Managed: a VIP novel

by Kristen Callihan

  He doesn’t spare me a glance. “I’ll turn in my feminist card when we get home.”

  Home. No, I will not enjoy that word too much. It’s temporary. It’s all temporary. And if I remind myself of this enough, I’ll eventually believe it.

  Gabriel makes his way to the bar, and I check out the scene while he orders. He comes back with two icy cocktails. “Black mojitos,” he says, handing me one. “House specialty, apparently.”

  It’s so rare to see him drink that, when he does, I notice. “Do you not drink often because your dad…”

  “Was an alcoholic?” he supplies dryly. “In part. And I don’t like losing control.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you would.” But I’d like to see it. Not in an ugly way, but Gabriel unleashed in bed? All that icy power morphing into a powder keg of heat and want?

  His blue gaze rakes over my face at that moment. “Why are you blushing?”

  “Not blushing. I’m hot, is all.” I take a big sip of my drink. God, that’s good. And dangerous. I cannot get drunk around Gabriel. My mouth will spew all sorts of lewd suggestions.

  He gives me a dubious look but says no more.

  While we have our drinks, a few techs mess about on the stage, setting up for a concert. I lean closer to Gabriel to be heard above the noise of the house music. “You know who’s playing?”

  He gives me a slightly smug look. “Patience, chatty girl.”

  By the time we’re finished with our drinks, the lights are dimming. Gabriel sets our glasses on the bar and grabs my hand. His grip is warm and solid as he leads me through the crowd, closer to the stage. It doesn’t surprise me at this point that people step out of his way.

  He doesn’t stop right in front of the stage, but a little ways back, so we’re buffeted on all sides by people. The lights go dark and then pop up again in flashes of red and yellow. The band comes onstage, and people cheer. The lead singer is a woman. Aside from her, there are three guitarists, a drummer, and a guy manning a mixing board.

  Gabriel moves slightly behind me, as if bracing himself between me and others. I feel the warmth of his body along my skin.

  And then the band starts playing. The music isn’t what I expected. It isn’t rock. It’s flamenco with a modern twist—funk, hip-hop, even a bit of Bollywood, blending into a sound unlike anything I’ve ever heard. Happiness is a lightning strike through my system. I jolt and turn my head.

  Gabriel’s smiling eyes look down at me. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t need to. But he does pull a little rosebud on a stem from his back jeans pocket. When he picked that up, I don’t know. I’m too shocked, standing there gaping as he tucks it behind my ear.

  “There you go, Darling,” he says in my ear. “Now we dance.”

  He puts his hands on my hips and begins to move us to the rhythm of the song, picking up the pace as my body starts to respond. And I’m so shocked by the fact that he is willingly dancing, I can’t even form a coherent thought. So I don’t. I let the music take me, let Gabriel’s capable hands and swaying body guide me.

  And he can dance. I don’t know why I’m surprised. His footwork is better than mine, and I follow his lead, laughing and going more on enthusiasm than finesse. He doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes lock with mine, and the dancing people around me fall away. There’s just him, his hips moving with mine, my heart pounding in my chest.

  Warm hands glide up my sides, the barest of touches. I shiver, sway closer, my arms settling around his neck. His body is hot and tight. His palms skim along my arms and up to my hands. Fingers intertwining, he lifts my hands overhead, taking total control.

  This isn’t dirty dancing; he keeps a bit of distance between us, ever the polite and controlled Gabriel. Doesn’t matter. He’s dancing with me, and I’m alive with the joy of it.

  With a flick of his wrist, he spins me outward, my skirt swirling around my thighs, and then he brings me back, dips me, and twirls me again.

  I laugh and laugh. I’ve never danced like this, the moves traditional and a bit old fashioned. I love it. He took my dream and made it real. For me.

  Our gazes clash and lock. There’s a smile in his eyes, and a question. Is this what you wanted?

  How do I tell him I’m looking at what I want? Boyfriends have always come easy to me. They were guys who complimented my body, told me I was a good time, easy to be around. What they really meant was I wasn’t someone they’d get attached to. And if I’m truthful, I didn’t get attached to them either.

  This is different. I’m already attached.

  Gabriel has seen all that I have to offer, and still he doesn’t take what he has to know I’ll willingly give him. Fully falling for him would be akin to tossing myself off a bottomless cliff. Down, down, down I’d go, nothing to hold on to and no way back to solid ground.

  My smile is bright and painful, but I can’t let him see what’s bothering me. I don’t want to answer those questions. He seems satisfied, his smile moving from his eyes to embrace his whole face.

  We dance until dawn and tumble home laughing, me more than a little tipsy.

  And never once does he try for more.

  Which cements it. I have to pull back, learn from him and put up walls around my heart. And when this tour is over, I have to get as far away from Gabriel Scott as possible.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sophie

  * * *

  In an attempt to keep myself occupied with work and not with thoughts of a certain roommate, I head out early to the venue we have lined up for tonight’s performance. It’s a small space, and they’re having a highly publicized meet-and-greet before the actual concert.

