Managed: a VIP novel

by Kristen Callihan

  And yet it is her smile and her laugh that holds me back from taking what I want. Because this isn’t solely about sex; if it was, I’d have fucked her already. This is uncomfortably more.

  I have never experienced intimacy. I did not know how good it felt to simply be with someone and let everything else melt away. The world can fuck off when I’m with Sophie Darling. There is only us. I don’t have to be anyone else but Gabriel.

  If I give into my base wants it will complicate things. I do not know how to be a boyfriend. Hell, I hate that sodding word. It sounds juvenile and inadequate. If I claimed Sophie, she’d be mine. I’d be hers. And I’d cock it up.

  My life is Kill John. Where would that leave Sophie? With a cold, emotionally stunted bastard who’s barely there?

  “I love Spain,” she whispers now, breaking me out of my brooding.

  I watch her in the dark. “Why do you love Spain?”

  “I don’t know. It’s something in the air. I want to go dancing, eat tapas, get drunk on Sangria.”

  “Small list,” I murmur. “Dancing, eh?”

  She glances my way, her eyes flashing in the dim light. “I know it sounds stereotypical as hell, but I think of Spain, and I imagine flamenco dancing while wearing some frothy skirt with a flower in my hair.”

  A low chuckle escapes me. “Do you know how to dance flamenco?”

  “In my mind I do. And I’m fabulous.”

  “You always did have an elaborate imagination, chatty girl.”

  She gives me a happy, agreeing hum, and then spins her pillow to the other side; something she does when she’s ready to sleep. It’s a cool gel pillow she bought after falling victim to Libby and Killian’s sales pitch about this “magical” pillow and how it would give her the best sleep of her life.

  She bought me one too, because she wanted me to have the same comforts. Little did she realize that her small act of caring tore my heart from my chest and laid it on a platter for her to claim.

  “You’d have to dance with me,” she murmurs.

  “In your dreams, love.”

  I get a pleased chuckle in response.

  Oblivious to the fact that I’m slowly unraveling, she snuggles close, her head finding the crook of my shoulder. That’s her place now, tucked up beside me, her hand lightly resting over my heart. When her finger idly traces little patterns on my chest, my eyes close tight.

  I’m in pain now, actual physical pain—in my balls, my abs, my chest. Everything aches with a throbbing persistence, wrought from self-denial. I want this woman more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life. But I want to keep her. I have no idea how to keep anyone close to me. Because I have no idea how to expose my heart.

  Sophie keeps drawing on me, and my closed-off heart beats faster, harder. I need her to stop. I need her to go lower. I bite down hard on my lip and focus on the breath moving in and out of my lungs.

  “What are your plans after the tour ends,” I find myself asking, if only to distract myself.

  Her voice is slightly husky with sleepiness. “Not sure. I’ll still help out the band with social media. But I won’t be around to take pictures, obviously.” Her slim shoulder shrugs. “Brenna’s been talking to Harley Andrews’s publicist. Apparently he’s looking for a social media expert.”

  My eyes snap open. “Harley Andrews, the movie star?” The sodding “sexiest man alive” according to People magazine? I’m going to kill Brenna. Throw her Louboutins in the harbor.

  “That’s the one. Can you believe it?” Sophie sounds so bloody happy, while I’m fighting being ill. “He’s got a movie coming out in a few months. Set in the outback of Australia. So the idea is that he’d go on a press junket there first. I’ve always wanted go to Australia.”

  My back teeth meet at hearing her dreamy sigh. Considering the average flight to Australia is over twenty hours, my chances of visiting there are nil. And Sophie wants to travel the country with Harley Sodding Andrews and his supposed irresistible charm.

  I pull her a little closer under the guise of getting comfortable, and then clear my throat. “Sounds like a good opportunity. However, just so you have your options open, I know that Maliah is also looking for someone.”

  Ponce. You dirty, opportunistic ponce.

  Sophie’s head pops up. “Really? I love her music!”

  “Oh?” I’ve only heard her listening to the woman a thousand times by now. “Well, I could put in a word.”

  “Ah, sunshine, you’re the best.”

