Managed: A VIP Novel Part 9

Lovely.

"And why the h.e.l.l 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 gla.s.s. "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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds 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 ma.s.sive 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. "G.o.d, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 s.n.a.t.c.hes the gla.s.s from me. "Get your own."

She makes a point of wiping the rim with a soggy c.o.c.ktail 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 a.n.a.l play with a woman now and then, I have never munched an a.s.s."

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 gla.s.s 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 c.r.a.p 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 f.u.c.king facade is part of the a.r.s.enal. 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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.set to the band."

Then I flee, just as desperately as Jules did minutes before. Because I've just consigned myself to months of h.e.l.l 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 cla.s.sically 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 p.i.s.sy 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 f.u.c.king let it go." He turns to me and sticks out his tongue, crossing his green eyes.

I dutifully take the pic.

"Excellent." Lowering my camera, I sit on the studio floor. "Look, none of us can change our pasts. All we have is our present. Like it or not, you two are the band's front men, which means you lead by example. People are dying to see you and Jax together again and happy. They need that rea.s.surance."

"And you think taking a few pictures of us doing whatever is going to make everything better?" Killian asks. His tone isn't snide, but he's clearly dubious.

"You tell me," I counter. "You've been in this business longer than I have. Do you think public image matters?"

For a second he just stares at me. But then he huffs out a laugh and smiles. When he does, it's fairly breathtaking. Killian James is extremely hot. Luckily I'm immune to hot men. Well, most of them.

"All right," Killian says, breaking into my thoughts of uptight managers. "I'm being a d.i.c.k. It matters, even if I don't like it."

"There. Was that so hard?" I ask.

He leans in, c.o.c.king his head as if he's going to tell me a secret. "You know, I'm not actually comfortable being an a.s.shole to women."

"Really?" I say, biting the corner of my lip to keep from smiling. "But you do it so well."

Jax laughs so hard he rocks back, clutching his Telecaster to his stomach. From the corner of my eye, I see Gabriel's head lift and turn our way. He's in an adjoining studio, talking to Whip as he practices his drums.

All the studios are connected by gla.s.s walls that surround the production booth. I've been aware of his presence the whole time, but didn't think he was aware of mine. He certainly can't hear us, and yet he's noticed Jax laughing. Then again, it's becoming more and more apparent that Gabriel keeps track of everything and everyone.

Killian laughs as well before nudging my foot with the toe of his boot. "You're a hard woman to remain p.i.s.sy with, Sophie."

"Remember that when I follow you like a tick on a dog's b.u.t.t."

He laughs again, a deep rumble of sound. "You sound like Libby."

"Uh-oh," Jax says, picking up his beer. "He just gave you his highest compliment. Watch out, you'll soon be subject to noogies and pranks like the rest of us."

I feign horror, but inside a soft warmth swims through me. I have many friends and acquaintances. Meeting new people has never been my problem; it isn't hard when you're a natural-born talker. But I've never been a part of a close-knit family of friends. Maybe I won't really be accepted by these guys either. Time will tell. But I want to be.

It is an odd thing to discover I'm lonely, despite never truly being alone. But I am. I want someone to know the real me, not the s.h.i.+ny sh.e.l.l I show the world.

I leave Killian and Jax to their practice and move on to Rye, and then Whip. After I'm done with photos, I upload them to my computer and pick out the ones I want to use for today's social media.

Time pa.s.ses quickly, and then we're off to check out the venue for Tuesday night's opening show. The guys are all restless energy. I swear they must be powered by music, because the more they talk about it, the more they play, the more fueled they seem to be.

Me, on the other hand? I'm still feeling the effects of jet lag-I haven't had a true night's sleep since I got here-and the lack of lunch. When did we skip lunch, anyway? How did I miss that?

My stomach growls in protest, and I try to ignore it because no one appears to be ready to leave. I take a break, sitting on the stage and leaning against a set of unplugged amps. My head hurts, and I'd love to nap. Only napping kind of blows here too. I just can't settle down when I get back to my room.

My stomach growls again, and I swear it's started to eat itself because my insides clench in pain. I fumble with the latch on my camera case and curse under my breath. I'm in hangry territory here. Soon I'll be a snarling mess. And these boys don't seem to f.u.c.king care that it's been hours since we last ate- "Here." A boxed sandwich from Pret A Manger is thrust under my nose. A second later, Gabriel sits next to me on the stage.

I'm caught between s.n.a.t.c.hing the sandwich and admiring the effortless way he moves. Which is just ridiculous, I grump silently, sinking my teeth into honey wheat bread. l.u.s.ting over the way a man moves. What next? Writing poetry about the scruff along his jaw?

Sadly, I could. I really could.

The first bite of food hits my mouth, and I sigh in relief. "Thank you," I mumble between chews.

"It's nothing." His shoulder lifts with a light shrug as he surveys the stadium.

He's brought me egg salad with arugula. My favorite. I clutch the sandwich in my hands like it's a precious gift before taking another bite. And another. d.a.m.n, I was hungry. "It's something."

"Don't talk with your mouth full." He pulls a bottled water, covered in condensation, from a bag and twists the top off before handing it to me. "G.o.d forbid you choke on your food and are unable to talk any more."

The water is ice cold, and I feel it going down, spreading through me. Sweet hydration.

"How did you know my favorite sandwich?"

He keeps his gaze distant, but his chin lowers a bit. "It's my business to know everything about my people."

His people. His flock.

"I don't see you handing out food to anyone else."

He finally turns my way. Brilliant blue eyes crinkle at the corners with sardonic humor, the curve of his lip tilting slightly. As always, my breath catches. The crinkles deepen.

"No one gets quite as hangry as you do, Darling. It's for the good of all to keep you fed."

I suspect he calls me by my last name as a taunt, but he always says it as though it's a caress. I shake the feeling off with a roll of my shoulders. "I don't even care if you're insulting me. It's true. I was about to eat my own hand."

"We wouldn't want that." His arm barely brushes mine. "We need you to work."

My cell phone rings. "Hold that thought," I say as I answer my phone. "Yellow?"

"'Yellow'? That's how you answer your phone? It's your mother, by the way."