“Take notes, son, and learn something,” Jax drawls.
“Etta James singing ‘At Last’,” Killian butts in. “Fucking timeless.”
“Beyoncé did a pretty good version,” Libby says.
“Pretty good,” Killian repeats. “But it didn’t top the original. Etta still rules that song.”
Whip taps on his knees as if he can’t keep still. “Don’t let the Bee Hive hear that. They’ll sting you bad, bro.”
Killian shudders. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Bees,” he shouts to the air. “Don’t slay me! I love Queen Bey!”
“Man, I keep waiting for her to break up with Jay Z. Then I’m all in.”
“Dude, your dream is dead in the water,” Jax says. “You don’t have a chance in hell with her.”
“You’re gonna eat your words,” Whip promises. “Our love is destined. She totally winked at me during that charity concert we all did last month.”
“It was windy,” Killian says with a snort. “She had dust in her eyes.”
“She had me in her eyes.”
Rye shakes his head, and then his blue eyes find me. “What about you, Sophie? Got a song?”
They all turn to me. I’m supposed to play? Fuck. I love music, but my knowledge isn’t encyclopedic like these guys’. I think for a minute. “‘Sabotage’.”
“Beastie Boys?” Rye gives me a high five. “Excellent.”
“Nobody can replicate the Beastie Boys,” Jax agrees, clinking his beer bottle to mine. He’s relaxed, his pretty green gaze slumberous. I know the guys worry over him, and I don’t blame them, but he appears to be taking things easy now. “Hell, I need to get my blood pumping or I’ll fall asleep.” He looks at Killian. “You got ‘Sabotage’ on your phone?”
“You have to ask?” Killian jumps up and plugs his phone into the input set up in the wall. “Hold on to your butts.”
The familiar hard bass riff pounds through the speakers, followed by discordant record scratches and an angry scream of defiance. Killian immediately starts dancing around, grabbing Libby to join him. She laughs and bumps hips with him.
Jax catches my eye. “At the risk of having Scottie hand me my balls later…” He holds out his hand.
Jax has the most to resent me for. I should feel guilty even being in the same room with him. But I’m comfortable in his presence. He looks at me as if he knows exactly how shitty my job was back then, exactly how soulless I’d become, and he’s sorry for it. It’s that more than anything that has me taking his hand.
I dance full out, swinging my head, hopping around like a mad woman—there’s no way to appreciate the song but to go wild. And the guys surround me, jumping and thrashing, and likely making the entire bus rock as it hurtles down the highway. We don’t care. We’re young and free. It’s a beautiful thing. And we dance for many more songs.
I almost forget about the man on the other bus. Only when the guys finally crash for the night, when I’m tucked away in my tiny bunk by the bathroom and can’t sleep at all, do I stare into the darkness and think of Gabriel.
Chapter Nine
Gabriel
* * *
“Everything for France is basically set. But Chrissy called about the final T-shirt numbers in Rome. The vendors are expecting high sales and… Scottie? Scottie? Mr. Scott?”
Jules’s voice buzzes like a fly in my ear and pulls me from the fog that’s taken up residence in my head. I blink, force myself to focus. She peers up at me with a frown.
“Why did you stop speaking?” It’s nearly a snap, but I don’t like what I see in her expression. The boss cannot afford to be worried over. I am the one in control. At all times.
Jules flinches, and I feel it in my gut. Perfect. I’ve upset the girl for no valid reason.
“Sorry, sir. I thought…” She grimaces.
“You thought what?” I have to will myself not to lean farther into the soft embrace of my chair. I shouldn’t have sat down. It’s too tempting to slump, and usually I stand when hearing a progress report. Better to focus.
Jules’s freckles stand out like cinnamon flecks over her round cheeks. “I thought you…” She swallows hard. “Well, I thought you weren’t listening.”
I wasn’t. Not with the attention I usually give. My head is fucking pounding like my brain is trying to jackhammer its way out of my skull. The floor is either defective and slanted or I’m imagining things. Given that no one else has commented on it, I’m guessing I’m the one off kilter.
