Managed: a VIP novel Page 8

  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 shiny shell 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 passes 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 fucking 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 snatching the sandwich and admiring the effortless way he moves. Which is just ridiculous, I grump silently, sinking my teeth into honey wheat bread. Lusting 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. Damn, 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. “God 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.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, Mom, I’m familiar with your voice.”

  “Well, you never know,” she replies with an expansive sigh. “It’s been so long since you called, you might have forgotten.”

  Smiling, I set my sandwich down. “Mom, you could make guilt an Olympic sport.”

  “I try, angel pudding. Now, tell me all about your new job. Are they nice to you? Do you like it?”

  This is not the conversation I want to have with Gabriel and his bat-power hearing in close proximity, not to mention his eyes are on me in clear amusement. But I can’t exactly say that. “Of course they’re nice to me. I wouldn’t stay if they weren’t.”

  Not exactly true. I’ve had some shit jobs with even shittier bosses over the years, but I’m turning over a new leaf: accept nothing but what brings me joy from now on.

  “And I love it, Ma. Truly.”

  “Well, that’s good. And those band boys?” Her voice dips. “Are they as sexy as they look on TV?”

  I told her what I was doing via text. But I hadn’t expected her to know about Kill John. I make a gagging noise into the phone. “Seriously? You’re trying to scar me for life, aren’t you? You do not need to be asking about sexy rockers.”

  At my side, Gabriel snorts and takes a bite of my sandwich. I snatch it back, giving him a side glare as my mom keeps talking.

  “Please,” she drawls. “If I didn’t like sex, you’d have never been—”

  “La, la, la… Not hearing you!”

  Gabriel chuckles, so low only I can hear it. But it does illicit things to me, sending tingles where I don’t need them.

  “Born!” Mom finishes emphatically.

  “Mom.”

  “Don’t whine, Sophie. It’s unflattering.”

  A click sounds, and my father’s voice filters in. “My baby girl doesn’t whine.”

  “See? Daddy knows,” I put in, grinning. It’s an old game I play with them, and I don’t care if I’m twenty-five; it feels good to act like a kid. Safe and secure.

  Here I am, sitting on a stage, about to go on a European tour with the world’s biggest band. But for a few minutes, I can just be Sophie Darling, only daughter of Jack and Margaret Darling.

  “You spoil her, Jack,” my mother is saying. “I have to counteract the ill effects with doses of hard realism.”

  I am essentially my mother—only younger and with ever-changing hair color. I have to cut my parents off before they can get going. Their back and forth can go on forever, and I have a hot, nosy, sort-of boss to eat lunch with—something that suddenly fills me with bright anticipation.

  “Look, my lunch break is about to end. Let me call you tonight when we stop for the day.”

  “All right, honey,” my dad says. “Just remember, men love women who play hard to get. Extremely hard to get.”

  I don’t need to look over to know Gabriel is rolling his eyes.

  “And yet you and Mom started as a one-night stand…”

  “Damn it, Margaret. You tell this child too much.”

  Still laughing, we say our goodbyes, and as soon as I hang up, Gabriel speaks again. “And now your slightly unhinged verbal onslaughts become clear.”

  “Eavesdropping is rude, you know…”

  “I would have had to cover my ears to avoid overhearing that ruckus.” His gaze slides over me with clear amusement. “They talk as loudly as you do.”

  “Shouldn’t that be the other way around?”

  “Details.”

  I smile, despite myself, and give his shoulder a nudge with my own. It’s like trying to move a brick wall.

  Gabriel takes my sandwich again, and because I’m feeling generous, I leave him to it and take the other half instead. He finishes his side in two neat bites, then wipes his mouth with a napkin.

  “Your parents are lovely, chatty girl.”

  Warmth floods my chest. “Thank you. I miss them.”

  He nods in empathy. “Do you not see them often? You talked before of living off ramen…”

  “I love my parents,” I cut in. “And I see them when I can. But there’s also only so much I can take. They’re…slightly suffocating in their attempts to watch out for me.”

  I lift my phone and scroll through pictures until I find the one I want. It’s an older one of me, smiling wide and pained as I sit between my parents on a couch. I hand it to Gabriel.r />
  He studies the picture for a long moment. “You look a bit like both of them.”

  “Yes.” I know this well. I have my mom’s dark brown eyes, cheeky smile, and pert nose. I have my dad’s bone structure and wavy, dark blond hair. I look down at Mom, her caramel colored hair stick straight. I’ve always wanted her hair too. “This picture is of me at my college graduation party.”

