Managed (VIP 2)

“Funny,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder once more.

Bloody hell, that feels far too good.

Her voice drifts up, distracting me. “But I guess I earned that one.”

She’s earned my gratitude and saved my arse from utter humiliation yet again. I sigh and allow my hand to settle on the crown of her head. There’s no excuse for making her feel less than. “Tell me about your job.”

We’re pressed so close, I can feel her body tense up.

“Ah, well, there’s not much to tell.”

When I don’t say anything, but merely look down at her, waiting, her round cheeks flush, and she clears her throat. “I’m interviewing for a position.”

“And you’re squirming around like a fish on a hook right now because?”

Her nose wrinkles again. I have the mad urge to kiss the tip. Likely it’d shock the hell out her, and turnabout is fair play. But I hold on to my dignity. Because she starts to babble.

“Well, I don’t really know what the position is. I mean, I have some idea, but if you want details, I have nothing really to offer—”

“Do you mean to tell me you’re traveling to another country to interview for an unknown position?” My voice has raised a few octaves. This girl. I have no words. “Do you even know with whom you are meeting? Tell me you didn’t spend all your money on a first class ticket without knowing exactly why you were going.”

“Hey.” She pokes me. “Don’t go all duke on me again.” A sigh escapes her as she sags into me. “No, I don’t know who I’m meeting. I have a name and a few references from mutual people we’ve worked with. And no, I didn’t spend all my money—”

“Well, that’s a—”

“They’re paying my way.”

“Sodding hell.”

Her head lifts, white blond strands pooling on my grey vest. “What? Why is that so bad?”

“I assume you’ve heard the phrase ‘the more you know’? If someone offers to pay for your international flight for the sole reason of interviewing, it would behoove you to know exactly why they’re willing to pay for the opportunity and what exactly is expected of you.”

“Oh, I know why they offered to pay.”

“I shudder to hear it.”

Another poke, this one too close to my ticklish spot. I twitch.

“Because I’m the best at what I do,” she says.

“And what is it that you do?” Please don’t say stripper.

All right, perhaps I am sexist.

Pride infuses her tone with steel. “Social media marketing and lifestyle photography.”

“Ah, yes. That I can see.”

Her eyes narrow. “You were totally thinking paid escort, weren’t you?”

“Nothing of the sort.”

It’s rather impressive how a woman who has the sweet face of a kewpie doll manages to glare with such effectiveness. I have to bite back the urge to confess all. I raise a brow and give her a counter look.

Her eyes narrow further. I swear, it’s like High Noon on a plane.

“Social media is an essential component of most businesses today,” she tells me.

“Ms. Darling, untwist your knickers. I am in complete agreement with you.” In truth, the band could use a few lessons in improving their social media presence, and I’ve been after Brenna to make that happen for months.

It’s not that they lack a following, but when Jax attempted suicide, the band withdrew from the spotlight, leaving their fans, and the industry, to fill in the blanks and make the wrong assumptions—something that bothers me on a personal level. Kill John is so much more than what the world thinks of them.

Sophie is still looking at me with a dubious expression, as if she’s often received criticism for her choice of profession. That someone would try to stamp out the hopes and dreams of this vivacious and intuitive woman is a crime.

I make an effort to soften my tone. “Perhaps you ought to start at the beginning.”

“Not if you’re going to lecture,” she says with a sniff.

“I promise nothing.” I give a lock of her hair a small tug. “Talk, chatty girl. It’s all we have in this hell tube.”

She purses her lips. Her fire-engine red lipstick has faded, leaving only a faint stain. She looks softer for it, vulnerable in a strange way. A small scar cuts through the outer corner of her top lip. The faded silvery line is diabolical in its placement, a tiny taunt: suckle right here, mate. My fingers curl into a fist to keep from reaching out and touching. Get a grip on yourself, Scott.

“All right,” she says, snuggling back down with the efficiency of a cat. I close my eyes and concentrate on the sound of her voice. “For the past year, I’ve been working as a social media liaison, helping people write creative content for Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, and so on.”

“You teach them how to be witty.”

“That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”