Managed (VIP #2)(72)
“Don’t be disgusting,” I snap, leaving my damn cuffs alone.
“Hot lovin’ is never disgusting.” He nudges me.
“I might be emotionally scarred for life after hearing you say hot lovin’. And mind your business.”
“Oh, please. It’s not like you’re hiding anything.”
I finally glare at him, and he keeps that smug grin in place.
“You are so gone on Sophie,” he says happily. “You have been since you got off that plane.”
Sophie had been so happy, dancing like an erotic weapon and rapping—the lyrics falling from her lips in syncopated rhythm without falter or embarrassment. It was unexpected and lovely. I’d wanted to laugh just for the joy of it. I’d wanted to haul her over my shoulder, take her to my bed, and have her sway and thrust those hips of hers right over my mouth. My cock stirs at the thought, and I remember Killian is standing there, looking at me as if he’s never seen me before.
“Why are you grinning like a fool? You don’t even like her.”
“Eh,” he shrugs. “I was pissed about old shit. She’s cool. Just took me a bit to let myself see it.”
Despite the fact that I want to tear my skin off and throw myself into traffic for putting that hurt on her pretty face, I’m mollified by Killian’s acceptance. The fact that it means so much to me also irks.
“Everyone likes her,” he adds as if he’s trying to reassure me.
“It’s impossible not to,” I mutter. A mistake. It gives Killian an opening.
“So…” he prompts with a wave of his hand. “Why aren’t you knocking boots with Sophie right now? You two are clearly dying to f*ck like horny bunnies—”
“One well-placed punch, Killian. That’s all it would take to have you silenced for the rest of the night.”
“Touchy. Touchy.”
He’s loving this. Throwing myself into traffic sounds more appealing by the second.
“I’m just saying,” he goes on, “I’ve never seen anyone more in need of a good, hard f*ck than—”
“Shut your f*cking gob.”
“You,” he finishes broadly, dancing out of striking range. “But it’s good to know you’re protective of Sophie’s rep. Means you care.”
My hand curls into a fist. Killian dances back a few feet more, flashing me a cheeky smile. “I’m done. No more poking the bear. I’m going now.”
“Your timing has been off during ‘Distractify’ lately. You’re late on the opening riff by two seconds.”
Killian laughs. “Low blow, man. But correct. Don’t know why I’m off, but I’ll work on it.” He pauses, his heel poised to turn. “Whatever you did to make Sophie storm into Brenna’s coach, just tell her you’re sorry.”
Regret is a fist through my heart. It’s a struggle to get in a breath. But at least I know where she is now. Safe with Brenna.
“Women need us to acknowledge their hurts,” Killian says, digging the knife in farther.
“You think I don’t know as much?”
His dark eyes are suddenly solemn, and I know he’s about to gut me. “She missed you when you weren’t here. As much as you hide, Sophie sees right through it and still cares. Don’t f*ck that up, man. Trust me on this.”
I don’t nod. I don’t have anything to say. I’ve already f*cked it all up.
* * *
Sophie
* * *
“You’re taking the night off.” Brenna’s tone brooks no argument.
Doesn’t mean I’m not going to try. “That’s ridiculous,” I say, dabbing a bit of her concealer beneath my eyes. No way in hell am I allowing Gabriel to see me with puffy, bruised eyes.
I haven’t cried over him, but I did spend a good chunk of last night drinking vodka tonics and cursing his name while a sympathetic Brenna and Jules agreed that the man can suck it. “I’m fine.”
Brenna slicks on a deep plum lipstick before handing me a tube of rosy red. “I know. Doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy a night off.”
We stare at each other’s reflection in the mirror of Brenna’s bathroom, both of us wearing stubborn expressions.
Jules pops her head in. “Yeah, read a book, watch cheesy movies.”
Cheesy movies just makes me think of Gabriel and his threat to force a Star Trek marathon on me. Less than twenty-four hours, and I miss him like a lost limb.
“If I stay here,” I tell them, “I’ll go batty.”
Brenna smoothes her hair into her trademark high ponytail. “So go to the concert and enjoy it as a fan.”
The idea doesn’t sit well with me; I’ve been hired to do a job, not wuss out because my feelings have been hurt.
Unfortunately, if I want to work, I have to go back to the bus and get my equipment. That’s not happening. Maybe I am a wuss, because I need to lick my wounds a little longer.
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
Brenna is at least three sizes smaller than I am, and Jules is four inches shorter.
“Excuses, excuses,” Jules says. “I’ll find you something. Hold up.”
Her bright head disappears, and then she comes back with a flowing green, stretchy jersey skirt and white tank top. “The skirt is mid-calf on me so it will probably be at your knees, but it’s better than chocolate ice cream-stained clothes.” She grins wide, showing her dimples.