  He quirks a brow, waiting for me to explain further.

  I shake my head, my lips pursing. “It was a kegger. They were the only parents there.”

  A short, shocked laugh bursts from him before he swallows it. “That explains your knickers-in-a-twist expression.”

  “Ha. That expression was me plotting their untimely and slowly torturous deaths.”

  He makes a noise of amusement.

  “They’ve always been like that—really, really involved. Mom’s half Filipino, half Norwegian American. She used to bring me care packages: big trays of lumpia and lox.”

  “Lumpia?”

  “Filipino spring rolls, basically. Which are delicious. Paring them with lox? Not so much.” I make a face. “And then there’s Dad. This big, goofy, half Scottish American, half Armenian sociology professor. He used to tease me, calling me a UN baby while explaining the intricate paths of my heritage to bored friends.” I sigh. “So, they’re best taken in small doses.”

  “You’re loved,” he says gently. “That’s a wonderful thing.”

  “It is.” I look out over the wide stadium, watching the roadies pack up instruments as Kill John breaks for the day. “And that was also the problem. I didn’t want them to know I was failing. Or what I did to make a living. I wasn’t lying when I said I was ashamed of my work. It’s only within this past year that I’ve gotten back to wanting to see them, you know?”

  Slowly he nods, a frown pulling at his mouth.

  “I’m proud now,” I tell him quietly. “I love that Mom is a closet Kill John fan.”

  “Shall I send your mom a signed picture of the band?” A gleam lights Gabriel’s eye.

  “God, do not encourage her. Next thing you know, she’ll be here, and I’ll lose my mind.”

  “It almost sounds worth it.”

  “I’ll sic her on you,” I warn. “You’re much prettier than any of the guys. She’ll follow you around, plying you with food and pinching your butt when you’re not looking.”

  “She’s married,” he says, as if that matters.

  “And has a weakness for pretty men. Go figure,” I deadpan.

  He makes a face. “Men aren’t pretty.”

  “There are many types of pretty, sunshine.” I count them on my fingers. “Pretty girls, so cute and sweet. Pretty women, who are rarely prostitutes with hearts of gold, despite movie claims. Pretty boys, attractive but basically you just want to pinch their cheeks. And pretty men.” I give him a pointed look. “You know, the kind often mistaken for internationally renowned models—”

  The rat bastard shoves the sandwich in my mouth. “Be a good chatty girl and eat up.”

  I take a hard bite and slowly chew, my glare promising dire retribution. But inside, my blood feels like champagne in my veins, bubbling and fizzing with happiness. I’m having fun. Too much, because I don’t want it to end.

  Perhaps he is too, because his pleased expression grows. He sits with me in companionable silence as I devour the rest my lunch and drink my water. When I’m done, he hands me a napkin and packs up the trash, stuffing it into the bag he brought it in. It’s all done so simply, neat and quiet. Nothing that would draw attention to the act. It’s as if he’s always taken care of me—no big deal, just part of his job.

  And yet it’s all a lie. Gabriel Scott might know everything about everyone under his management, but to them he’s the unapproachable shadow in the corner of the room. He likes it that way. The fact that he’s taking care of me spreads warmth through my chest.

  Before he can get away, I lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek. He flinches but looks at me through lowered lids as I ease away. “Thank you for lunch, Gabriel. I feel much better now.”

  His gaze moves to my mouth, and my lips swell and part as if he’s licked them. He draws in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and the tip of his thumb finds the corner of my lip. The touch sizzles in a tight line straight to my sex. Everything there clenches, hot and sweet.

  “You’ve egg on your face.” His voice is a rasp laced with dry humor. He flashes me a quick, evil grin, his thumb lingering before he backs away, hopping neatly off the stage. “Back to work, Darling.”

  I smile with false levity, though my body has been reduced to a hot, quivering wreck. “Yes, dear.”

  A couple stagehands lift their heads at hearing me call the great Scottie dear and gape at me in horror. Which means I’m the only one who sees Gabriel miss a step. He covers it quickly, but it’s enough to keep me grinning for the rest of the day.

  Chapter Six

  Gabriel

  * * *

  There is a game I play with myself: delayed gratification. If there’s something I really want, I hold off on having it. My first nice car, I waited for a year, told myself it didn’t matter if I had the car or not; my life wouldn’t be any better or worse for purchasing it. I indulged only in glancing at pictures of the Aston Martin DB9 now and then to feed my need. I let myself pick a color—slate gray with red brake pads—and then finally, finally, when the year was out, I bought the car. By that time, the thrill had dampened, my need for the car muted. I had conquered my desire.

