Managed: a VIP novel

by Kristen Callihan

  It isn’t easy ignoring those tits. Every time she talks, those plush mounds seem to bounce as if they have a mind of their own. Given that this strange, gobby girl never shuts up, I’m in danger of being mesmerized by a fantastic rack of what are surely double-Ds.

  God, and she keeps on chattering. Like some nightmare Jabberwocky intent on driving me insane.

  “Look, you—” More bouncing tits, red mouth pursing… “I know your game, and it isn’t going to work on me.”

  I pull my gaze up. “What?”

  “Don’t you whhhat me with that proper British accent and think I’ll fall for it.” A thin finger waggles in front of my nose. “I don’t care how sexy your voice is, it won’t work.”

  I will not smile at that. Not a chance. “I have no idea to what you’re referring, but if I were you, I’d seek medical intervention as soon as we land.”

  “Pfft. You’re pulling this terrified-to-fly act in the hopes that I’ll take pity on you.”

  An ugly feeling crawls up my gut, and I fist my hands so I won’t shout—not that I can get a word in edgewise. She’s still at it, spewing nonsense.

  “You think if you sit there, looking petrified and tense, I’ll offer a blowjob to distract you from it all.”

  My humiliation comes to a screeching halt upon hearing the word blowjob. “What?”

  “Well, it’s not going to happen.”

  Ignore the cock. Ignore him. He’s an idiot. Focus on the problem at hand. “You are deranged. Completely deranged.”

  “And you are a handsome but crafty bastard. Unfortunately for you, good looks aren’t enough. I won’t do it.”

  I lean in close as I dare. “Look, even if I wanted your mouth anywhere near me, why on Earth would I ask for a blowjob here?” I wave my hand toward the aisle. “When the entire cabin can see. Who does that?”

  “Not me,” she shoots back with a disgusted look. “But nice slip of the tongue. You’ve obviously been thinking logistics.”

  Must not throttle headcase. Gritting my teeth hard enough to hurt, I light into her. “Madam, if this death trap of a conveyance were hurtling toward the Earth in a fiery ball of doom, and your mouth on my cock was the last bit of sex I’d ever have the chance to receive, I’d take off my seatbelt and throw myself toward death.”

  She blinks, those pansy eyes large and owlish and not a bit put out. “That’s a lot of words, sunshine. But I think you’re lying. You want it bad.”

  My mouth works like a fish, gaping and struggling for air. I cannot think of a single thing to utter, which is a rarity. I might not converse with most people, but I’m fully capable of a set down when the action calls.

  Over our heads, a little chime sounds. I glance at it and notice that the fasten seatbelt sign has been turned off. We’re level and steady now.

  By the time I turn my attention back to the she-devil, she has her nose in a magazine, happily flipping through the pages, a tiny, smug smile twitching at the corners of her lips.

  It hits me like a fist to the gut: she has been, yet again, fucking with me. She distracted me from takeoff. So effectively, I hadn’t even felt the plane lift. Now I’m stuck between grudging admiration, uncomfortable gratitude, and a burning need for revenge.

  Revenge is the louder voice in my head, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. Leaning forward, I crowd her space, ignoring the scent of lemon tart that floats around her.

  She tenses right up, her head jerking back, her body bolting straight. I love it.

  “All right,” I murmur low in her ear, as she shivers and wiggles to get away. “You caught me. I do want oral satisfaction. Badly. Be a dear and take the edge off for me?”

  She gasps, velvety skin going pale. “Are you kidding me?”

  “We already went over this.” I reach beneath my seatbelt to undo my actual belt. “I’m in need, and it has to be you.”

  “Whoa, wait a minute, buddy.” Her hand presses against my chest and quickly flinches back, as if the contact burns.

  Oddly, it was rather warm, and I still feel the imprint of her hand through the layers of my clothes. I ignore that too and give her an exaggerated brow wiggle. “Don’t worry. I’ve a plan. Just pretend you have a headache and need to rest your head in my lap. I’ll put a blanket over you to block the light. They won’t even question your moans that way.”

  I get my belt undone, as if I’m going to whip out my cock. “Better yet, I’ll close our seating compartment doors, and we’ll have complete privacy. You can really work me over then.”

