Another wave of cold washes through me.
The titter of feminine laughter rings through the night. Little snatches of conversation bleeds in and out—how hot Jax was during his solo, how this one prefers watching Whip beat his drums, the other wants to have Killian’s love child. Concertgoers leaving the show, enjoying themselves. They’re calling this the best night of their lives.
I helped bring it to them. These girls will never know that, or care. As it should be. But the pride I feel in knowing I brought them a bit of happiness is there all the same.
If I’m gone, someone else will do the job. But will they do it as well? Will they watch out for my boys and make certain everything runs like silk? Or will they think only of their own gain?
The fact that there are no guarantees chafes.
Laughter rings out again, husky, unfettered femininity. It reminds me of Sophie’s laugh, though hers always has a tinge of self-deprecation to it, as though she’s part of the joke, never ridiculing.
I’ve never been one to freely laugh and often found those who did rather annoying. Life isn’t a joke—not for me. And yet I want to swim in the sound of Sophie’s laughter, let it cleanse me and wash away all the heaviness in my life.
I don’t know how to ask for that, or even how to let myself ask.
I called her mine. She’ll want an explanation for that. I’ve none to give. It just is. Whether I fuck her or not, it doesn’t matter; she has me now. Even if she doesn’t want me.
A text buzzes on my phone.
Brenna: Car is here. Where the hell are you?
The idea of sitting in a car with Brenna, Jules, and Sophie while I stink of vomit and most likely have blood smears on my face, makes my mouth sour even more. I don’t have the imagination to come up with a plausible excuse for my appearance, nor do I want to lie—or tell the truth.
But lie I do. My thumb types out a quick message.
GS: Already left. Have some business to attend to. Be safe.
That last message is for Sophie, and Brenna will know this.
Sophie. She’ll be hurting and is probably unsettled. It was clear she isn’t accustomed to being hit or treated with violence, and thank Christ for that small mercy. I should be with her, offering her comfort. Our bed—because it’s ours and has been from the moment she laid down in it—will be cool and soft.
But if I get into it with her tonight, I don’t know how I’ll react. I’ve already shown too much of myself to her. Exposure has never been easy. I can’t do more of it right now without losing the hold I’ve kept on myself for years.
Sophie. Regret pinches my chest.
I tap out one last message to Brenna.
GS: I’ll be a while. Make certain Sophie is settled and icing her eye.
Little dots appear on my screen.
Brenna: You know it, boss man. Be safe yourself.
I suspect Brenna knows exactly what I plan to do, even though the urge has just registered in my own head. But I need it. I need the release.
Scrolling through my contacts list, I find the one I want.
GS: What do you have available for tonight?
Not five seconds later, the answer comes.
Carmen: It’s been too long, S. Beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me. Have a slot. 2am.
And address follows.
I tuck the phone away, feeling dirty, depraved. I shouldn’t. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. But I am. I always am when I give in to weakness.
Chapter Seventeen
Sophie
* * *
It feels wrong somehow to hang out alone in Gabriel’s coach. Oh, he’s made it perfectly clear that I should consider this my space as well. But I don’t. Every inch of the place is all Gabriel—something I actually enjoy. Over the years, I’ve had enough of living by myself. I don’t need to feel like I’m in my space. I like being in his domain.
Normally, stepping inside his bus is a little like being wrapped up in the man himself; everything is cool, calm, orderly. It smells of him, crisp and expensive. It feels safe.
Right now, however, I don’t like it one bit. Because he isn’t here, and I don’t mind admitting that I want him here. I need him here. As much as I hate my weakness, my body hasn’t yet let the incident go. I keep shaking, my fingers and toes ice cold. My face hurts, despite taking painkillers and icing it.
I need the distraction of Gabriel. And quite frankly, I was holding on to the promise of eventually sliding into bed with him as a reward for getting through this miserable night.
He didn’t come home with us, telling Brenna he had business to attend to. The pinched expression on her face when she read his texts makes me think she knew more than she let on, and that whatever he was doing, she didn’t approve.
