Managed (VIP 2)

I don’t want to think about Sophie Darling. But she’s infected my brain. The sound of her teasing laugh haunts me. The pained shimmer in her brown eyes as I called her “a mistake” guts me.

She’d been responsible for exposing Jax’s most private moment and the lowest point in his life. Countless times I’ve cursed the bottom-feeding scum who took those photos. To realize it had been Sophie, the woman I let hold me and ease my fears in a way I hadn’t allowed since my mum died, is more than disappointing. She’d knocked me on my arse in that interview.

I start to pace, unable to stand still.

Killian watches me, his head swiveling back and forth as he tracks my movements. “You’re not going to need us to set up a fight, are you?”

I cut him a glare. “I’m not as bad off as all that.”

He holds up a hand. “I was only asking.”

When Kill John first started, I paid for my suits by winning underground fights. A bit of an oxymoron, granted, being a brawler in order to dress like a gentleman. As the years went on, I fought when I was so tense only the sweet release found in sex or pummeling the shit out of another person would do. In truth, sex has never cut it for me the way raw pain does.

“I’m fine,” I say, waving him off.

“Brenna gonna hire her?” Killian asks me.

“Of course. She put Ms. Darling in first class. Brenna wouldn’t have bothered if she wasn’t planning to hire the her.”

At this, Killian grins. “Bet that pissed you off, having to sit beside someone.”

I grunt, unable to tell him the truth. Best fucking flight of my life.

He starts to laugh. “Damn, Brenna is evil.”

I think of all the shit Sophie gave me. A smile tugs at my mouth but promptly dies when my brain reminds me that I just broke any hope of her wanting to be near me again.

“Fucking hell.” I pin Killian with a glare. “She’s hired. We both know this. Regardless of her past, I’ve seen her portfolio and her social media work. She’s good. And the rest of the boys want her along as well.”

“Shit.” Killian looks off.

“You’ll be working closely with her.” Something stirs in my chest at the thought of seeing Sophie day in and day out. I push it down deep. “Which means you will treat her with the bloody respect a trained professional deserves.”

“Yes, sir.” Killian gives me a salute.

I’m already turning back toward the hotel. “We have a FaceTime meeting with a new sponsor at four.”

“What sponsor?” he calls back.

“Some guitar pick company,” I say over my shoulder.

“Damn it, Scottie, ten years and you still can’t remember which picks I prefer? Details, man.”

I know which one, but it’s just too easy to aggravate Killian. “A sponsor is a sponsor. Don’t be late.”

Halfway back to the hotel, I text Brenna.

GS: I assume Ms. Darling is staying on?

She answers quick enough: Yes. No thanks to you. Next time, discuss your concerns about my staff in private.

I bypass a man with two poodles who sniff at my ankles.

GS: Understood. Where is she now?

Brenna: Why?

My jaw muscles pulse.

GS: I want to welcome her aboard to show no hard feelings.

Brenna: You can text her for that.

I really loathe when Brenna is pissed at me. Life becomes that much harder, and she is an expert at making me work for my transgressions.

GS: Did I happen to mention I’m meeting Ned later tonight?

Ned is a local promoter and a scummy little shit who has a propensity to hit on Brenna. Unfortunately, the man is also in charge of the best venues, and I have to deal with him whenever we tour London. Brenna doesn’t.

GS: I was thinking of inviting him out with us instead.

I almost smile, imagining Brenna fuming right now. Little dots appear and then her answer.

Brenna: Asshole. Jules took her out to lunch at that gastropub down the street.

GS: A little early for lunch, isn’t it?

Brenna: Seriously? Translation: she took her to have a much needed drink on account of you and Killian acting like dicks.

Ah, guilt. I had become unacquainted with the emotion over the past decade. Experiencing it now, I cannot say I enjoy the sensation. At all. Tucking my phone in my pocket, I pivot and head back down the street.

It isn’t hard to locate Sophie and Jules in the pub. They’re bright spots of color in a sea of old wood paneling. Tucked away at a corner table, the two women have their heads close together, Sophie’s white blond hair like moonbeams besides the full flower of Jules’s tight fuchsia curls.

Their backs are to me as they nurse pints of Guinness—the breakfast of champions, as Rye often lovingly refers to the rich stout.

“I’m not gonna lie,” Jules is saying. “If you’re expecting praise or kind words from him, it’ll never happen. He’s just not that kind of boss.”