  A strangled sound leaves her. “You…nasty…I don’t believe this…”

  “Oh, come on, love. Give us a suck, eh? Just a little teasing lick of the tip?”

  Shite. I shouldn’t have said that. My cock perks up, liking that idea immensely. Her parted lips are red and soft and full… Get it together, you git.

  I grin with all teeth, leaning close, even as she flushes bright red. “A little tug and bob. I’m so tense, it’ll only take five or ten minutes max.”

  A choking sound dies in her throat, and I make a pained whimper. “Put me out of my misery, tarty girl.”

  That does it. Her brows lift high. “Tart? Tart?!?” She bunts her nose against mine, her eyes dark slits of fury. “Suck you off? You pompous, arrogant—”

  “Those words basically mean the same thing, sweets.”

  “Dick-faced…” She trails off, rearing back a little, her gaze darting over my face. And then she smiles. It’s full-out and pleased, and I find myself a little light-headed with the speed at which she can change emotions. “Oh, well played, sunshine,” she drawls, grinning. “Well played. Caught on to my act, did you?”

  I can’t meet her eyes or she’ll be on to me. This woman might be the most obnoxious person I’ve met on a plane, but she’s clearly intelligent. “Was that an act?”

  A scoff pushes through her lips. “You should buy me a drink now as thanks.”

  “The drinks are free in first class, chatty girl.”

  “It’s the principle.”

  I’d get her an entire bottle of the champagne she wants if it would get her to stop talking, but alcohol usually loosens the tongue. I shudder at the thought of her talking even more.

  At that moment, the flight attendant who’s been eyeing me as though I’m steak sways over, a glass of champagne balanced on a silver tray. She smiles wide for me. “Mr. Scott. Your champagne.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” my chatty neighbor mutters under her breath.

  Keeping a bland expression, whatever the circumstance, is rote for me at this point in my life. But it’s an odd struggle right now. Something about my tormentor brings out the five year old in me, and I want to tug her hair in the manner of a schoolyard brat. But I don’t. I accept the drink the flight attendant sets down before me.

  “Thank you,” I tell her as I pass the glass on to Chatty Girl. “However, my seatmate requested this, not me.”

  The flight attendant blanches. “Oh. I’m…I’m so sorry,” she says to the woman next to me—and I really ought to get her name, or perhaps not. Further conversation isn’t a good idea; she might be entertaining, but she’s still unhinged. I don’t like unpredictable elements.

  “I didn’t realize. I thought…” The attendant trails off at an obvious loss.

  “It’s all right.” My seatmate leans in, crowding my space as she gives the flight attendant an understanding smile, and I’m assaulted with another whiff of sweet lemons and warm woman. “Sunshine here got me so flustered, I nearly pulled out my credit card and offered to pay him for sex.”

  I choke on my own spit. “Bloody hell.”

  The flight attendant flushes magenta. “Yes. Er. Can I get you anything else?”

  A parachute.

  “Nothing more for me,” the crazy bird to my left says, happily taking a sip of champagne.

  “A club soda on ice,” I say. At this point, I want to ask for a whole bottle of gin. But alcohol makes my jitters w
orse on a plane. Just breathe, relax, get through this flight from hell.

  I get a sympathetic look from the flight attendant. At my side comes another happy hum. I’m waiting for the next volley of outrageousness but am oddly disappointed to discover my neighbor bringing out her phone and headphones. So she plans to plug in and tune out. Brilliant. Just what I needed. I’m thankful for it.

  I pick up my magazine, stare at a picture of a red Lambo Centario. I own the same model in graphite. I flip the page. Hard.

  More girlish humming ensues, just loud enough to sound over the drone of the engines. Lovely, a singalong. The bloody woman has infected me with a bizarre case of immaturity, because I’m tempted to needle her, point out that she’s off key, if only to hear how she’ll respond. A weird sort of anticipation fills me at the idea. Except I recognize the song.

  Disappointment, and the way it washes over me, is something of a shock. I hadn’t expected it. Not this strong. Because she’s listening to Kill John, and obviously loving it. I love Kill John too. They’re the biggest band in the world right now, and they’re part of me, tied up in the very fiber of my being by way of blood, sweat, and tears.