  Not hardly. Just a jealous prat.

  She leans in to give me a quick, friendly kiss on the cheek. My body reacts before my mind can stop it. In a blink I have her, my hands tunneling through her hair, holding the sides of her head to prevent her from retreating. And she stills, shock widening her eyes, her lips hovering inches from mine.

  I can’t move: I just hold her imprisoned, staring at her in similar shock.

  Let her go, you git.

  I try to make my fingers release, but my body has locked up, protesting. The soft warmth of her panting breaths caress my skin. She’s so close, I can almost feel her lips—those lush, pouty lips I want on me. Anywhere, I’m not particular. No, first I want to kiss them, lick and suck their plump curves. I want to feel the slickness of her tongue against mine.

  My abdomen clenches, and I swallow down a groan, my chest heaving. A tremor starts deep in my gut, and my cock pulses. It wants in, deep and snug.

  Let her go. Kiss her. Let her go. Kiss her.

  Rage fills me that I am so cocked up, I can’t act like a normal man.

  I don’t know what she reads in my eyes, but her lips part, a little gasp escaping that I can practically taste. Christ Almighty, give me strength to let her go, or let me do her right.

  The choice is literally ripped from my hands when she moves back, slipping out of my frozen hold.

  “I have to pee,” she says baldly. The panic in her voice scrapes against my skin, and I flinch. But she’s already up, fleeing to the bathroom.

  When the door shuts, I flop onto my back and let out a pained breath. What the sodding hell have I done?

  Outside the open windows, a woman’s laughter echoes. I wince and rest a forearm over my eyes. I’d wanted to know how Sophie would react if I made a move. Running to the toilet appears to be the answer.

  Nausea roils in my gut.

  From the bathroom comes the sound of water, and I know she’ll return soon. A part of me doesn’t want her to. But I need to apologize.

  She’s quiet when she gets into bed, crawling tentatively under the covers.

  Words clog in my throat.

  For the first time since we’ve started sleeping together, she doesn’t draw near. I feel the absence like a cold hand along my skin. I turn to say something, but she beats me to it.

  “Good night, Gabriel.”

  The finality in her voice, and the clear warning that she doesn’t want to talk, settles like a stone in my heart.

  I swallow hard. “Good night, Sophie.”

  On the opposite sides, I stay silent, listening as the soft sounds of her breathing slowly change into the steady cadence of sleep, and dread fills me.

  I can’t do this any more. I cannot keep denying myself, and I clearly cannot keep my hands off her. Yet the idea of never sleeping next to her again fills me with inexplicable fear.

  In her sleep, Sophie turns with a deep sigh, and her hand reaches out to me. I don’t move a muscle, but the whole of my being concentrates on the brush of her fingertips against my forearm. Such a small thing, her touch, barely even true contact, and yet I cannot pull away for the life of me.

  Be her friend. I can do that. It will torture me, but not having this will outright end me. So I will tuck my needs away, put them somewhere deep and dark, and turn my efforts toward making Sophie feel happy and safe.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sophie

  * * *

  “You okay, hon?” Jules yells in my ear. She can’t be heard
any other way at the moment. Kill John is going full tilt, and music pulses around us.

  I must look miserable if she has to ask right now. I give her a wide smile that feels pained. “Just a bit tired,” I shout back.

  She nods and says no more, but I catch her quick, worried glance.

  I’m a terrible liar. But what do I say? Hey, I think Gabriel almost made a move on me the other night. Only, how lame am I? Because I’m not sure.

  God, I must be losing it if I can’t even tell if a man is making a move.

  I am wreck. My mind is stuck on last night, going over every moment in detail.

  I went to kiss Gabriel’s cheek. And he grabbed me, holding me close as if he’d also been unable to help himself. At first my heart had jumped into my throat, a heated elation rushing through me. I wanted him to kiss me more than I wanted my next breath.

  But he didn’t. He stared at me as if I pained him, as if he was pissed. That look flipped everything on its head.

  Had I gone too far by kissing his cheek? Was he telling me to cut it out? I panicked, so embarrassed I could have cried.