“You were speaking of vendors.” I know I heard something about shirts. Hell. I want to rub my face in the nearest pillow. But it won’t work. I can’t sleep. I cannot fucking sleep. And I’ve tried. Every fucking night I try. But nothing has worked, save for one night in London. We’re in Scotland now.
At this point, it’s so bad I’m nearly weeping by three in the morning when, yet again, I’m staring up at the ceiling, unable to shut my brain off.
“Yes, the vendors,” Jules says happily. She rattles on again, and I try to keep my eyes open.
It wouldn’t even matter if I closed them. My body wouldn’t shut down anyway. There’s a weight on my chest that makes breathing a chore. Weakness. I loathe it. But I’m getting weaker every day, and I don’t know what to do.
Brenna would tell me to visit a doctor. The mere thought of doing so sends cold dread down my spine. A violent protest screams in my mind. No doctors. Never. I had my fill of them when I was a lad. And nothing short of death will get me to go back.
Best knock on wood, a nasty voice in my head whispers.
The pain in my head expands outward, down my neck, digging into the tops of my shoulders.
Jules keeps nattering on about contracts and dates.
My jaw throbs.
Breathe. Get through this. Then you can crawl to your room and take a hot shower. The lure of taking a sleeping pill is so strong at this point, my hands fist tight. Jax nearly died swallowing a bottle of those bloody pills, mixed with heroin. When I think about it—and I try very bloody hard not to think about it—nausea churns my guts and bile surges upward.
I swallow hard, grab my water bottle. My hand shakes as I lift it to my lips. No way to hide the fact other than drinking fast and setting my arm down as soon as possible. The shakes are getting worse.
“What should I tell him?”
With a jolt, I glance at Jules, who waits expectedly. Fuck.
“What do you think you should tell him?” Teaching moment. That works.
She frowns, her brow knitting in confusion.
Or it doesn’t.
“You’ll need to make these decisions one day, yes?” I prompt. Arse. You’re cocking it up. Get your head back in the game.
Her mouth opens and shuts before she tentatively speaks. “I…uh…I don’t think Jax will be asking me if I want to join him for poker. I thought that was your…uh…guy thing.”
Sod it.
“Well, you never know.” I clear my throat. “And, really, he should be asking me directly about personal things, which is your answer.”
I lever myself out of the chair, ignoring the way the room sways. “You are my assistant, not my bloody personal calendar. Tell Jax as much.”
“Right.” Likely, she’s mentally telling me to go bugger myself.
That sits heavily on me as well. I’ve never given my work or my crew anything less than one hundred percent. I am ashamed of myself. If only I could get some rest.
“Oh, and I’ll have those personnel files sent to you by the end of the day,” Jules calls toward my retreating back.
“Very good.” I have no earthly idea what she’s talking about. A vague memory prods at the corners of my mind, but I’m distracted.
A whiff of lemon tart and warm woman spice drifts through the air. My cock reacts as if it’s being tugged. Annoyed at myself, I look up, knowing exactly who I’ll find.
At some point, Sophie has gone and had her hair colored. It’s now a pale rose gold, shining like a nimbu
s around her smiling face. The color sets off the dark warmth of her eyes and the pink in her lips. Hell.
“Hey there, sunshine,” she says, perky as ever. Her bouncy tits are barely restrained in some sort of off-the-shoulder black knit top. Which means the only thing holding the fabric up are her breasts. One good tug…
“Eyes up, hon.”
Immediately, my chin lifts. She’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
“Is that appropriate attire?” Shut up. Just shut up now, you git.
She apparently feels the same. Her hand lands on one well-rounded hip. “As opposed to what? The tit parade we all see on a nightly basis around here? At least I’m wearing a shirt.”
She has a point. Damn it.
“Or maybe I should trade in these jeans for a micro-mini? The guys seem to love those.”