  The air is humid and thick by the time I arrive. The crowd outside the doors is amped up, and not in a good way. The potential for things to get out of control is high. Even thought I spent only one year as a pap, I can spot the signs. There’s a certain agitation rippling through the crowd, an edge of desperation I don’t like.

  I vetted out a good spot to catch the guys exiting their limos, and to take pictures of the onlookers as well. It tells a better story for this night, and it keeps me away from Gabriel. I’m trying not to regret my decision given the nasty tinge that’s in the air right now.

  Teenage girls vie for position, jostling each other, throwing elbows in a not so subtle manner. They haven’t devolved into fights, but it’s a close thing. Glares and shoves are increasing. Security looks annoyed, and they aren’t exactly kind with their attempts to keep the fans back, resorting to shoves as well.

  Around me are fellow photojournalists. Many of them I don’t know, but some are familiar.

  Even though I don’t want to, I search the crowd for Martin’s face, fearing that he’ll decide to pay Kill John, and me, a visit. I’d rather see him coming than be sucker-punched by him suddenly showing. I’ve done this each and every night, all the while cursing him to hell. But, thankfully, he’s nowhere to be found.

  “How’d you get a job traveling with Kill John?” Thompson, one of my old colleagues, asks me as he sucks on a cigarette. He’s got a bloated look about the face, his skin grayish in the harsh marquee lights. “You fucking them?”

  “Yes, all of them.” I don’t bother looking at him. “It’s kind of a train situation. I hear they’ve got an opening for a bottom, if you’re interested.”

  “Cute.” He tosses down his cigarette butt, not bothering to snub it. The glowing stub comes close to my open-toed sandal. “I should quote you, brat.”

  “Because your credibility is so reliable,” I mutter.

  The weasel stomps out his cigarette, barely missing my toe. I don’t react, though I want to.

  Never get emotional. A good mantra, but not one that’s easy to follow. I’m regretting my plan more and more as bad memories of desperate days fill my head and make my stomach churn. I hated being a pap. Hated who I was and how I felt—as though I was covered in mud from the inside out.

  My phone buzzes.

  Brenna: We’re comi
ng around the block

  Go time. I’m about to tuck my phone back into my pocket when another text chimes.

  Sunshine: 30 seconds ETA

  His text does for me what Brenna’s can’t: make me feel cared for, and make me care back.

  Keeping my distance from him isn’t going to work, not when we’re in constant contact, anyway. But I can’t bother worrying now. Kill John’s motorcade is in sight.

  The crowd erupts into pandemonium. Girls scream, shoving turns rough. All of us are so packed together that we seem to undulate like a raging sea.

  I brace my feet and start snapping, capturing chaos.

  The first large SUV pulls up to the curb. The guys are in there. Gabriel, Jules, and Brenna will be in the next one.

  Jax is the first to exit, and it’s like he’s touched a live wire to the crowd. Everything amps up. My view behind the camera shakes as I’m jostled. But I get the shot of Jax’s face—the flinch and then the smoothing of his features into some bland neutrality. He smiles, but he’s not really there.

  None of the guys are. Not this time. The crowd is just too wild for them to linger. They move toward me at a steady pace. At my back, people shove and push. I’m in a good spot and clearly that’s not sitting well with more than a few girls.

  “I can’t see!”

  “Get out of the way!”

  “Move, I was here first.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Those last two were not aimed at me, but I’m in the middle of it. Suddenly arms are flailing, hands slapping. I duck a few blows and edge away. But that fuckface Thompson shoves me right back into it. I’m glaring at him when someone grabs my hair and pulls. Hard.

  Tears prickle behind my lids, my scalp screaming. I lower my head and twist my body, my elbow connecting with the wrist of my hair puller. The girl lets go with a squawk.

  Someone grabs for my camera, and I slap the hand away. Around me, other fights break out.

  In my periphery, I see Jax. His gaze catches mine, and he frowns, slowing down.

  No, no, no. Get out of here.

  The other guys are pausing too, seeing me in the melee. Not good. The crowd surges again, crushing me into Thompson and a security guard. A blow hits me right in the eye, and I see stars. It hurts so badly, I cry out. Another blow comes. Pain sparkles and tears.

  It occurs to me that Thompson just elbowed me twice. He actually hit me.

  I’m about to rip into him, when a body pushes between us with enough force to send Thompson sprawling on his ass. Gabriel stands before me with an expression of rage so fierce my skin prickles.

  I can only blink up at him before he grabs me close and hauls me up in his arms.

  I will not swoon.

  But my head falls to his shoulder. And I cling. Because he is a wall against the world. My wall. He moves through the crowd without pause, and they get out of his way, instinctively knowing he will mow them down if they don’t.

  One snarling look at security has them hustling us to a door that leads to a quiet, dark hall. Compared to the bright heat of the lights and noise of chaos outside, it’s like a balm to my tense body. I sag further into Gabriel’s hold.

