Managed (VIP #2)(44)
My boys, however, just blink back at me before grinning.
“Well, all right then, Scottie,” Rye drawls. “Glad to see you taking initiative in your personal life.”
Whip shakes his head. “Fucking knew it.”
“You know nothing,” Sophie hisses at him.
Jax high-fives Rye. “You owe us each fifty bucks, Killian.”
“Shit, and I was so sure he’d hold out longer. Thanks a lot, Scottie.” Killian glares at me. The little arse.
“What did I say about speculating?” I warn. “One more word and I’ll have you all doing a music video with synchronized dancing faster than you can say Backstreet Boys.”
Whip lifts up a hand. “Okay, geesh. Got it. You two are an impenetrable wall that no one shall gaze upon. No need to go all Simon Cowell on us.”
I don’t have time to see how the others react. Sophie pinches my side.
“Ouch. Do you mind? This is a silk-wool blend. You’ll wrinkle it.”
“It’s about to be shredded.” She seethes up at me, eyes shooting sparks. “You just totally threw our business out there.”
“I told them not to talk about it.”
Her nose wrinkles. “Which means they’ll be talking about it even more.”
“No, they won’t.”
“Yes, we will,” Rye calls.
I point at him. “Start practicing your Running Man.”
“Is anyone else impressed that he knows dance moves?”
Sophie pokes me with her finger to punctuate each word. “This is all your fault.”
Brenna takes it upon herself to stroll over. Her smile is wide and smug. “What did I tell you, Scottie-boy? I hire the best people.”
Poor Sophie is beet red now. I feel a pinch of regret for putting her in an awkward position. But I know these people. They are my family. Better than family. Teasing aside, they’ll do as I ask, if only because I’ve never asked them for anything personal before.
I would tell Sophie this now, but I think it would embarrass her further. So I settle for meeting her gaze and putting all the tender gratitude I feel into my voice. “Yes, Brenna, you do.”
My reward is Sophie’s expression going soft and luminous. Something cracks open within my chest. I don’t know what it is, but I do know one thing: my chatty girl has no idea what she’s gotten herself into. Because I’m not letting go.
* * *
Sophie
* * *
“You excited about touring?” Jules asks as we sprawl on the grass lawn in Edinburgh’s West Princes Street Park.
Above us is a rare, cloudless blue sky. If I lift my head, I’ll see the dark, craggy face of Castle Rock rising almost straight from the earth and the low-slung, imposing fortress of Edinburgh Castle sitting on top of it.
Last night, Kill John played at the castle’s Esplande, which is an open, U-shaped stadium on top of Castle Rock with the castle as a backdrop. I’ve never experienced a concert like that, the glittering lights of the city below us, the medieval-looking castle creating an air of timelessness as Kill John brought fans to a screaming roar. It lifted goose bumps on my skin.
After taking a few pictures of the guys practicing at a recording studio this morning, I was given the rest of the day off. Since Jules also has free time on her hands, and I was too worked up about the prospect of rooming with Gabriel, I convinced her to escape with me and tour the town until we leave later this evening. And so we are taking full advantage, soaking up the sunlight streaming down on this lovely day.
“Completely,” I answer, cracking open one eye to glance at her. “This isn’t your first tour, though. Does it still hold any excitement for you?”
“Of course. I live for this.” She turns my way. In the sunlight, I see that her eyes aren’t simply brown but streaked with green. “It’s more than a career; it’s a dream come true. And one day, I’ll be in charge of my own bands.”
“I envy you. I don’t have a dream like that.”
Jules rolls to her side to face me, her head pillowed on the big, green hobo bag she always carries. “What do you mean?”
As I think about how to explain, a mime dressed in a tuxedo stops on the wide walking path and sets down a portable radio, which starts playing Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” I watch him dance and fight a smile. At the far end of the park, by the Ross Fountain, a guy in a kilt plays the bagpipes. Their music blends into a disjointed clash of sounds. It’s wonderfully horrible, and nothing I’d ever have experienced if I hadn’t taken a leap and gotten onto a plane with only the smallest bit of information to go on.
“I’ve never had a set dream job,” I tell Jules, watching the mime dance. “Never had an intense ambition. And sometimes I wonder if I’m defective that way.”
“You are not defective,” Jules says with feeling. “Maybe you just haven’t found what you love to do yet.”
I shake my head and smile. “No, that’s not it. I simply don’t really care what I’m doing as long as I get to live life, be happy, and enjoy new things. Making money is great because it helps me travel, puts a roof over my head. But at the end of the day? I’m not ambitious and never will be.” I shrug and pull a blade of bright green grass from the dirt. “Even worse? Eventually I want a home and to share it with someone who gets me completely, someone I can’t keep my hands off. I want babies, and to decorate my porch on Halloween and Christmas.”