Managed (VIP 2)

I pause and really look him over. He’s nervous. I wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t right here in front of him, watching the color work over his tanned skin and his hands fidgeting at his sides. The fact that he wants to talk right now freaks me out even more.

“Sure,” I tell him past the lump in my throat. “What’s up?”

His lips compress. “I’d rather talk in private. Come to my bus?”

I’m so shocked he wants me alone, I can’t even form a joke, only squeak out a small okay.

The walk back feels like the Green Mile. I’ll set one foot in Gabriel’s bus—the bus he’ll only let his driver and the occasional maid enter—and an axe will swiftly fall to cut off my head. And it suddenly pisses me off. I’ve done nothing wrong. Why the private talk?

I grit my teeth and march alongside a quiet Gabriel, who has solicitously taken my camera case in hand. His other hand hovers around the small of my back, not quite touching but close enough that I feel its heat. He’s guiding me along.

Probably afraid I’ll bolt, I think darkly. But no, I’m going to lay into him something good. I thought we were…well, not friends exactly. I don’t know if he’d even let anyone other than Brenna and the guys be his friend anymore. But we were something.

I’m horrified to realize I’m on the verge of tears. It hurts thinking he’ll soon dismiss me. He might not be doing that at all. Maybe you should chill out.

I glare at the bus as it comes into view, but hold my tongue. Well, I do until he opens the door. I halt, unable to take another step.

“Are you firing me?” That sounded embarrassingly shrill.

He halts too, frowning down at me. “What?” A smile lights his eyes. The fucker. “There you go again with your wild imaginings.”

“Don’t give me that. You’re taking me aside for a private chat. What am I to think?”

“That I want to talk privately,” he suggests as if I’m batty. “Besides, Brenna’s the one who hired you.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

He rolls his eyes and his hand finally touches my back, nudging me forward. “Would you get in here and calm yourself?”

“You’re acting weird,” I counter, but I step inside. “Wow.”

I was expecting black leather and gray walls—standard luxury coach fare. Instead I’m greeted with glossy burled wood paneling, milk glass sconces, and smoke velvet chairs. It’s like a 1930s rail car.

“Have a seat.” Gabriel gestures to the small living area toward the front. I sink into a Deco style club chair and clutch the arm of it. Next to me is a small table where he has a laptop out and a pile of papers beside it.

He moves to tidy it, but his phone rings. Glancing at it, he grimaces. “One moment. I’ve been waiting for this call.”

Mutely, I nod and watch him walk off toward the back. The low sound of his voice is soothing but not enough to stop me from being twitchy. My eyes roam everywhere. Aside from his work, and two car magazines tucked into a side panel, there’s nothing personal in here.

I don’t know if it’s snooping or plain old nerves that prompts me to pick up one of the papers on the table and read it. But as soon as I do, my eyes glaze over from the boring contract language. And then I see the folder below it. My name pops up like a neon sign. I toss the contract aside and pick up what is obviously a file on me.

Gabriel walks back into the room, and his steps slow as he sees what I’m holding. But he doesn’t say a word.

I do. “You have a file on me?”

“Of course. I have files on all our employees.” He nods toward the table. “Jules sent the newest hires over for review.”

“Why you?”

“Because, as they say in America, the buck stops with me.”

I flip through the folder, even though I know most of what will be in there. I filled out the numerous forms, after all.

“Jesus, you have my health report. Did you read it?”

His thick brows knit. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s an invasion of privacy,” I offer, snappish. I didn’t mind giving Brenna the information, but he’s been reading everything, down to my last pap test.

“Sophie, why are you upset? This is standard procedure.” He cocks his head as if I’m a peculiar puzzle. “Are you embarrassed that I know you’re healthy and have never been convicted of a crime?”

“Excuse me if I feel a twinge violated that you know everything, down to the fact that I use a birth control shot, for fuck’s sake.” I don’t even mention that he now knows my exact height and weight too. Fucking shit.

A snort of annoyance leaves him. “Fine.” He walks briskly toward me, and I stiffen, but he turns, opens the laptop, and with a few hard clicks, pulls up a file. “Here,” he says, turning the screen my way. “My health report. Or did you think I was exempt?”