“Her name is Sophie.” Don’t think of her. Don’t fucking do it. But it’s impossible to blot out what I’ve said to her. Rage flows through me again. I grind my teeth and count to ten. Slowly.
Lesson three: Act on behalf of your client, not yourself. I handled the situation like I’ve always done—decided what was best for the band. Protected them first and foremost, putting aside personal needs.
Bullshit. Everything is personal.
Oh, how I know it now, chatty girl.
It should have been a simple thing, dealing with this issue. I barely know the woman. The lines of risk are clear. She could easily upset the balance we’ve struggled to restore.
That didn’t explain why each word out of my mouth to her felt like fucking acid on my tongue. Or the way the hurt in her eyes had nearly made me physically ill. I’d barely managed to get through that interview from hell without punching a wall.
And then I’d simply left her. Walked away without a backward glance, leaving her feeling like scum, as though she were unworthy of any of us.
“Cockless git,” I mutter, fighting the urge to kick something again.
“You have to find a way to forgive Jax.” Killian takes a sip of coffee. “That’s what Libby told me. I thought I had. But he keeps finding ways to piss me off.”
Hands low on my hips, I study the scuff on my shoe. I don’t bother correcting Killian’s assumption. I’m not angry at Jax for arranging that Sophie arrive on the scene. I understand him. He wanted a testament to what he’d done. Or perhaps he didn’t really want to die at all, but for someone to find him before it was too late.
I can’t be sure, but I’m not going to rail at him for being human. A sigh escapes me, and I run a hand over my face. I haven’t had a proper sleep in weeks, and exhaustion is catching up on me. Around us, Londoners make their way down the street toward the nearby Tube station. It’s already overcast and chilly.
A mother pushes her child along in a gray pram, and stops at a bookstore window. There used to be a picture of my mother kneeling beside me in my pram. I was probably two, and even then I had a surly expression. But my mother beamed at me as though I were her world.
I rub a hand across my aching chest.
Jax, Killian, Whip, and Rye gave me friendship when I had none, a family when mine had gone. They gave my life purpose—a job I love and experiences few people on Earth ever have. In return, I vowed that I’d always protect their interests. I’ve done a shit job the last few years. I can do better. I must do better.
I don’t want to think about Sophie Darling. But she’s infected my brain. The sound of her teasing laugh haunts me. The pained shimmer in her brown eyes as I called her “a mistake” guts me.
She’d been responsible for exposing Jax’s most private moment and the lowest point in his life. Countless times I’ve cursed the bottom-feeding scum who took those photos. To realize it had been Sophie, the woman I let hold me and ease my fears in a way I hadn’t allowed since my mum died, is more than disappointing. She’d knocked me on my arse in that interview.
I start to pace, unable to stand still.
Killian watches me, his head swiveling back and forth as he tracks my movements. “You’re not going to need us to set up a fight, are you?”
I cut him a glare. “I’m not as bad off as all that.”
He holds up a hand. “I was only asking.”
When Kill John first started, I paid for my suits by winning underground fights. A bit of an oxymoron, granted, being a brawler in order to dress like a gentleman. As the years went on, I fought when I was so tense only the sweet release found in sex or pummeling the shit out of another person would do. In truth, sex has never cut it for me the way raw pain does.
“I’m fine,” I say, waving him off.
“Brenna gonna hire her?” Killian asks me.
“Of course. She put Ms. Darling in first class. Brenna wouldn’t have bothered if she wasn’t planning to hire the her.”
At this, Killian grins. “Bet that pissed you off, having to sit beside someone.”
I grunt, unable to tell him the truth. Best fucking flight of my life.
He starts to laugh. “Damn, Brenna is evil.”
I think of all the shit Sophie gave me. A smile tugs at my mouth but promptly dies when my brain reminds me that I just broke any hope of her wanting to be near me again.
“Fucking hell.” I pin Killian with a glare. “She’s hired. We both know this. Regardless of her past, I’ve seen her portfolio and her social media work. She’s good. And the rest of the boys want her along as well.”
