Managed (VIP 2)
Anger melts off her face, and she stares at me with wide, pained eyes.
“No,” I correct. “I hated them more. They created a monument to that ugliness. That…” My throat closes, and I have to clear it. “Pain.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “You’ll never know how sorry.”
“I believe you. I know what it is to lose yourself in a job. We were all spinning out of control before Jax. There were days I’d wake up and not remember what country we were in. Because everything was a blur of having fun and believing the crap lines people fed us. I understand the lies you tell yourself to get through the day.”
“I can’t imagine that of you.”
“Chatty girl, you spin castles on social media. I spin them for the music business. The suits, the mannerisms, the whole fucking façade is part of the arsenal. Back in that room, you saw it full force.” My finger touches a drop of beer. “I reacted out of an old anger.”
When she answers, it’s soft and hesitant. “Are you sure it’s old anger and not fresh?”
I meet her gaze and am hit anew with that strange punch of sensation just beneath my ribs. Pain, resentment, remorse, tenderness, it’s all jumbled together, making it difficult to settle on one emotion. I want to tell her I’m sorry for hurting her. I want to send her away so I don’t have to experience this discomfort.
She is dangerous because I cannot control her. And she is utterly beautiful, like molten glass that tempts you to touch even though you know you’ll be burned.
But for all that, there is one emotion I do not feel. “I am not angry with you.”
When she nods, an awkward jerk of her little chin, I reach into my billfold and pull out a few pounds. My fingers are unsteady as I drop the money on the table. “Do the tour,” I tell her. “I will not stand in your way but welcome you as a valuable asset to the band.”
Then I flee, just as desperately as Jules did minutes before. Because I’ve just consigned myself to months of hell and temptation.
* * *
Sophie
* * *
We’re staying in London for a week, so I work with the guys, combing through their social media and making adjustments. In other words, adding myself as admin to all their accounts and acting as them from time to time.
And I take pictures. All the time. It isn’t difficult with Kill John as the subject matter. All the guys are exceedingly photogenic. I’ve often wondered about fame. It’s rare to find famous people who aren’t photogenic, even if they aren’t classically attractive. Why is that? Is it the gloss of fame that makes them more compelling? Or is it something within them that draws the eye and facilitates fame?
Whatever the case, shooting moments with Kill John is a pleasure. Not that it’s without a few struggles.
Killian is still fairly pissy with me. He gives me a glare as I take a picture of him laughing with Jax while they work through a chord progression in a studio they’ve rented for the week. “Do you mind?”
“Nope.” I snap another shot. “In fact, if you want to give me a big ol’ smile and ham it up, even better.”
“Jesus. You’re relentless. Go away.”
“Kills,” Jax says with a sigh. “Just fucking let it go.” He turns to me and sticks out his tongue, crossing his green eyes.
I dutifully take the pic.
“Excellent.” Lowering my camera, I sit on the studio floor. “Look, none of us can change our pasts. All we have is our present. Like it or not, you two are the band’s front men, which means you lead by example. People are dying to see you and Jax together again and happy. They need that reassurance.”
“And you think taking a few pictures of us doing whatever is going to make everything better?” Killian asks. His tone isn’t snide, but he’s clearly dubious.
“You tell me,” I counter. “You’ve been in this business longer than I have. Do you think public image matters?”
For a second he just stares at me. But then he huffs out a laugh and smiles. When he does, it’s fairly breathtaking. Killian James is extremely hot. Luckily I’m immune to hot men. Well, most of them.
“All right,” Killian says, breaking into my thoughts of uptight managers. “I’m being a dick. It matters, even if I don’t like it.”
“There. Was that so hard?” I ask.
He leans in, cocking his head as if he’s going to tell me a secret. “You know, I’m not actually comfortable being an asshole to women.”
“Really?” I say, biting the corner of my lip to keep from smiling. “But you do it so well.”
Jax laughs so hard he rocks back, clutching his Telecaster to his stomach. From the corner of my eye, I see Gabriel’s head lift and turn our way. He’s in an adjoining studio, talking to Whip as he practices his drums.