Her shoulders meet the side of the bus before I cage her in. She struggles, even as I press close. My cheek touches hers, and she stills. For a long, painful moment we both just breathe, heavy and agitated.
“You’re right. I have no say,” I whisper into her hair. My lids lower, and I draw in another lungful of her sweet scent. “And I don’t think you’re a bimbo. I only wanted to… That is…” I choke on a curse. “Not with one of the boys, all right? Not them. Please.”
A breath shudders out of her, and I feel it along my neck. My back tenses, my skin prickling. It’s all I can do to remain still, not rock into her softness. I know she’s wondering why I’m demanding this. I won’t be able to tell her she’ll rip my guts out if she does, that I won’t be able to focus for shite if she’s with one of the guys. If she’s been with Jax…
A tremor runs through my body as I struggle to hold still.
Her breath hitches again. If she touches me, I might shatter. But she doesn’t. She simply sighs. “You’re such an ass.”
“Established.”
“A reactionary ass,” she says bitterly. “Who apparently can’t be bothered to realize there’s no way I could have been with Jax last night when I was with you.”
My head hits the side of the bus with a thud as my body sags against hers. Relief and embarrassment are a warm, sticky cocktail swimming through my blood. “Shit.”
“Yeah, shit,” she repeats with soft sarcasm. “He covered for me when everyone caught me doing the walk of shame back to my room. Though he doesn’t know who I was actually with.” Her small fist nudges my ribs. “Now get off me before someone sees us and they really start talking.”
With a grunt, I push off the bus and take a step back. Her cheeks are flushed a lovely rose, her eyes shining with anger. I feel all of two feet tall. I’m not this man—out of control, possessive, foolish.
I run a hand over my tie. “I spoke out of turn.”
She purses her full lips, her narrowed gaze demanding more.
I swallow hard. “I should have asked—“
“No,” she snaps. “You should have minded your business.”
A flush of heat hits my cheeks. “Ms. Darling, I cannot recant my earlier statement. Getting involved with a member of the tour is a bad decision and one that can affect everyone. Which means it will always be my business.”
All true. And I sound like an utter git. Fuck it all.
“You’re talking like a duke again.” She straightens and smoothes a hair back from her face. “Which means you’re feeling guilty.”
“Know me so well already, chatty girl?”
“Yes, I do.” She moves to pass me but pauses. “You’re not fooling anyone. And when you want to admit you were jealous, I’ll be waiting.”
With that, she walks away, her round hips swaying. I appreciate the view, even as I’m mentally kicking myself.
“It will be a long wait,” I call.
She flips me off without missing a step.
Hell, I do like this girl. Too bloody much.
* * *
Sophie
* * *
Men can suck it. Especially hot, suit-wearing, bossy, jealous, chest-thumping men. And he was jealous. Gabriel can deny it all he wants, but that whole freakout had nothing to do with looking out for his “boys.”
Maybe it’s weak of me to admit I’d find the whole incident a turn on if he’d done something physical about his jealousy—thrown me over his shoulder, proclaimed me his before fucking my brains out. Yeah, that would have been hot. But no, it was much more, stay away from my friends, and I’ll stay away from you. Not cool.
And embarrassing, because as quickly as I took him off to finish our discussion in private, I know people saw the start of it. You don’t bite the head off your lead guitarist in public and expect people not to talk. Especially when your guitarist runs away as though his life depended on it; thanks very much, Jax, you weenus.
I’m still fuming when Brenna seeks me out. “So sorry about that,” she murmurs, walking with me to my room.
“Were you going to assign me a bus?” I ask, zipping up my bag. “Or just throw me under one?”
She winces, her nose wrinkling. “I know, I know. I am a gossiping hag. I was low on caffeine and in a pissy mood.” Her gaze travels over me as if looking for battle scars. “I didn’t think Scottie would flip his shit like that. He doesn’t normally have a bad temper, but he’s been a bit off lately.”
“Off?” I ask, despite not wanting to talk about The Incident at all.