  And call me a chicken shit, but I just couldn’t ask him what that look had been all about. Not then.

  I might have caved this morning, but by then Gabriel was back to his slightly ornery but always solicitous self.

  Now I’m at a loss. He insists this isn’t about sex. Maybe it truly isn’t for him. And there is no way in hell I’m telling him I want more now. Not with Gabriel “Ice Man” Scott back in control.

  Call it pride, self preservation, whatever you want, but I’m not caving. No matter how badly I want to.

  So now, I’m focusing on work. Which isn’t exactly a punishment.

  Tonight’s concert is hot, frantic, and energetic. The boys play with renewed enthusiasm and verve. I swear there’s magic in the air. I crawl and scurry around their moving bodies, getting breathtaking shots: Killian midair, his guitar in one hand, his legs kicking out. Jax bent over his Gibson, his corded forearms flexing, his bare chest gleaming in the red glow of the lights. Rye standing on a massive amp, his hips thrusting, lower lip caught in his teeth. And Whip, arms flying, sweaty hair in his face as he beats the shit out of his drums.

  I capture as much as I can, little slices of life held forever in an image. Pure, honest, and good moments that will never happen again. That I have saved them fills me with pride.

  And when Killian sings “Hombre Al Agua” by Soda Stereo, a ’90s-era Spanish-language rock band, the crowd goes absolutely ape.

  Such power Kill John has in this moment, holding thousands of people utterly in thrall. It’s a thing of beauty. I’m so caught up in it, I let my lens lower and just grin, dancing along to the music. I feel Gabriel’s gaze, as I inevitably do, and look up.

  His eyes meet mine, a one-two punch to the heart and gut. He never smiles when he’s working, never shows any emotion. But tonight I nearly lose my balance, because he does. He so does.

  His teeth flash white in that tanned, perfect face, the little dimple breaking out one side. Holy hell, I can’t breathe.

  He stands in the shadows, so beautifully sculpted, he appears untouchable. A rock. But that smile is my undoing. It holds all the joy of the crowd. It reflects my awe and excitement. He knows what I’m feeling. He knows because, unbelievably, he feels it too.

  I realize he loves this part of the life; he’s just never shown it. He lets me see it now. This is the man behind the curtain.

  They’ve had him all wrong. He isn’t cold or unfeeling. He’s just hiding. I want that unleashed—all that strength and simmering emotion he holds beneath the surface.

  One day I’m going to get it. Screw pride, I’ll push and I’ll tease. It’s the only way I know how to break down his walls. And if, at the end of the day, he doesn’t want me, I’ll find a way to live with the loss.

  A stagehand steps between us as he hustles to get Jax’s next guitar ready. By the time the stagehand passes, Gabriel has moved off, strolling along the edges of the backstage, his eagle gaze roving for potential problems. A record exec waylays him, and they stop to chat.

  Killian plays a hard riff, and I snap out of my haze, turning my attention back to the concert. Time flies in a whirl of sound and colors. I capture as much as I can, little slices of life held forever in an image. Pure, honest, and good moments that will never happen again. That I have saved them fills me with pride.

  By the time the concert is over, energy zings through me. I’m usually tired, but not tonight. The guys are talking about going clubbing, and I’m all for it. After a much-needed cool shower, I’m changed and raring to go. I put a coat of red on my lips and leave the bathroom, only to find Gabriel waiting for me.

  I’ll never grow accustomed to the sight of him. He’s just too beautiful. He’s leaning against the doorway to the bedroom, his hands tucked into the pockets of well-worn jeans. A white T-shirt stretches tight across his broad shoulders and strains against the swell of his biceps.

  If there was any justice in the world, he’d look awkward out of his suit. But he wears all clothes well. The corner of his mouth quirks as he looks me over. “I thought I might find you in your nightie.”

  He almost sounds disappointed.

  “You gonna put me on a curfew, sunshine?” I grab a little clutch from the closet and tuck my lipstick, phone, and room key into it.

  “Would you stick to it?”

  “What do you think?”

  He laughs, low and brief. “I think I’d have to sleep with one eye open.”