“Shit.” Killian looks off.
“You’ll be working closely with her.” Something stirs in my chest at the thought of seeing Sophie day in and day out. I push it down deep. “Which means you will treat her with the bloody respect a trained professional deserves.”
“Yes, sir.” Killian gives me a salute.
I’m already turning back toward the hotel. “We have a FaceTime meeting with a new sponsor at four.”
“What sponsor?” he calls back.
“Some guitar pick company,” I say over my shoulder.
“Damn it, Scottie, ten years and you still can’t remember which picks I prefer? Details, man.”
I know which one, but it’s just too easy to aggravate Killian. “A sponsor is a sponsor. Don’t be late.”
Halfway back to the hotel, I text Brenna.
GS: I assume Ms. Darling is staying on?
She answers quick enough: Yes. No thanks to you. Next time, discuss your concerns about my staff in private.
I bypass a man with two poodles who sniff at my ankles.
GS: Understood. Where is she now?
Brenna: Why?
My jaw muscles pulse.
GS: I want to welcome her aboard to show no hard feelings.
Brenna: You can text her for that.
I really loathe when Brenna is pissed at me. Life becomes that much harder, and she is an expert at making me work for my transgressions.
GS: Did I happen to mention I’m meeting Ned later tonight?
Ned is a local promoter and a scummy little shit who has a propensity to hit on Brenna. Unfortunately, the man is also in charge of the best venues, and I have to deal with him whenever we tour London. Brenna doesn’t.
GS: I was thinking of inviting him out with us instead.
I almost smile, imagining Brenna fuming right now. Little dots appear and then her answer.
Brenna: Asshole. Jules took her out to lunch at that gastropub down the street.
GS: A little early for lunch, isn’t it?
Brenna: Seriously? Translation: she took her to have a much needed drink on account of you and Killian acting like dicks.
Ah, guilt. I had become unacquainted with the emotion over the past decade. Experiencing it now, I cannot say I enjoy the sensation. At all. Tucking my phone in my pocket, I pivot and head back down the street.
It isn’t hard to locate Sophie and Jules in the pub. They’re bright spots of color in a sea of old wood paneling. Tucked away at a corner table, the two women have their heads close together, Sophie’s white blond hair like moonbeams besides the full flower of Jules’s tight fuchsia curls.
Their backs are to me as they nurse pints of Guinness—the breakfast of champions, as Rye often lovingly refers to the rich stout.
“I’m not gonna lie,” Jules is saying. “If you’re expecting praise or kind words from him, it’ll never happen. He’s just not that kind of boss.”
“He isn’t going to be my boss at all,” Sophie mutters, taking a long drink. Creamy white foam lingers on the soft curve of her upper lip before she licks it away, and my cock grows heavy.
Hell.
“Don’t kid yourself,” Jules says. “He’s everyone’s boss. Even the guys. What Scottie says goes. But don’t worry. He’s not a tyrant. He’s just…”
I can’t help but lean in a little, wondering what she’ll say. They haven’t seen me ye
t, and I’m not about to make my presence known now.
“Exacting,” Jules settles on.
Sophie snorts inelegantly. “He’s an arrogant assmunch.”
Lovely.
“And why the hell 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 glass. “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 bastards 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 massive 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. “God, 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 space 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 snatches the glass from me. “Get your own.”
She makes a point of wiping the rim with a soggy cocktail 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 anal play with a woman now and then, I have never munched an ass.”
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 glass 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 crap 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 fucking façade is part of the arsenal. 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 glass 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 asset to the band.”
Then I flee, just as desperately as Jules did minutes before. Because I’ve just consigned myself to months of hell 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 classically 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 pissy 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 fucking 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 reassurance.”
“
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 dick. It matters, even if I don’t like it.”
“There. Was that so hard?” I ask.
He leans in, cocking his head as if he’s going to tell me a secret. “You know, I’m not actually comfortable being an asshole 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 glass 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 pissy with, Sophie.”
“Remember that when I follow you like a tick on a dog’s butt.”
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.
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