I didn’t text him. For once, pride wouldn’t let me. He abandoned me when I was scared and hurt. Maybe I shouldn’t look at it that way, but shaking that feeling has proven impossible.
Worse? He never came home.
It’s morning now, and my head hurts after a long, sleepless night of flopping around on the bed, trying to shut off my mind and let my body rest.
He made me promise every night. Every damn night.
Did that not imply the same for him? That he would be here Every. Fucking. Night?
I slam a coffee cup down on his glossy black counter and pour a full cup. Yeah, that’s right, coffee. Not tea. Tea is not the answer to all of life’s problems. Sometimes dark, bitter as fuck, American-style coffee is the answer.
I glare at the door as I take a defiant sip, then wince. I actually don’t like black coffee. I’m more of cream and two sugars gal.
“Fucking tailored-suit-wearing Brit, making me drink black coffee,” I mutter, grabbing the sugar and cream. A blob of cream lands on the counter. I ignore it. Ha. I can imagine his sneer upon seeing it.
Unfortunately, petty, pathetic victories aren’t very satisfying.
I’m clutching my mug and curled up on one of the armchairs when he texts me. Apparently, I’ve lost all shame because I leap for the phone.
His message is a kick to the chest.
Sunshine: I’m away on business for a few days. Have already notified others. See you in Rome. Play nice with my boys.
A few days? He’s already told everyone else?
It’s embarrassing how disappointed I am. How…hurt.
This isn’t good. He’s doing his job, and I’m ready to stomp my foot like a disgruntled child.
Biting my lip, I answer him.
Me: I’m throwing a party in your coach with the band while you’re gone.
So clearly, being petty is not out of the picture yet.
There isn’t even a pause before he answers.
Sunshine: Good. You shouldn’t be alone. Have Jules charge everything to me. Or find the black credit card I have tucked in my sock drawer.
That…that… My teeth snap together. I can’t think of a bad word to call him. Paying for my party as if he’s my dad or something. Off you go, Sophie. Behave now while I’m away. But he’s being nice. Great gravy, he’s actually agreeing to let people into his bus. Or is he calling my bluff?
Fine. I tap out. But I’m not going in your sock drawer. I might get the colors out of order and then where would you be?
The implacable jerk responds easily.
Sunshine: Reorganizing my socks. Have the party, chatty girl. It will be good for you. See you in a few days.
So that’s that. He’s left.
I need to nip this clingy feeling right in the bud. Setting my phone aside, I finish up my coffee and go to get dressed. I’m not going to mope around anymore. I’ve a party to plan.
* * *
Gabriel
* * *
An elbow catches me on the cheekbone. The pain is white, exploding like a camera flash behind my lids. It crackles through me, rings in my ears. A kick to my side has me staggering back.
Jeers and shouts surround me, a blur of screaming faces. This I
know. This joy of violence and greed, fed to me since childhood like milk and buttered toast.
Another punch flies. I dance away, and it misses me. I block a kick with my knee. Pull it together. Focus.
My opponent is hardened, likely fighting nightly. In my youth, I was better than him, but I’m now softened by a comfortable life. Yet I know how much I can handle. I can wear him down, wait for him to tire. But I’ll have to take a beating.
Bruises I can hide. Open cuts and split lips are another issue. This is my second night of fighting. I’m already battered. If I get cut up any worse, I’ll have to stay away from Sophie for too long.
Sophie. Sophie elbowed in the face. Twice.
Rage pulses hot, pushes through me.
Hold it.
Another punch flies, grazing the edge of my jaw. Were this a professional fight, I’d already be knocked out. But we’re amateur entertainment, fighting each other in a pristine, white living room—marble floors, wall-to-wall windows overlooking the harbor—as rich, bored people watch.
It is perverse. Stinks of privilege. Blood splatters stark against white leather walls.
I don’t give a shit about them. All I need is the pain.