  He doesn’t stop but marches along, muttering under his breath. It’s a stream of pissed off motherfuckers and bloody stupid and son of a bitch mixed with other choice words. I let his low growls flow over me like warm hands.

  My heart is still racing, and I’m shivering. I don’t want to. I want to be strong. But the adrenaline is wearing off, and I’ve no place to go but down.

  The side of my face throbs like a heartbeat, pain punching out in all directions. I think about Thompson elbowing me and whimper despite my anger.

  Gabriel’s arms squeeze around me. “Hush, now. I’ve got you.”

  We enter Kill John’s dressing room, and the guys are instantly up and surrounding us.

  “What the fuck was that shit? What happened to Sophie?” Jax says, peering at me. “You all right, honey?”

  “It is bloody apparent that she is not,” Gabriel snaps at him as he pushes past and sets me down on a chair.

  “Fuck. That was a disaster,” Killian mutters. “Shit crowd control. We should have pulled you in with us, Sophie.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have,” I say weakly as Gabriel kneels before me, his gaze darting over my face. “You would have been mobbed.”

  “They wouldn’t have hurt us.” Rye looks sick, his golden complexion pasty as his gaze lingers on me.

  “You don’t know that.”

  Gabriel scowls and thumbs aside a lock of my hair. “Got you good, chatty girl.” Anger radiates over his frame. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Here.” Whip hands him a first aid kit and gives me a smile. “Babe, you stick with us from now on, right?”

  My lip wobbles. “Right.”

  “I want to go back there and kick some ass,” Brenna mutters. She’s lost her glasses, and her hair is mussed. I hadn’t even noticed her in the scuffle. She hands me a cold compress. “Those fuckwads.”

  From behind her, Libby watches with wide eyes, as does Jules. They’re all watching, sadly looking at my face. I duck my head.

  “All right,” Gabriel says in a firm tone. “Let’s give Sophie some room. Go about your business.”

  No one argues, though Jax gives my shoulder a squeeze before leaving.

  With Gabriel’s body blocking everyone’s view, it’s almost as if we’re alone. He opens a disinfectant wipe and, with a frown, gently dabs at the bottom of my eye socket. It burns, but I keep still.

  His voice is soft when he finally speaks. “I could kill him.”

  “You going to jail over human garbage would be a travesty. And a wasted effort.”

  The cool cloth runs along my bruised face. “No, it wouldn’t.”

  I clutch his wide wrist, feel the rapid thrum of his pulse just below the surface. And his eyes meet mine, all dark with rage. It softens my heart, even though I have to be the rational one here. “No retaliation, sunshine. Promise me.”

  When he doesn’t answer, I stroke the skin of his wrist with my thumb. “Please, Gabriel. For me.”

  His lips flatten until they’re edged in white, but he nods, his gaze sliding back to my eye. With careful touches, he cleans me up and then smears a layer of Vaseline over the cut. “Keep putting this on until that heals. It will help prevent scarring.”

  He hands me the tube of Vaseline and holds the ice pack to my face.

  “You an expert on dealing with contusions?” I joke. I have to joke or I’ll cry.

  He stares back at me, his expression solemn. “Yes.”

  My hand settles over his, ready to take up the job of keeping the compress in place, but he doesn’t let go. His thumb edges out, strokes my face, rasping over the corner of my lip. “Whip is correct. No more going out on your own.”

  “I’m a big girl. I can handle myself.”

  He looks pointedly at my face.

  “A fucked-up fluke,” I retort.

  Again, the tip of his thumb caresses my cheek, touches my lips. His lids lower a fraction as he inhales sharply. “You asked a favor of me. This is mine. Don’t make me worry about this happening again.” He holds my gaze, and the emotion there is a punch to the system. “Please. I won’t be able to function properly.”

  I swallow past the lump in my throat. Tears well in my eyes. Stupid tears. I start to tremble, everything crashing all at once. “I was scared.”

  He sucks in a breath, and his forehead rests against mine. His free hand goes to the back of my neck, holding me there, steady, solid.

  “So was I,” he whispers, shocking me enough that I flinch.

  Misinterpreting my surprise for pain, he hisses out a curse. His fingers give me a gentle squeeze. “You’re safe, Sophie. This will never happen again.”

  “I know.” I take a shaky breath as I close my eyes and breath in his scent. “You keep your people safe.”

  “I look out for my people.” His lips ghost ove
r my unmarred cheek, the touch so light I might have imagined it. Only I didn’t. I feel it to my toes. It hums along my skin even as he pulls back slightly to look me in the eye. “I protect what’s mine.”

  * * *

  Gabriel

  * * *

  It takes me too bloody long to get away. Too long, holding in the rage, breathing like a normal man, talking like a calm one. By the time I head out into the back alley, my hands are shaking so badly, I can barely open the door.

  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 hell 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 fucking cockwomble bashed her with his elbow. Twice. Before I could get to her.

  My heart beats so hard, my shirt 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.

  Fuck, 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.