“Distracted. Snippy.” Brenna shakes her head, her ponytail swaying over her shoulders. “He’s always fairly deadpan and unflappable, stone cold.”
Gabriel leaning into me, his breath on my cheek, whispering please flashes through my mind. That man wasn’t cold or unflappable. But I don’t want to think about that version of Gabriel. My attraction to him is inconvenient and annoying. I have a job to do—one other photographers would kill for.
But Brenna is still eyeing me with remorse and worry. “I am sorry, Sophie. I didn’t mean to set him on you like that. Do you want me to talk to him?“
And poke the bear? I can imagine how that would go. “No, it’s fine. We worked it out.”
She looks dubious but nods. “Right then. You’ll be traveling with the guys.”
“Really?” I don’t know where I expected to be placed in our traveling caravan, but I hadn’t thought right with the band.
“They like to travel in one coach for camaraderie, and your job is to capture that, so it makes the most sense.”
“And they’re okay with this?”
Brenna grabs one of my bags, and we exit the room, heading down to the waiting cars that will take us to the buses. “Yeah. They’re a pretty open bunch, all things considered. And they trust me when I say you won’t post without permission.”
Translation: Don’t fuck that trust up for me.
“I want to thank you again for this opportunity,” I tell her. “I won’t let you or the guys down.”
Brenna smiles. “I know. I’m a good judge of character.”
I have to laugh at that. “I am too. I just seem to ignore my common sense when I most need it.”
“Shit, if we’re talking about our love lives, I know I have you beat. I’m a train wreck with an atomic bomb on the top.”
Before we enter the coach, Brenna hands me a small key for later use. We’re alone for the moment, and she shows me around. There’s not much to see. The front has a lounge space and a galley kitchen-bar to the side. It’s dark and sleek, and there are three TVs on different walls.
“The guys store instruments and a few small amps in the bins,” she says, pointing to ebony wood cabinets overhead. “And then there are the bunks.”
Mid-bus is reserved for bunks that line both walls, leaving a narrow hall. Four beds and then a small master bedroom at the very back, with an even smaller bathroom between them.
“Killian and Libby have the bedroom,” Brenna tells me. “You get this top back bunk. It’s with the guys.” Her sherry-colored eyes narrow with worry. “You’re okay with this? Because if you’re not, it’s fine. I can move you to one of the roadie coaches.”
“They all have bunks too, don’t they?” I ask.
“Yes, I’m afraid we get cozy during tour travel. Except for Scottie, who has an entire bus to himself.”
“I’m not surprised in the least.”
“And a word of warning; don’t try to visit him there. He snarls if he finds anyone near his private spaces.”
He left me alone in his house today. Then keeps me at arm’s length in the next breath. I’m beginning to think the man simply doesn’t know how to let people into his life. “I’ll be fine rooming with the guys.”
“You will,” Brenna assures me. “They might be pigs now and then. But they’re good guys. The best. They’ll make you feel comfortable, I promise.”
“Who’s promising what?” Rye says as he hauls his mu
scled bulk onto the bus.
“That you’ll be nice to Sophie,” Brenna says with a stern look.
The big guy has one of those open faces that easily shows his emotions. He reminds me of a puppy, cute and exuberant. “Of course.” His smile is wide and framed by dimples. “Welcome aboard, lovely Sophie.”
Whip steps up behind him, his blue eyes flashing with impish humor. “Did you tell her about the initiation rites?”
“If it involves anything sexual,” I say blandly, “I offer free nuttings with a hundred-percent guarantee to leave a man incapacitated for an hour at minimum.”
Whip laughs. “I bet. Naw, you just have to drink a lot and make a fool of yourself at least once.” He runs his hand through coal back hair that reaches his collar. Effortlessly cool rocker. “But I promise to take the lead.”
Jax crams in behind him and gives him a nudge to move on. “Out of the way, pretty boy.”
Killian and Libby follow, and soon we’re all crowded in.
Brenna leaves us as the bus gets ready to go. But she’s right; they all make me feel comfortable and welcome. If I’m going to be stuffed in a bus with minimal privacy and space, bunking with these guys isn’t a bad option at all.