  I’ve done the same with every nonessential need in my life: cars, houses, a small Singer-Sargent painting I coveted. And it has served me well. When you do not yearn for anything, nothing can let you down. And I know full well this stems from losing my mother at an early age. I do not need to sit on a couch to know I use control to protect myself. And I don’t give a flying fuck what it says about me. It works, end of story.

  I tell myself this again as I prowl my living room. The house is silent around me. Too silent. I can hear myself think, and who the bloody hell wants to hear himself at one in the morning?

  I should go to bed, but I can’t sleep. As in literally cannot fall asleep. I’ve been this way since arriving in London. Awake at night, exhausted come morning. In short: I’m in sleep-deprived hell.

  Swearing, I take another turn around my room like some sort of deranged character in an Austen novel. Only I’m alone. I’m in the first house I bought myself. Eight million pounds to secure a private sanctuary in Chelsea. I love every inch of the place, every floorboard and old plaster wall. And yet standing in the middle of a room I paid a decorator to furnish, it feels like a tomb.

  I should call one of the guys. Someone must be up; they’re all night owls. But I don’t want to talk to them. I want someone else entirely.

  “Hell.” I pull at my collar. The cashmere lays light and warm on my skin, but I feel suffocated all the same.

  She’ll be up. I know it. I can feel it in my bones.

  It’s so silent, the sound of my feet striding across the floor echoes. I pick up my phone before I can stop myself. Don’t do it. Nothing good can come of engaging. She is an employee.

  I put the phone down and circle the room three more times before my feet take me right back to the sideboard where it lies. My hand hovers over the damn thing. Just let it go. She’ll read too much into it.

  “Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.” I grip the back of my neck where the muscles clench in angry protest.

  In my head, I hear her light laugh. I see her face and the way the bridge of her nose wrinkles just a bit when she grins. My gaze drifts around the room, with its comfortable furniture and pictures of me and the guys on the wall. Despite the decorator, I had my say in every design decision made here. This house is a reflection of me at my most personal. What would she say about it? Would she find it cold or welcoming?

  And why do I give a bloody damn?

  “Because you’re finally cracked, mate.” An
d talking to myself as well. Perfect. Just perfect.

  * * *

  Sophie

  * * *

  My room is so cute, I’m still half-convinced I’m dreaming. Cream, white-paneled walls, earthy sisal rugs, a four-poster spindle bed. There’s even a clawfoot Victorian tub opposite the bed. It’s too romantic, really. The kind of setup where I’d be bathing in a seductive manner while my man reclined on the bed to watch until he couldn’t stand the torture any longer and crawled in to join me. We’d make a mess of the floor, spilling water, laughing while we fucked.

  A nice picture.

  Only I’m alone in the dark beneath crisp linens, utterly awake and watching the lights of passing cars below trail across the ceiling. I should be sleeping, but jet lag has snuck upon me with a terrible vengeance. I’m so freaking awake, my body hums with the need to get up. Bad idea. Sleep is needed.

  I’m concentrating so hard on trying to fall asleep, the ping of my phone startles me. Fumbling, I reach for it on my nightstand. I’m not even sure who I expected to be texting me at 2 am. But I certainly didn’t consider him.

  Sunshine: If you don’t sleep now, you’re setting yourself up for even worse jet lag.

  I immediately bite back a ridiculous grin, as if he’ll see me through the phone.

  Me: If you’re so worried about my sleep, you shouldn’t text me in the middle of the night.

  He pings back an answer.

  Sunshine: Small chance of waking you. I knew you’d be up.

  Me: Oh? You psychic?

  Sunshine: No. Just awake as well. And remembering your inability to calm down.

  Me: False! I can do calm!!!!!

  Sunshine: As exhibited by your subtle use of exclamation points.

  I laugh in the dark of the room, drawing my knees up to my chest. My heartbeat has accelerated. I’m giddy like a damn schoolgirl. And isn’t that a bitch?

  He’d stuck me firmly in employee land, then he brought me a sandwich. I’m not even sure he trusts me, and yet here he is, texting me in the middle of the night. Maybe he’s lonely. Or maybe he’s looking for a hookup. He’s nothing like the men I’ve been with before, so I can’t be sure. But I can’t pretend I don’t enjoy flirting with him, even if it ends up leading nowhere.