Not happening. Her skinny jeans might hug her legs and highlight her arse to an alarming degree, but they, at the very least, provide some coverage.
And what the bloody hell am I doing commenting on her clothing?
“I apologize,” I bite out. “I’d hand someone their arse if I heard them say as much to a woman.”
Her eyes widen, and she gapes at me.
I count down the number of seconds until I can safely make my escape.
Too late. Sophie goes up on her toes as she lays the back of her hand on my forehead. I want to bat it away, tell her to leave off. But she’s closer now, her soft breasts nearly touching my chest, her scent surrounding me. Her fingers are cool, soothing.
“Are you feeling all right?” she asks, clearly mocking.
“Go away,” I mutter. A lie. I want to lean down and rest my head on the pillows of her fantastic breasts. Burrow right in and happily die there.
She ignores me anyway. “I mean, I did hear that apology, didn’t I? I’m not dreaming?”
“If this were a dream, it’d be a nightmare.”
Her berry pink lips part on a smile. “There’s the Sunshine I know.”
I want to shut her up with my mouth. Take. And take. And take. Lick up her words, drink in her laughter. I can’t. I won’t.
“I’m not myself today.” Truth. “I think one of the boys spiked my drink. They’d just love to find out if I truly do walk around with my knickers in a twist.”
Her laugh has a husky quality to it. Again I want to take her mouth. Her lips are plush, mobile—always volleying something back at me.
“Don’t we all?” Her slim fingers pluck at the waist of my trousers, and my cock stirs. “Come on,” she murmurs, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Give me a peek. I promise, I’ll only tell…everyone.”
I wonder what she’d do if I pulled her hand against me, let her get a feel of my thickening cock, ordered her to give it a nice squeeze.
Nothing I’d want her to, that’s one certainty.
Sophie is a tease. Not in a malicious way, but because it’s her nature to make life a joke. I envy that ability to laugh at the world. But I won’t mistake her sexual innuendoes for anything more than her enjoyment of getting under my skin.
I button my suit jacket, covering my growing interest. “And ruin the mystery? I think not.”
“I’ll find out one day,” she calls after me as I walk away.
One can only hope. I don’t turn around, so she can’t see me smile. But as her light laughter drifts off, it occurs to me that I spent a few minutes without thinking about pain or exhaustion. My steps slow as my heart rate kicks up.
Sophie.
The last time I had a proper sleep was with her snoring away in my bed. My bed. She makes it better.
A thought races through my mind, strong and demanding. I kick it aside because it’s rubbish and insane. But desperation makes men do stupid things. And even though I tell myself I absolutely cannot consider what my body is begging me to do, I know I will.
“Fuck me,” I mutter. I’ll take one more night to talk myself out of it. But I’m a man at the end of his rope. I’ll do anything to get back on that boat, even debase myself in the worst way I can imagine.
* * *
Sophie
* * *
The next morning, I’m packing my camera when Gabriel approaches. He’s so stiff, his back appears in danger of snapping should a strong breeze blow our way. Which is saying something. I haven’t seen him this tense since the plane.
“What’s up, sunshine?” I glance at him. “Someone piss in your porridge?”
“Lovely.” He watches me for a second, the wrinkle between his brows growing deeper until he’s full-out scowling.
“Seriously, you look grumpy even for you. Who pissed you off?” I grin at him. “Do I have to break some skulls?”
He finally huffs out a small laugh, his shoulders easing a fraction. “I can see it now, you nipping at someone’s ankle like an angry Pomeranian.”
“So you’re familiar with my methods.”
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, and he lowers himself to a crouch, handing me my flash. Too soon, his relaxed expression fades back to seriousness. Not that I mind; the man is a freaking work of art when he’s stern. So hot, I hold back the urge to fan myself. I busy myself packing.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he finally says in a low voice.
The anxious way he looks at me, as if he’s dreading what he has to say, sends my heart pounding. God, is he firing me? But he can’t. Brenna’s my boss. Try to remain calm. “Shoot.”
