Managed (VIP #2)(13)

Her eyes narrow further. I swear, it’s like High Noon on a plane.

“Social media is an essential component of most businesses today,” she tells me.

“Ms. Darling, untwist your knickers. I am in complete agreement with you.” In truth, the band could use a few lessons in improving their social media presence, and I’ve been after Brenna to make that happen for months.

It’s not that they lack a following, but when Jax attempted suicide, the band withdrew from the spotlight, leaving their fans, and the industry, to fill in the blanks and make the wrong assumptions—something that bothers me on a personal level. Kill John is so much more than what the world thinks of them.

Sophie is still looking at me with a dubious expression, as if she’s often received criticism for her choice of profession. That someone would try to stamp out the hopes and dreams of this vivacious and intuitive woman is a crime.

I make an effort to soften my tone. “Perhaps you ought to start at the beginning.”

“Not if you’re going to lecture,” she says with a sniff.

“I promise nothing.” I give a lock of her hair a small tug. “Talk, chatty girl. It’s all we have in this hell tube.”

She purses her lips. Her fire-engine red lipstick has faded, leaving only a faint stain. She looks softer for it, vulnerable in a strange way. A small scar cuts through the outer corner of her top lip. The faded silvery line is diabolical in its placement, a tiny taunt: suckle right here, mate. My fingers curl into a fist to keep from reaching out and touching. Get a grip on yourself, Scott.

“All right,” she says, snuggling back down with the efficiency of a cat. I close my eyes and concentrate on the sound of her voice. “For the past year, I’ve been working as a social media liaison, helping people write creative content for Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, and so on.”

“You teach them how to be witty.”

“That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”

“It was.”

The sound of her light laugher goes straight to my gut. “Two in one night? Oh, the shock. I may never recover.”

I give her hair another tug. The strands slide cool and soft around my fingers. “Go on.”

“Yes, I teach them how to highlight their personalities and gain new followers. I got lucky landing my last client.” She tells me the name of the rising television star Brenna and I had drinks with in New York a month ago. The smallness of the world can be a strange thing.

Sophie’s long lashes shadow her cheeks as she focuses on some distant spot. “Anyway, with him, I upped my game, taking photos as well. It’s funny—they were totally staged, arty, that kind of thing, but his followers love them and believe they’re candids.”

“We see what we want to see,” I murmur.

“Yes, and we build sandcastle dreams around celebrities. All we need is a window into their lives to start.”

“Which is what you’re providing.”

She nods, her cheek rubbing my chest. “So anyway, I got an email from my client, saying his acquaintance wanted to interview me for a big job in Europe. He put us in contact, and I was asked to come to London, all expenses paid. I’m guessing it’s someone pretty famous; I was told they’d give me details in person in order to protect the client’s privacy.

“The whole first class thing was a happy surprise. I got to the ticket counter, and they told me I’d been moved to first class.”

“Did the airline specifically say you were bumped?”

She frowns in confusion. “I was expecting coach. I mean, who sends an interviewee first class?”

“Depends on the interviewer. Perhaps your ticket was always for first class,” I point out. “Though I still don’t understand why they gave you my extra seat.”

“Still crabby about that?”

“It was never personal,” I tell her quietly. Regardless of what people believe about me, I don’t go out of my way to be a bastard.

The press of her palm against my abdomen grows heavy. “I get it,” she says. “You didn’t want any witnesses.”

Perceptive girl.

She smiles a little. “For the record, though. I’m glad I’m here.”

I am too.

When I don’t say anything, she gives me a nudge. “Admit it. I made it better.”

“No other flight I’ve been on can compare,” I tell her truthfully. “Security precautions aside, surely this company gave you a name.”

“Yes, I have a name.” She gives me a bright smile as if this is supposed to ease my trepidation. “I’m to meet Mr. Brian Jameson at the— Why are you turning green? Shit, are you going to be sick?”

I might very well be. I almost laugh, full-out unhinged, oh-f*ck-it-all laughing. I’m not even surprised it’s “Brian” she’s interviewing with. It almost feels inevitable, the cherry on top of this strange encounter with this chatty girl.

At my side, Sophie comes up on her elbow, and the nimbus of her moonlight hair seems to glow around her concerned face—though really it’s cheap airplane lighting and my overactive imagination. She’s just a girl with bleached hair and a talent for small talk.

Lie. She’s more than that. She’s untouchable.