Managed (VIP 2)

Jules’s freckles stand out like cinnamon flecks over her round cheeks. “I thought you…” She swallows hard. “Well, I thought you weren’t listening.”

I wasn’t. Not with the attention I usually give. My head is fucking pounding like my brain is trying to jackhammer its way out of my skull. The floor is either defective and slanted or I’m imagining things. Given that no one else has commented on it, I’m guessing I’m the one off kilter.

“You were speaking of vendors.” I know I heard something about shirts. Hell. I want to rub my face in the nearest pillow. But it won’t work. I can’t sleep. I cannot fucking sleep. And I’ve tried. Every fucking night I try. But nothing has worked, save for one night in London. We’re in Scotland now.

At this point, it’s so bad I’m nearly weeping by three in the morning when, yet again, I’m staring up at the ceiling, unable to shut my brain off.

“Yes, the vendors,” Jules says happily. She rattles on again, and I try to keep my eyes open.

It wouldn’t even matter if I closed them. My body wouldn’t shut down anyway. There’s a weight on my chest that makes breathing a chore. Weakness. I loathe it. But I’m getting weaker every day, and I don’t know what to do.

Brenna would tell me to visit a doctor. The mere thought of doing so sends cold dread down my spine. A violent protest screams in my mind. No doctors. Never. I had my fill of them when I was a lad. And nothing short of death will get me to go back.

Best knock on wood, a nasty voice in my head whispers.

The pain in my head expands outward, down my neck, digging into the tops of my shoulders.

Jules keeps nattering on about contracts and dates.

My jaw throbs.

Breathe. Get through this. Then you can crawl to your room and take a hot shower. The lure of taking a sleeping pill is so strong at this point, my hands fist tight. Jax nearly died swallowing a bottle of those bloody pills, mixed with heroin. When I think about it—and I try very bloody hard not to think about it—nausea churns my guts and bile surges upward.

I swallow hard, grab my water bottle. My hand shakes as I lift it to my lips. No way to hide the fact other than drinking fast and setting my arm down as soon as possible. The shakes are getting worse.

“What should I tell him?”

With a jolt, I glance at Jules, who waits expectedly. Fuck.

“What do you think you should tell him?” Teaching moment. That works.

She frowns, her brow knitting in confusion.

Or it doesn’t.

“You’ll need to make these decisions one day, yes?” I prompt. Arse. You’re cocking it up. Get your head back in the game.

Her mouth opens and shuts before she tentatively speaks. “I…uh…I don’t think Jax will be asking me if I want to join him for poker. I thought that was your…uh…guy thing.”

Sod it.

“Well, you never know.” I clear my throat. “And, really, he should be asking me directly about personal things, which is your answer.”

I lever myself out of the chair, ignoring the way the room sways. “You are my assistant, not my bloody personal calendar. Tell Jax as much.”

“Right.” Likely, she’s mentally telling me to go bugger myself.

That sits heavily on me as well. I’ve never given my work or my crew anything less than one hundred percent. I am ashamed of myself. If only I could get some rest.

“Oh, and I’ll have those personnel files sent to you by the end of the day,” Jules calls toward my retreating back.

“Very good.” I have no earthly idea what she’s talking about. A vague memory prods at the corners of my mind, but I’m distracted.

A whiff of lemon tart and warm woman spice drifts through the air. My cock reacts as if it’s being tugged. Annoyed at myself, I look up, knowing exactly who I’ll find.

At some point, Sophie has gone and had her hair colored. It’s now a pale rose gold, shining like a nimbus around her smiling face. The color sets off the dark warmth of her eyes and the pink in her lips. Hell.

“Hey there, sunshine,” she says, perky as ever. Her bouncy tits are barely restrained in some sort of off-the-shoulder black knit top. Which means the only thing holding the fabric up are her breasts. One good tug…

“Eyes up, hon.”

Immediately, my chin lifts. She’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“Is that appropriate attire?” Shut up. Just shut up now, you git.

She apparently feels the same. Her hand lands on one well-rounded hip. “As opposed to what? The tit parade we all see on a nightly basis around here? At least I’m wearing a shirt.”

She has a point. Damn it.

“Or maybe I should trade in these jeans for a micro-mini? The guys seem to love those.”