Managed (VIP #2)(67)

Sunshine: Reorganizing my socks. Have the party, chatty girl. It will be good for you. See you in a few days.

So that’s that. He’s left.

I need to nip this clingy feeling right in the bud. Setting my phone aside, I finish up my coffee and go to get dressed. I’m not going to mope around anymore. I’ve a party to plan.



* * *



Gabriel



* * *



An elbow catches me on the cheekbone. The pain is white, exploding like a camera flash behind my lids. It crackles through me, rings in my ears. A kick to my side has me staggering back.

Jeers and shouts surround me, a blur of screaming faces. This I know. This joy of violence and greed, fed to me since childhood like milk and buttered toast.

Another punch flies. I dance away, and it misses me. I block a kick with my knee. Pull it together. Focus.

My opponent is hardened, likely fighting nightly. In my youth, I was better than him, but I’m now softened by a comfortable life. Yet I know how much I can handle. I can wear him down, wait for him to tire. But I’ll have to take a beating.

Bruises I can hide. Open cuts and split lips are another issue. This is my second night of fighting. I’m already battered. If I get cut up any worse, I’ll have to stay away from Sophie for too long.

Sophie. Sophie elbowed in the face. Twice.

Rage pulses hot, pushes through me.

Hold it.

Another punch flies, grazing the edge of my jaw. Were this a professional fight, I’d already be knocked out. But we’re amateur entertainment, fighting each other in a pristine, white living room—marble floors, wall-to-wall windows overlooking the harbor—as rich, bored people watch.

It is perverse. Stinks of privilege. Blood splatters stark against white leather walls.

I don’t give a shit about them. All I need is the pain.

The man before me is a Spaniard, long and lean and fast. My mind morphs his appearance. He’s a cameraman, stocky and bloated, and hitting Sophie.

I promised I wouldn’t retaliate. She made me promise not to hurt him.

I won’t. But this man here? He wants the fight.

All the rage, all the helpless f*cking frustration builds, growing tighter, stronger. Anger goes cold and silent.

My fist connects with fleshy meat and bone. That’s another kind of pain, a bright, clean release.

Again, again. Controlled hits. Punch to face, knee to kidneys, elbow to jaw.

Sweaty, hot skin, metallic blood. Solid flesh giving under my knuckles. I revel in it.

There is a point in fighting at which you are no longer a man. You become a machine. No more thinking, just reacting, giving yourself up to muscle memory and technique.

We grapple, locking up and breaking away. He stumbles back before charging.

A roundhouse kick, taking him on the jaw, ends the fight.

My opponent falls back and hits the floor with a slap.

He remains down, chest heaving, head lolling.

Cheers erupt. They break me out of my haze and irritate my ears.

I stand, breath sawing in and out. My body throbs, burns. It is pure and real, as close as I can get to the release I truly want.

No one comes near me; they know better by now.

Someone helps my opponent up.

My gaze goes to the windows, where the night is black ink and gold stars. Sophie isn’t here anymore. She’s headed to Rome.

Already I feel her absence in my soul, a tear that won’t mend. I’m battered and bleeding. I’ll have to stay away for days. The tear within me grows bigger. I ignore the feeling. I need time anyway. To regroup and calm down.

“Scottie, mi hombre hermoso, another win for me, si?” Carmen smiles up at me, blood red lips, glossy raven hair. “Ah, but I have missed seeing you fight. I’d forgotten how coldly you play your game. Come.” Gold-tipped nails glide up my arm. “I have a room ready. Shall we?”

Lust and anticipation lower her lids as she looks me over, her gaze lingering on my bare chest. Subtlety was never Carmen’s style.

I move away from her touch. “A cab is all I require.”

Pouting, she snaps her fingers, and a woman comes forth.

“Teresa will take you to a room where you can change back into your suit.” Now that she’s been denied, Carmen is all business. I appreciate that about her. “And your winnings?”

“Make the usual donations.”

A thin smile pulls at her lips. “To battered women’s shelters. You, mi amigo, have a perverse sense of humor.”

Sophie thinks I’m a goof. I miss her. I need her. I can’t go back to looking like this. “So they tell me. Buenas noches, Carmen. I won’t be returning tomorrow.”

I head out into the darkness and back to my hotel. But I won’t be sleeping.





Chapter Eighteen





Sophie



* * *



Throwing a party on Gabriel’s coach is akin to being in high school and having your friends over when your parents are out of town. At least if feels that way.

The guys, Libby, Jules, and Brenna enter with caution, looking around as if Gabriel might pop out and scold them at any second.

“You are one ballsy chick,” Killian tells me, bringing in a cooler full of beer. “I like it.”

“I have Daddy’s permission,” I say with an eye roll.