The man before me is a Spaniard, long and lean and fast. My mind morphs his appearance. He’s a cameraman, stocky and bloated, and hitting Sophie.
I promised I wouldn’t retaliate. She made me promise not to hurt him.
I won’t. But this man here? He wants the fight.
All the rage, all the helpless fucking frustration builds, growing tighter, stronger. Anger goes cold and silent.
My fist connects with fleshy meat and bone. That’s another kind of pain, a bright, clean release.
Again, again. Controlled hits. Punch to face, knee to kidneys, elbow to jaw.
Sweaty, hot skin, metallic blood. Solid flesh giving under my knuckles. I revel in it.
There is a point in fighting at which you are no longer a man. You become a machine. No more thinking, just reacting, giving yourself up to muscle memory and technique.
We grapple, locking up and breaking away. He stumbles back before charging.
A roundhouse kick, taking him on the jaw, ends the fight.
My opponent falls back and hits the floor with a slap.
He remains down, chest heaving, head lolling.
Cheers erupt. They break me out of my haze and irritate my ears.
I stand, breath sawing in and out. My body throbs, burns. It is pure and real, as close as I can get to the release I truly want.
No one comes near me; they know better by now.
Someone helps my opponent up.
My gaze goes to the windows, where the night is black ink and gold stars. Sophie isn’t here anymore. She’s headed to Rome.
Already I feel her absence in my soul, a tear that won’t mend. I’m battered and bleeding. I’ll have to stay away for days. The tear within me grows bigger. I ignore the feeling. I need time anyway. To regroup and calm down.
“Scottie, mi hombre hermoso, another win for me, si?” Carmen smiles up at me, blood red lips, glossy raven hair. “Ah, but I have missed seeing you fight. I’d forgotten how coldly you play your game. Come.” Gold-tipped nails glide up my arm. “I have a room ready. Shall we?”
Lust and anticipation lower her lids as she looks me over, her gaze lingering on my bare chest. Subtlety was never Carmen’s style.
I move away from her touch. “A cab is all I require.”
Pouting, she snaps her fingers, and a woman comes forth.
“Teresa will take you to a room where you can change back into your suit.” Now that she’s been denied, Carmen is all business. I appreciate that about her. “And your winnings?”
“Make the usual donations.”
A thin smile pulls at her lips. “To battered women’s shelters. You, mi amigo, have a perverse sense of humor.”
Sophie thinks I’m a goof. I miss her. I need her. I can’t go back to looking like this. “So they tell me. Buenas noches, Carmen. I won’t be returning tomorrow.”
I head out into the darkness and back to my hotel. But I won’t be sleeping.
Chapter Eighteen
Sophie
* * *
Throwing a party on Gabriel’s coach is akin to being in high school and having your friends over when your parents are out of town. At least if feels that way.
The guys, Libby, Jules, and Brenna enter with caution, looking around as if Gabriel might pop out and scold them at any second.
“You are one ballsy chick,” Killian tells me, bringing in a cooler full of beer. “I like it.”
“I have Daddy’s permission,” I say with an eye roll.
“Keep telling yourself that.” Jax takes a seat and grabs a handful of chips. “You don’t even have coasters out. There will be hell to pay.” His smile is wide, as if this pleases him greatly.
And then I realize, they want to get caught. Because they want Gabriel here too. Oh, they love teasing him, but they’re happier when he’s around. Why can’t he see that?
Brenna hauls in a karaoke machine, and Rye helps her set it up. “I don’t know why I agreed to bring this,” she tells me. “It’s a completely uneven playing field.”
“We’ll go easy on you, Bren,” Rye promises with a wink.
“Going easy on us won’t help,” I tell him. But I’m happy they’re here. The coach is filled with laughter, chatter, and the warmth of bodies—a far cry from the cold and silent place it had become when I was alone. Doesn’t stop the pervasive ache in my chest, though. I miss him.
But I’m not even going to utter his name in my head any more. Out of sight, out of mind, out of heart. It has to work.
