Managed (VIP #2)(50)
She hums in agreement. And though I’ve cleared the air, I hate that sound. I don’t want her to leave. Lonely, cold, and sleepless nights loom ahead. I might not survive it. I’m more relaxed than I’ve been in over a year, and I haven’t yet had the pleasure of sleeping next to her.
“Thing is,” she says. “I don’t want to go back to the other bus.”
I turn to look at her sharply, my insides clenching.
She faces me without flinching. “I like it here with you. And maybe… Well, maybe I need you too. Maybe we need each other for whatever it is we have between us.” A flush suffuses her rounded cheeks. “So maybe we don’t analyze it or expect things from each other. But let’s just…I don’t know…hang out.”
“Hang out,” I repeat like a stunned parrot.
“Yeah,” she whispers with an encouraging smile. “Watch cheesy TV, eat desserts—”
“Dessert was really a one time thing—”
“It’s on the roster, bud. These hips don’t grow themselves.”
“I wouldn’t want to be responsible for their demise,” I murmur. No, don’t flirt. Don’t think of her spectacular arse.
She waggles her brows. Which is adorable and ridiculous all in one. “And we cuddle.”
I want those cuddles. I don’t f*cking care if it makes me weak or foolish. I want them enough to ignore how much I’d love to roll over and sink deep into her body. For now, I can stand it. I think I can stand almost anything if I can get some rest and have her company.
“All right.” My voice is rough, unsteady. I clear my throat. “Then I suppose there’s only one question left to ask.”
The tension visibly flows out of her body with a breath, and she rests her head in her hand, looking me over with inquisitive eyes. “What’s that?”
“Do you prefer the left or right side of the bed?”
Chapter Twelve
Gabriel
* * *
It isn’t difficult to track down Liberty Bell James. I simply go where Killian is, knowing she’ll in the vicinity. At the moment, it’s Charles Ehrmann Stadium in Nice, France--this week’s venue--where Kill John is conducting a sound check.
Liberty is in the center of the hall, comfortably lounging in one of the seats at the end of a row, and apparently playing a game of Candy Crush on her phone.
I lean against the seat in front of her. “A cable network contacted me this morning. They want to use ‘Reflecting Pool’ for the start of one of their shows this season.”
A soft flush runs over her cheeks. The woman isn’t fully comfortable with success, but she’s getting there. “That seems really…commercial.”
No shite. “Actually, a car company wants to use ‘Lemon Drop’, too. I think we ought to say yes to both.”
“Ugh. And have the threat of hearing myself every time I turn on the TV?” Her nose wrinkles.
I cross my arms over my chest, bracing my feet wide. I’ll be here for a while. “We’ll work in a clause to cover how long the commercial can run to avoid overexposure.”
“Missing the point, Scottie.”
“I believe you’re the one missing the point, Mrs. James.”
“For the last time, call me Libby or Liberty, Scottie.”
“But you are Mrs. James now. I’m showing you the proper respect.”
She gives me a light punch on the arm. “Your formality is killing me, Mr. Scott.”
“Stick to the matter at hand, please. We need exposure at this point in your career. Car commercials have launched many an artist simply because people hear the song and want to buy it. Need I remind you of Sia?”
“Like I can stop you,” she mutters.
“The program Six Feet Under played ‘Breathe Me’ for one bloody show, and it launched her in the US.”
Liberty’s chin lifts on a stubborn sniff, but I see the capitulation in her eyes.
“I understand you want to keep things low key,” I say. “This is a good way to do it. No talk show appearances, media junkets, and the like. You simply let another massive media source do the work for you.”
I don’t add that I’ll work toward setting up a mini-tour when the public starts clamoring for her. Baby steps are needed with Liberty. But despite her protests, she does love the stage. Killian knows as much, which is why they’ll be performing a few songs together on this tour.
“Fine. Tell them yes.”
“Enthusiasm, Mrs. James. It’s what makes my day.”
She laughs. “Yeah, I just bet it does.” Liberty stands and gives me a long look. “And your nights? How are they doing now that you’ve got yourself a roommate?”
Sly little shit. I want to tell her to mind her business. But now I’m thinking of Sophie. How are things? I wake with my hands full of luscious, warm woman. I smell her on my clothes throughout the day. I barely have a moment’s privacy once I’m on my coach or in a hotel room, and I look forward to that. I’m beginning to hate silence, because it means she’s not there.
And I’m surrounded by all things Sophie. Her battered little trainers. Camera equipment. Makeup, hairbrushes, lotions, and hair products.