Managed (VIP #2)(60)

When the door shuts, I flop onto my back and let out a pained breath. What the sodding hell have I done?

Outside the open windows, a woman’s laughter echoes. I wince and rest a forearm over my eyes. I’d wanted to know how Sophie would react if I made a move. Running to the toilet appears to be the answer.

Nausea roils in my gut.

From the bathroom comes the sound of water, and I know she’ll return soon. A part of me doesn’t want her to. But I need to apologize.

She’s quiet when she gets into bed, crawling tentatively under the covers.

Words clog in my throat.

For the first time since we’ve started sleeping together, she doesn’t draw near. I feel the absence like a cold hand along my skin. I turn to say something, but she beats me to it.

“Good night, Gabriel.”

The finality in her voice, and the clear warning that she doesn’t want to talk, settles like a stone in my heart.

I swallow hard. “Good night, Sophie.”

On the opposite sides, I stay silent, listening as the soft sounds of her breathing slowly change into the steady cadence of sleep, and dread fills me.

I can’t do this any more. I cannot keep denying myself, and I clearly cannot keep my hands off her. Yet the idea of never sleeping next to her again fills me with inexplicable fear.

In her sleep, Sophie turns with a deep sigh, and her hand reaches out to me. I don’t move a muscle, but the whole of my being concentrates on the brush of her fingertips against my forearm. Such a small thing, her touch, barely even true contact, and yet I cannot pull away for the life of me.

Be her friend. I can do that. It will torture me, but not having this will outright end me. So I will tuck my needs away, put them somewhere deep and dark, and turn my efforts toward making Sophie feel happy and safe.





Chapter Fifteen





Sophie



* * *



“You okay, hon?” Jules yells in my ear. She can’t be heard any other way at the moment. Kill John is going full tilt, and music pulses around us.

I must look miserable if she has to ask right now. I give her a wide smile that feels pained. “Just a bit tired,” I shout back.

She nods and says no more, but I catch her quick, worried glance.

I’m a terrible liar. But what do I say? Hey, I think Gabriel almost made a move on me the other night. Only, how lame am I? Because I’m not sure.

God, I must be losing it if I can’t even tell if a man is making a move.

I am wreck. My mind is stuck on last night, going over every moment in detail.

I went to kiss Gabriel’s cheek. And he grabbed me, holding me close as if he’d also been unable to help himself. At first my heart had jumped into my throat, a heated elation rushing through me. I wanted him to kiss me more than I wanted my next breath.

But he didn’t. He stared at me as if I pained him, as if he was pissed. That look flipped everything on its head.

Had I gone too far by kissing his cheek? Was he telling me to cut it out? I panicked, so embarrassed I could have cried.

And call me a chicken shit, but I just couldn’t ask him what that look had been all about. Not then.

I might have caved this morning, but by then Gabriel was back to his slightly ornery but always solicitous self.

Now I’m at a loss. He insists this isn’t about sex. Maybe it truly isn’t for him. And there is no way in hell I’m telling him I want more now. Not with Gabriel “Ice Man” Scott back in control.

Call it pride, self preservation, whatever you want, but I’m not caving. No matter how badly I want to.

So now, I’m focusing on work. Which isn’t exactly a punishment.

Tonight’s concert is hot, frantic, and energetic. The boys play with renewed enthusiasm and verve. I swear there’s magic in the air. I crawl and scurry around their moving bodies, getting breathtaking shots: Killian midair, his guitar in one hand, his legs kicking out. Jax bent over his Gibson, his corded forearms flexing, his bare chest gleaming in the red glow of the lights. Rye standing on a massive amp, his hips thrusting, lower lip caught in his teeth. And Whip, arms flying, sweaty hair in his face as he beats the shit out of his drums.

I capture as much as I can, little slices of life held forever in an image. Pure, honest, and good moments that will never happen again. That I have saved them fills me with pride.

And when Killian sings “Hombre Al Agua” by Soda Stereo, a ’90s-era Spanish-language rock band, the crowd goes absolutely ape.

Such power Kill John has in this moment, holding thousands of people utterly in thrall. It’s a thing of beauty. I’m so caught up in it, I let my lens lower and just grin, dancing along to the music. I feel Gabriel’s gaze, as I inevitably do, and look up.

His eyes meet mine, a one-two punch to the heart and gut. He never smiles when he’s working, never shows any emotion. But tonight I nearly lose my balance, because he does. He so does.

His teeth flash white in that tanned, perfect face, the little dimple breaking out one side. Holy hell, I can’t breathe.

He stands in the shadows, so beautifully sculpted, he appears untouchable. A rock. But that smile is my undoing. It holds all the joy of the crowd. It reflects my awe and excitement. He knows what I’m feeling. He knows because, unbelievably, he feels it too.

I realize he loves this part of the life; he’s just never shown it. He lets me see it now. This is the man behind the curtain.