His fingers twitch, and he rises with me. “Not here. Are you free now?”
I pause and really look him over. He’s nervous. I wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t right here in front of him, watching the color work over his tanned skin and his hands fidgeting at his sides. The fact that he wants to talk right now freaks me out even more.
“Sure,” I tell him past the lump in my throat. “What’s up?”
His lips compress. “I’d rather talk in private. Come to my bus?”
I’m so shocked he wants me alone, I can’t even form a joke, only squeak out a small okay.
The walk back feels like the Green Mile. I’ll set one foot in Gabriel’s bus—the bus he’ll only let his driver and the occasional maid enter—and an axe will swiftly fall to cut off my head. And it suddenly pisses me off. I’ve done nothing wrong. Why the private talk?
I grit my teeth and march alongside a quiet Gabriel, who has solicitously taken my camera case in hand. His other hand hovers around the small of my back, not quite touching but close enough that I feel its heat. He’s guiding me along.
Probably afraid I’ll bolt, I think darkly. But no, I’m going to lay into him something good. I thought we were…well, not friends exactly. I don’t know if he’d even let anyone other than Brenna and the guys be his friend anymore. But we were something.
I’m horrified to realize I’m on the verge of tears. It hurts thinking he’ll soon dismiss me. He might not be doing that at all. Maybe you should chill out.
I glare at the bus as it comes into view, but hold my tongue. Well, I do until he opens the door. I halt, unable to take another step.
“Are you firing me?” That sounded embarrassingly shrill.
He halts too, frowning down at me. “What?” A smile lights his eyes. The fucker. “There you go again with your wild imaginings.”
“Don’t give me that. You’re taking me aside for a private chat. What am I to think?”
“That I want to talk privately,” he suggests as if I’m batty. “Besides, Brenna’s the one who hired you.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
He rolls his eyes and his hand finally touches my back, nudging me forward. “Would you get in here and calm yourself?”
“You’re acting weird,” I counter, but I step inside. “Wow.”
I was expecting black leather and gray walls—standard luxury coach fare. Instead I’m greeted with glossy burled wood paneling, milk glass sconces, and smoke velvet chairs. It’s like a 1930s rail car.
“Have a seat.” Gabriel gestures t
o the small living area toward the front. I sink into a Deco style club chair and clutch the arm of it. Next to me is a small table where he has a laptop out and a pile of papers beside it.
He moves to tidy it, but his phone rings. Glancing at it, he grimaces. “One moment. I’ve been waiting for this call.”
Mutely, I nod and watch him walk off toward the back. The low sound of his voice is soothing but not enough to stop me from being twitchy. My eyes roam everywhere. Aside from his work, and two car magazines tucked into a side panel, there’s nothing personal in here.
I don’t know if it’s snooping or plain old nerves that prompts me to pick up one of the papers on the table and read it. But as soon as I do, my eyes glaze over from the boring contract language. And then I see the folder below it. My name pops up like a neon sign. I toss the contract aside and pick up what is obviously a file on me.
Gabriel walks back into the room, and his steps slow as he sees what I’m holding. But he doesn’t say a word.
I do. “You have a file on me?”
“Of course. I have files on all our employees.” He nods toward the table. “Jules sent the newest hires over for review.”
“Why you?”
“Because, as they say in America, the buck stops with me.”
I flip through the folder, even though I know most of what will be in there. I filled out the numerous forms, after all.
“Jesus, you have my health report. Did you read it?”
His thick brows knit. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because it’s an invasion of privacy,” I offer, snappish. I didn’t mind giving Brenna the information, but he’s been reading everything, down to my last pap test.
“Sophie, why are you upset? This is standard procedure.” He cocks his head as if I’m a peculiar puzzle. “Are you embarrassed that I know you’re healthy and have never been convicted of a crime?”
“Excuse me if I feel a twinge violated that you know everything, down to the fact that I use a birth control shot, for fuck’s sake.” I don’t even mention that he now knows my exact height and weight too. Fucking shit.
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