“I have this app,” Brenna says as she curls up on the couch next to me. “It gives you a category, and you have to choose a song that fits.”
“Okay.” Rye takes a long pull of beer. “I’m ready. Hit it.”
Brenna taps a button on her phone, and we all crane our necks to see. I’m too far away, but Brenna starts cackling as Jax and Killian groan. She holds up the phone and announces, “Yo! MTV Raps.”
“How convenient,” Killian drawls, giving Brenna a look I can’t interpret. She avoids his gaze with a little sniff.
“Fuckin’ A,” Rye says with a chest thump. “I will slay ya’ll motherfuckers.”
Jax blows a raspberry while making a jerk-off motion with his hand. “Sure you will.”
“You quake in terror, JJ.”
“Aren’t you the wannabe JJ?” he counters. And I bite back a laugh because Rye kind of does look like the linebacker, JJ Watt.
Rye gives him the finger before rubbing his hands together. “Okay, okay, this is gonna be good.” He glances around the room. “I’m picking Whip as my musical backup, and Jax, since you’ve been so encouraging, you’re with me on vocals.”
Jax makes a pained expression. “Hell.”
Rye nods. “We’ll go against Killian and Libby.”
Brenna settles down next to me. “He’s up to something good.”
“You know it, babe.” Rye winks at her.
Brenna flinches as if he’d pinched her instead before she’s back to her easy demeanor. “Well, get on with it.”
“Run-D.M.C.’s version of ‘Walk this Way’.”
Everyone starts laughing.
Killian grabs his guitar. “I get it. Libby and I are singing Aerosmith’s part, right? Because someone thinks he can rap.”
“Knows, Killian. Not think, knows.” Rye takes a mic and glances at Whip. “You good with the beat? Or are we using the karaoke machine?”
“You’re seriously asking me that?” he scoffs. He’s only got his small electric drum kit, but he’s already messing with it. “Don’t piss me off, Ryland.”
“Instruments it is,” Rye answers easily.
“This is going to be so good,” Libby says, her eyes bright. She doesn’t seem to be the type to get excited over trying to mimic Aerosmith, but she’s clearly in
her element.
She and Killian put their heads together to plan, and the guys do the same in their corner.
“You know we’re next,” Brenna says to me.
I laugh a little. “I was terrified when I thought I’d have to sing in front of these guys. Because screeching cats is an understatement.”
Brenna grins. “So annoying, isn’t it? When they make it look effortless?”
“Daunting as hell,” I agree. “But rapping? Ha. I can rap.”
She raises one perfectly plucked brow, and I feel a twinge of heartache. That look reminds me of Gabriel. His brows are thick and imposing, but he and Brenna both have that elegant way of expressing themselves with a simple look.
“Most people would be more afraid to rap,” she says.
“Eh, it’s all about owning it. Besides, I had a babysitter who loved hip-hop. This is literally the music of my childhood.”
Brenna grins suddenly and leans in close. “I love hip-hop too. Which is why I totally rigged the game to choose that.”
“You evil genius,” I say with a gasp.
Her grin goes wider before she gets it under control. “I’m pretty sure Killian is on to me.”
So that’s what the look was about. I don’t mention that Rye seems very pleased by Brenna’s pick as well, as if she’s done him a favor too.
“I thought you’d be freaking out,” Brenna says, eyeing me.
“Now you know better.” I give her a nudge on the shoulder with my own.
She nudges back. “If Scottie hadn’t already claimed you, I just might.”
I drop right out of my happy place, and clearly my expression shows it because Brenna winces. Thankfully I don’t have to hear any awkward apology or deflated ego soothing. Whip starts up with a beat.
Killian begins to play the guitar, and they’re on.
Brenna and I squeal with glee as Jax and Rye begin to rap RUN-D.M.C.’s lyrics. I expected Rye to own it, but not Jax. We can’t stop laughing, but we lose it when Libby—not Killian—takes up Steven Tyler’s part, making her voice screechy and throaty just like Aerosmith’s legendary singer.
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