Managed (VIP #2)(54)

We near the car, and he glances my way. “And when they began their band, their talent was brilliant, even then. But their organization was shit. So I stepped in, promised their parents I would do my mates right. Always.”

I stop short. “Gabriel.”

He stops as well, his brow quirking. Framed against the French Rivera, the massive yachts and sleek sailboats resting in crystalline waters, his pale suit cut to perfection and highlighting his dusky skin, he looks every inch the international playboy. I can’t even picture him poor and struggling. Until I meet his eyes.

Such beautiful eyes. But the fine lines around them, and the weariness that always seems to linger in those stark depths, tell me a new story now. All he knows is to fight and protect, both himself and those loyal to him.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

He blinks, a slow sweep of long lashes, and his expression goes blank.

“I mean it.” I take a step closer. “None of it. Not your mom. Not Jax.”

It’s as if I’ve slapped him. His head jerks back, and his lips flatten. For a second, I think he might shout at me. But then he gives me a one of those fake-ass polite looks he saves for sponsors and record executives.

“This conversation has run away from me. I hadn’t meant to go on a poor-me walk down memory lane.”

“Stop.” I touch his cheek and find him so tense, I imagine he might shatter. “We don’t have to talk about this any more. But I’m not backing down from what I said. We can’t control the actions of others. It will never happen. We can only control our own. Kill John would not be what they are without you. And those guys wouldn’t love you like they do if you weren’t worthy.”

His shoulders don’t lose their starch. If anything, he seems to harden all over, his armor forming right in front of my eyes. But then the corner of his mouth lifts.

“Is this how it’s going to be?” he asks in a slightly husky voice. “You championing me, whether I want it or not?”

“Someone has to do it, sunshine.” I give his cheek a gentle pat then get my ass in the car before he can say another word.





Chapter Thirteen





Gabriel



* * *



“Why…the…f*ck…did I agree…to go on this death run with you?” Jax’s panting whine is pathetically weak as we make our way through El Retiro Park in Madrid.

“You asked to go,” I say, not breaking stride. Perspiration trickles down my skin; my heart pumps steady and sure. “Said you needed the exercise.” I glance at Jax stumbling along beside me, his chest shining with sweat. “You weren’t wrong.”

He gives me the finger, apparently past talking, and I take pity on him, slowing down.

“Enjoy the scenery.” I nod toward the manmade pond that reflects the monument to Alfonso XII. Couples row around it, laughing, kissing, or lounging in the sun.

I wonder if Sophie has been here yet. She’d probably head straight for the boat, demanding that I row as she took pictures of it all.

I shake my head. I do not row women around in boats like some sort of cliché sap.

But you’d do it for her. Lie to yourself all you like. You’d do it and love every second.

I tell myself to shut it.

“I can’t appreciate the scenery,” Jax grumps, “when my legs are on fire and my lungs are waving the white flag. I mean, what the f*ck? I perform every night on stage. For f*cking hours.”

Jax doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him, but he’s kept so much to himself this past year and a half that he’s grown weaker than he once was.

“Different type of endurance, mate.”

He grumbles, and we fall silent. Despite his complaining, I’m glad he chose to come out with me. Though he never ran with me before, we used to lift weights together, spotting each other because we were of a similar strength then. It was one of the few things we did as friends, without business taking centerstage.

I haven’t thought of it until now, but I miss that time with him. I run a few more beats. “Perhaps it’s best if you find an alternate form of exercise.”

Though I’m not looking his way, I hear his scoff loud and clear. “Don’t you dare go easy on me, Scottie boy. I count on you to kick my lazy ass.”

It’s a struggle to keep a straight face. “Very well then, move that lazy arse, and stop complaining.”

We pick up our pace once more. Or I do. Jax groans and plods along with terrible form.

The hotel looms in front of us.

“I’m warning you now,” I tell him as we pass slow, strolling people. “I’m taking the stairs to my room.”

“Oh, f*ck no,” Jax says, looking horrified. “I’m stopping in the lobby.” He flashes a rare, wide smile. “I’ll pace around panting and guzzling water. Probably take me under a minute to find someone to rub me down.”

Of course he will. I’d have to be willfully blind to miss the attention we both receive, even now, as we sweat under the hot Spanish sun. Wherever we go, eyes follow.

I could do the same as Jax. It’d be easy as snapping my fingers to find sexual release. These days, my body is aching for it, my balls sore from lack of fulfillment. And yet the thought of finding some willing woman in the hotel lobby makes my stomach lurch. Needing sex isn’t precisely the problem; it’s more an issue of being constantly tempted by one, certain woman.