Managed (VIP #2)(22)

I grunt, unable to tell him the truth. Best f*cking 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 yet, 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.