  Because I manage the band. Killian, Jax, Whip, and Rye are my boys. I will do anything for them. But one thing I will never do is interact with their fans. Ever.

  I learned that lesson early on. Fans, no matter who they are, lose their shit when they know I manage Kill John. I refuse to be their gateway.

  Another off-key lyric comes from Chatty Girl’s lips. She’s bobbing her head, her eyes closed, a look of bliss on her face. I turn away. No, not disappointed. Relieved.

  I keep telling myself this as my soda arrives and I drink it down with more enthusiasm than normal. I. Am. Relieved.

  Chapter Two

  Sophie

  * * *

  I have safely withdrawn from my sexy seat partner. I had to do it. I’d been having too much fun pestering him, and I know the signs. I’d soon start crushing on the prickly man; he’s too hot and too stern to resist. You’d think stern wouldn’t be a turn-on, but somehow the idea of him setting me over his knee…

  Yeah. So I did the smart thing and pulled on my headphones. Now I’m listening to music while flipping through Vogue.

  He’s done the same, reading his car mag before tossing it aside in favor of his laptop. It’s torture not peeking at his screen. What does a guy like this do for a living? Maybe he really is a duke; I swear he fits the bill. Or maybe a billionaire? But I suppose both those types of men would have their own plane.

  I lose track of time imagining Sunshine lording over some English manor, or flying clumsy virgins in his personal helicopter, when a cart rolls over to provide us with cocktails—apparently drunk is the preferred way for rich people to fly—and hors d’oeuvres. And though Mr. Happy apparently doesn’t want any of it, I whip off my headphones, ready to dig in.

  “Oh, yes please,” I say.

  Beside me, Sunshine snorts under his breath.

  I ignore him. I love food. Love. It. And this stuff actually looks good. The flight attendant hands me a silver tray topped with a variety of cheeses, mixed nuts, tiny little melon balls with prosciutto, and roasted tomato compote on toasts. Awesome.

  “You’re missing out,” I tell him when we’re alone again. “This stuff is pretty good.” I pop a melon ball in my mouth and hold back a moan. I officially hate first class. It has ruined me for all future flying. Poor suckers in the back.

  “You’ll be sorry later,” he tells me, not looking up from his work, “when your stomach is full and this tin tube starts jumping about from the inevitable turbulence.” He barely suppresses a shudder.

  “And it’s always during dinner.” I take a bite of creamy white cheese. “You ever notice that?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Maybe they time turbulence for coach service.” I frown. “Wouldn’t be surprised.”

  He makes a noncommittal sound.

  A bowlful of laughs, this one.

  “It wouldn’t kill you to relax, you know.”

  With a sigh, he closes his laptop and tucks it away. “What makes you think I never relax?” Those killer blue eyes of his pin me with a look. Jesus, it really is hard staring directly at him. My breath swoops down into my belly, and my thighs clench. Normal reaction to hotness. That is all.

  Still, it sucks that my voice sounds all sorts of breathy when I answer. “I’m guessing those pinched lines between your brows aren’t from laughing.”

  Said lines deepen in a scowl.

  I can’t stop from smiling. “Don’t worry, despite your crabby demeanor, you actually look kind of young.”

  He shakes his head once as if trying to clear it. “Was there a compliment somewhere in that spew?”

  “Someone as hot as you doesn’t need any more compliments. How old are you, anyway?” I’m pushing it, but it’s so fun to tease him, I can’t help myself.

  “That’s rather personal. You don’t see me asking you how—”

  “I’m twenty-five,” I say happily.

  His lips quirk, and I know he’s trying to keep hold of his cool façade. But the capitulation in his eyes is warm. “I’m twenty-nine.”

  “Twenty-nine going on ninety.”

  “You’re deliberately trying to provoke me, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe you answer my original question. Do you ever relax, sunshine?”

  “What will it take to get you to refrain from calling me that?”

  His voice is too delicious—husky yet crisp, deep yet easy. I want to find a phone book and ask him to recite it. I push away the thought. “You’ll have to give me your name. And I notice you didn’t answer the question.”

