split lips are another issue. This is my second night of fighting. I'm already battered. If I get cut up any worse, I'll have to stay away from Sophie for too long.

Sophie. Sophie elbowed in the face. Twice.

Rage pulses hot, pushes through me.

Hold it.

Another punch flies, grazing the edge of my jaw. Were this a professional fight, I'd already be knocked out. But we're amateur entertainment, fighting each other in a pristine, white living room-marble floors, wall-to-wall windows overlooking the harbor-as rich, bored people watch.