Managed (VIP 2)
I close my eyes as “Thriller” starts up once more. “I’m not very good at complicated,” I tell Jules. “But for Gabriel, I’m willing to try.”
“For his sake, I hope you succeed.” The affection I hear in her voice has me thinking she likes Gabriel more than she’ll admit. “Because that man needs a social life more than anyone I’ve ever met.”
Chapter Eleven
Sophie
* * *
I stall until the last second to get myself on Gabriel’s bus. Dusk has settled over the parking lot where the buses are already idling, a snakelike caravan that holds Kill John’s tour. Gabriel’s bus is toward the end, a glossy black tube against the orange sky.
His driver, a very nice older gentleman named Daniel, greets me with a nod and a smile. “Made it by the skin of your teeth.”
I think he knows I was stalling.
“Thanks for driving us,” I tell him at the door. “You need anything? Coffee? Dinner?”
“No, miss. I have a very nice setup in the front. Scottie makes certain of that.”
As well he should since he’s relying on Daniel to keep us alive and safe while driving all night. I asked Brenna about the drivers. They sleep during the day in whatever hotel we stop at and stay up all night driving when we’re on the move again. Most of them have been on multiple tours with the band.
Then again, Gabriel truly does make certain every small detail of the tour is attended to. Earlier today, he had Sara, one of the interns, pack up my things while I was goofing off with Jules and put them away in his bus. You’d think I’d find this invasive, but truthfully, I’ve been living out of my suitcase, and not having to go through the awkward task of unpacking, asking where I should put this or that while he looks on, is a relief.
Instead, I received a text from Sara telling me where everything is. I thanked her profusely and sent her a Starbucks gift certificate. Her delight in a free frap makes me consider sending Gabriel’s entire staff certificates. All of them seem to spin constantly like cogs in the well-oiled Kill John machine, with Gabriel at the helm. And while he isn’t cruel, he isn’t exactly handing out praise for their efforts, either. It’s clear he expects jobs to be done right the first time, and that goes for his as well.
The other buses are closing their doors, everyone tucked in for the trip.
I can stall no longer, and after wishing Daniel a good night, I step up into the relative cool and quiet of the bus and close the door behind me with a definitive thud. The pristine interior is empty, Gabriel nowhere to be seen. I admit, I’m unpleasantly shocked. I’d expected him to be lounging in a chair with his feral grace and vaguely admonishing expression. Is he running late?
I glance around as the bus lurches forward. Bracing my legs, I wait until I’m accustomed to the gentle rocking. I’m about to call out, or maybe buzz Daniel to warn him that he’s left his boss behind, when Gabriel’s deep voice comes from the bedroom.
“About bloody time. Were you trying to miss the bus, Darling?”
Relief swamps me so strongly I have to sag against the kitchenette countertop. “I like to be fashionably late,” I call back.
“Just remember,” he retorts, still talking from the depths of the bedroom, “the caravan waits for no one.”
“It waited for me just now.” I stroll toward the bedroom but come to an abrupt halt at the threshold. For a second, I can only gape at the sight that greets me. It’s so shocking, I turn around to check whether there are cameras rolling and I’m being punked.
“Why are you looking about like that?” Gabriel drawls, not taking his eyes from the TV.
“Just checking to make sure I hadn’t wandered into an alternate reality.”
“Amusing as always, Darling.”
Who could blame me for being suspicious? Gabriel Scott is out of his suit and wearing a soft, gray long-sleeve thermal and black sweats. This is shocking enough—but at least I’ve seen it before. The fact that he’s lounging in his bed, while eating some sort of dessert out of a bowl, is what has me flabbergasted.
“You’re staring,” he says dryly as he…
“Are you watching Buffy?” My voice has a tinge of a squeal.
He rolls his eyes. “Deal with it.”
“I’m just so…” My hand flutters to my chest. “Are you sure I’m not being punked?”
A snort escapes him. “You’re not famous, so no. I, on the other hand, have my moments of doubt that you aren’t here to punk me.”
I’m so happy, I have to fight grinning like a loon as I kick off my shoes and crawl onto the end of the bed. “If I were to punk you, I’d change out all your suits for polyester.”