  His frown grows. It’s kind of cute. Though he’d probably snarl if I told him as much. The frown gives way to obvious hesitation, as if he’s at war with himself.

  “Look…” I shrug, eating another melon ball. “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s cool. Lots of people are weirdly paranoid.”

  “I am not paranoid.”

  Sucker.

  “Sure. I get it. I might be an international hacker of renowned skill, just waiting to tap into your private business. All I need is a name to get started.”

  “I was going with escapee of some sort,” he says before drinking up the dregs of his glass and scowling down at it.

  “Just call her and get your cocktail on,” I suggest.

  Instead, he reaches for one of the complimentary water bottles we have in our little personal bars. A decisive twist of the wrist, and he’s guzzling down water like he’s just crawled out of the desert. I absolutely do not watch. Much. That throat. How does a throat become that sexy? He must take pills or something.

  I stuff a roasted tomato compote toast in my mouth and chew with vigor.

  “Gabriel.”

  His sudden answer has me looking back at him. He’s facing straight ahead as though he hasn’t spoken, but at my stare, he turns. “My name. It’s Gabriel Scott.”

  I’ve never seen someone so uncomfortable with giving his name in my life. Maybe he is a spy. I’m only half kidding.

  “Gabriel,” I repeat, not missing the way he sort of shudders when I do. I don’t know if he’s uncomfortable or something else, but I feel as though I’ve been let in on a dark secret.

  The champagne must be getting to me. I push it aside and reach for my own water bottle.

  “I’m Sophie,” I tell him, unable to make full eye contact for some reason. “Sophie Darling.”

  He blinks, and that tight, strong body moves a fraction closer before halting as if he’s become of aware of his action. “Darling?”

  I’ve lost track of the men who’ve tried to make my name sound like a come on. He doesn’t do that. In fact, his tone is downright skeptical, but somehow it sounds like an endearment just the same. No, not an endearment. It’s not sweet, the way he says it. He makes it sound illicit, as if my own name is caressing my skin with heavy hands.


  Shit on a toothpick. I cannot be crushing on this dude. He’s a dick. A hot dick, but still. Even if I could overlook that, he’ll be gone and out of my life as soon as we land. I imagine sprinting will be involved. Dignified sprinting, of course.

  “That’s me,” I tell him with false levity. “Sophie Darling.”

  Another noise rumbles in his throat. This one sounds like, “God help me.”

  I could be interpreting that incorrectly, though.

  “Well, Ms. Darling,” he says, going back to the crisp, stern voice I imagine he uses to tear wayward underlings a new one, “to answer your previous question, you are correct; I do not, in general, relax.”

  “Wow, you went right ahead and admitted you’re a stick in the mud.”

  “Stick in the mud makes absolutely no sense. Who comes up with these ridiculous idioms?” He steals a tomato toast from my plate. “And I think you can do better.”

  I watch as he pops the toast in his mouth and munches away. The corners of his eyes crinkle. It’s so slight, I doubt many people would notice. It feels like a full-fledged, smug-ass grin right now.

  “You want me to insult you?” I manage.

  “At least be a little more creative when you do.” He pulls his laptop back out, dismissing me. “Give me something I haven’t already heard.”

  Something about this guy activates my lizard brain in the worst way, because I find myself leaning forward to murmur in his ear. “I’m thinking you’re the poster boy for Rough Roger. And one day, that hand of yours isn’t gonna cut it.”

  His head jerks up as if I’ve goosed him. I hear the small intake of breath, and refuse to be turned on. Even if his heady scent is wafting over me. The leather armrest creaks under my elbow as I retreat.

  He gives me a sidelong glare. “Rough Roger?”

  “You’ve got internet working. Look it up, sunshine.”

  It’s my turn to smile smugly and bury my nose in my magazine.

  The drone of the engines fills the silence between us, and I hear the distinct click of his keyboard, followed by a strangled sound in his throat.

  My grin grows. I know he’s read the definition of a guy who jerks off so much and so desperately, he’s rubbed his cock raw. Unfortunately, that image is far too sexually disturbing for my comfort.