  God, don’t remind me that we sleep together. Not right now, when only I get the intimacy of seeing him like this in the privacy of our room. When he’s watching me get ready as if it’s his right.

  I’m finding it harder and harder to refrain from throwing myself on him.

  Instead of that, I give him a long look-over, not because I need to, but because the view is just so pretty. “I’d have never guessed you own jeans.”

  “Lived in them from the ages of ten to twenty-one,” he answers easily.

  “Before you became The Man in the Suit.”

  “The Man in the Suit is off duty now.” His eyes track my movements. “Where are you going?”

  “The boys are hitting the clubs.”

  “So I’ve heard.

  “Thought I’d tag along. You going as well?”

  “No. I’ve other plans.” He pushes off from his perch by the door and stands tall. “Come out with me.”

  It’s given as an order, but softly, with butter-smooth persuasion behind the demanding words.

  “Where are you going?” It’s a stall tactic, me asking, because who am I kidding? I’ll go wherever he goes. But I don’t want him knowing that.

  He flashes another rare, full smile, further crumbling my resolve. “It’s a secret. You’ll have to come along to find out.”

  I place my hand over my heart in dramatic fashion. “Damn you, sunshine, you’ve used my one weakness against me.”

  “Curious as ten cats. Yes, I know. Which means you’re helpless to resist.” He inclines his head toward the door. “Come along, chatty girl. The night is young.”

  It’s two in the morning. But Madrid is just getting warmed up. I move to do up the tiny buckles of my high-heeled sandals but pause. “These okay for where you’re taking me, oh secretive one?”

  His gaze slides over my bare legs to where my sky blue sundress flirts with my thighs, and his lids lower a fraction, his expression turning hooded. “You’re good.”

  Oh, that voice, so growly and gruff, deep and rich like hot cocoa and buttered toast. He talks, and I want to eat him up. I both love and hate what his voice does to me. One man shouldn’t have so much power. Two words shouldn’t be able to make my thighs clench and my skin turn hypersensitive.

  Maybe that’s what makes me raise my foot, pointing my toe to show off my leg to its best advantage. “You’re sure?” I run a hand along my thigh, lifting my skirt to show a bit more skin. />
  Gabriel’s nostrils flare. The muscled breadth of his chest expands and slowly lowers as he exhales. That he’s visibly calming himself sends a bolt of pure heat straight through me, and my knees almost buckle.

  “Sophie,” he says, low and tight.

  “Yes?” Damn, that sounded too breathy.

  “Cut the shit.”

  I grin wide. Gotcha. I give him a shrug and let my skirt settle back around my legs before walking toward the door with a little extra wiggle in my step.

  He follows with a grunt, which could mean annoyance or humor—it’s hard to say with Gabriel. But I know this: the man needs to be teased and challenged more than anyone I’ve ever met. Sometimes I wonder if he’s been waiting for it, bored out of his mind.

  Or maybe I’m the one who’s been waiting. Everything feels strange now, and nothing is as it used to be. Before I was going through the motions of life. Now I’m aware of every step I take. I’m aware of his hand hovering just behind the small of my back as he walks with me, and of the steady cadence of his breathing as we take the elevator down.

  Anticipation zings through me, and it’s not because we’re going out for the night; it’s because I’m with him.

  We don’t speak as we make our way downstairs and out to the car he’s hired. Doesn’t matter. It’s a comfortable silence, the kind you have with people you’ve known for ages. I suppose sleeping together all the time will do that for you.

  He takes us to a club with a long line around it. Not surprisingly, we pull right up to the front door and someone whisks us inside, much to the interest of the people waiting in line.

  Inside, it’s packed. Beautiful women, dressed in next to nothing, undulate and sway to the beat. Their eyes track Gabriel’s movements with blatant interest. A few hands reach out to caress, running over his arms and shoulders. One bold woman makes a grab for his ass.

  I don’t even realize I’ve hissed at her like a possessive cat until Gabriel gently grasps my elbow and steers me away. “Put away the claws, chatty girl. My honor is secure.”

  “I’m pretty sure referring to women as cats is sexist,” I say, never mind I just thought of myself in the same way.