I remind myself of this and refuse to think of Gabriel Scott on his own bus, or how much space he must have to rattle around.
After settling in, I join the guys and Libby in the living area. Libby is putting out a tray of biscuits, but stops to offer me one before I sit.
“Get one now,” she tells me in her soft Southern drawl, “because these jackals will devour them in a second.”
I take a napkin and a flaky, hot biscuit. “You baked?”
She smiles wryly, and her grey eyes light up. “Made the dough before and froze it. Not much room for anything else.”
Killian’s hand reaches down between us, and he snatches two. “Best baker ever.” He gives Libby a quick kiss on her cheek. “Love you, Elly May.”
She rolls her eyes and sets the tray down for the guys. “I’m thinking you’re more loving my biscuits right now, lawn bum.”
“Never.”
They grin at each other, and I take a picture before sitting down. Killian is right; Libby is an excellent baker. And Libby is right; the food is devoured in a blink. I find a seat and simply watch the guys interact. There’s something comforting about witnessing old friends enjoy each other’s company.
But they don’t leave me out. Whip turns his attention to me soon enough. “So, Bren threw you right into the lion’s den, eh?”
“You guys seem pretty tame.”
He laughs, and I’m struck by the fact that he looks very much like Killian, only blue-eyed instead of dark. “Sadly, we are now.”
“You miss being wild?” I ask, taking a picture because he’s just too pretty lounging in a black leather armchair, his toned body doing nice things for the vintage Def Leppard concert tee he’s wearing.
“Naw,” he says. “I’m kind of liking this tamer phase. More productive, at the very least.”
“He’s just getting old,” Rye says, opening a small fridge and pulling out a few bottles of beer.
“You’re six months older than I am,” Whip points out.
“I age better.”
“Like moldy cheese,” Whip says.
Rye plops down next to me on the small banquet. “I’m surprised Scottie was cool with you sleeping on this bus.”
Killian passes me a beer. “Why wouldn’t he be? It’s her job to record us.”
“It’s cute that you described my job with finger quotes,” I tell him, rolling my eyes.
He grins with teeth, so fake, and I snap a pic before he can stop. At this he scowls, but it lacks any heat.
“Brat. I’m not saying I like my every move being chronicled—and post that goof one at your peril—but I’m admitting it’s a needed aspect of the tour, all right?”
I blink rapidly while clutching my chest. “Can’t. Respond. Shock. Too. Great.”
Libby laughs. “See? You’ll fit in just fine.”
“Thanks.” I click beer bottles with her.
“Still not getting why Scottie would complain about Sophie on the bus,” Killian says. “He was adamant that we treat her with…” His voice turns crisp and clipped, mimicking Gabriel’s accent to a tee. “…‘the bloody respect a trained professional deserves.’”
He said that? I become a little less ticked at him. Just a little.
Rye gives an expansive sigh. “Because dumbass Jax made it sound like he’d hooked up with her.”
Killian’s mouth falls open, and he stares at Jax as if he’s sprouted horns. “You told Scottie you slept with Sophie?” he all but squeaks, which is impressive given his naturally low voice.
“It was a joke,” Jax says from his sprawl across the couch. “Calm down.”
Killian shakes his head. “Oh, man. That’s nothing to joke about. You’re dead.”
“Scottie needs to lighten up. And you do too.”
“He has every right to kick your ass.” Killian wings a bottle cap at Jax. “You violated the first law of the man code, Mr. Dead Man Walking.”
Jax frowns. “No way.”
“Yeah, you did,” Whip adds with a laugh.
Even Rye shakes his head. “You didn’t know? Who put you up to even telling Scottie that story?”
Jax sits up straight. “Brenna brought it up to him!”
Rye makes a noise of horror. “That’s just mean. Even for Brenna.”
“Eh,” Jax says, rubbing the back of his head. “I think he was giving her shit for something.”
“Clearly the man was playing with fire,” Rye deadpans.
“Truth.”
“What the hell is the first law of the man code?” I cut in.
Killian takes a sip of his beer before answering. “Never encroach upon your buddy’s territory.”
“Territory,” I parrot. “You make us sound like dogs.”
“Soph,” Whip says solemnly, “when it comes to guys and sex, we’re all dogs.”
“True,” adds Rye.
“I’m not Gabriel’s territory for him to piss over.” Not that anyone seems to believe me.
Killian’s dark eyes fill with amusement. “You’re the only one he lets call him Gabriel.”
“Shit,” Jax says with a wince. “You’re right. I missed that.”
“You’re blind then.” Whip gives Jax’s flat belly a slap. “Dude, he saw her first. That’s like calling—“
“If you say ‘dibs’,” Libby cuts in, “I will gag.”
Killian laughs and slings an arm around her. “Aw, honey, no gagging without my helping.”
At this we all gag.
“But still,” Jax says when the guys settle down. “How was I supposed to know? We’re talking about Scottie, for fuck’s sake.”
“What’s so strange about that?” I feel compelled to ask.
“He isn’t known to…er…partake,” Rye says with a shrug.
“Partake?” I look around at the guys.
“Fuck around,” Killian supplies. “He’s kind of like a monk.”
Whip nods. “When was the last time anyone saw him with a woman?”
“Fucking forever ago.” Rye shudders as if the thought terrifies him. “If he’s getting any, he’s doing it on the sly.”
Something ugly twists in my stomach. I don’t want to think of Gabriel with women. And really don’t like the idea of the guys discussing his sex life, or lack of one. Gabriel is a proud man; he’d hate this conversation. “We shouldn’t be talking about him this way.”
“You’re right,” Killian says. “No doubt his Scottie Sense is tingling.”
“We shouldn’t be talking about him,” Libby says in a stronger voice, “because it’s rude and none of our business.”
I knew I liked that woman.
Killian kisses her cheek. “Right you are, Libs.” He gives Jax a look filled with warning. “Sleep with one eye open, man.”
“He’s on another bus,” Jax grumbles.
“You look worried,” I point out. I admit this gives my inner toddler some satisfaction.
Jax’s smile is self-deprecating. “Little known fact, honey, Scottie boy is scrappy as shit. I’ve seen him make men twice his size cry for their mommas with a well-placed kick-punch combo. Fucking bare knuckle legend—”
Killian clears his throat loudly and gives a slight shake of his head.
But I’m a dog on the hunt now. “Hold on, he’s what?”
“A stone cold badass,” Rye says. “But you didn’t hear it from us. Seriously, he really can kick all our asses so…yeah, no more talking about Scottie, ‘kay?”
He’s laughing as he says it, but I get the feeling he truly doesn’t want Gabriel to find out I know about his fighting. I can respect that. Doesn’t stop me from thinking of his hard body and muscles that strain his properly cut shirts. Is that how he developed those? As a fighter? I can’t picture him getting into a fight out of anger, but a controlled match? I can see that, and it leaves me feeling oddly morose.
They move on to another topic, but I can’t help looking out of the tinted window. There’s nothing but darkness and the occasional flicker of headlights. Somewhere behind us, Gabriel is alone on his bus. I know full well he wants it that way, but I hurt for him all the same. Isolated from his friends, and why? Why does he hide himself away? Does he get lonely?
I hate that fate for him. The urge to be with him instead is so strong, I imagine myself leaping from the window and somehow landing on his bus, straight up Super Girl style. No, Wonder Woman. That way I could tie him down with my lasso when he protests my invasion of his Fortress of Solitude.
I’m in the middle of a Clark Kent/Diana Prince cosplay fantasy when Jax shatters my dream by loudly declaring, “‘Son of a Preacher Man’ is a song that can never be replicated.”
Rye leans back in an armchair and idly plucks on a ukulele he unearthed from somewhere. “Okay, I’ll give you that.”
“Play that song,” Jax says, “and women fucking melt, man.”
“Someone save me from hearing any more of Jax’s seduction routine.” Rye looks around desperately.
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