Managed (VIP 2)

And I’m surrounded by all things Sophie. Her battered little trainers. Camera equipment. Makeup, hairbrushes, lotions, and hair products.

My collar suddenly feels too tight.

“Tell me, Mrs. James,” I find myself saying. “Is there a reason you women feel the need to wash your underthings in the sink and hang them over the shower like some sort of profane Christmas decorations?”

I was treated to this particular form of visual torture earlier, when I went to have my morning shower, only to find lacy bras and delicate little knickers strewn about the place. What was I supposed to do? Take them down? I’d have to touch them.

If I’m going to put my hands on Sophie’s knickers, she’s bloody well going to be in them when I do. My collar squeezes my throat yet again.

Liberty laughs. “It’s not as though you can toss good bras and undies in the laundry. They’re hand wash only.”

“But must you leave them hanging out in the open?” Hell, now I know exactly what size Sophie’s bras are. I’m only human. I looked. How could I not? Particularly when she left that pretty white lace one trimmed in scarlet ribbon, so well constructed, it seemed to hold her shape even though she wasn’t in it.

“You’ve pulled your tie all out of whack,” Liberty says, bringing me back to the present.

I blink down at her for a minute, trying to clear my mind of the fact that Sophie favors satin panties with lace panels that hug her peachy bum to perfection.

Liberty gives me a soft smile. “Here, I’ll fix it. I know how you hate being rumpled.”

She moves to straighten my tie, but I wave her off. “Leave it.”

I hate being fussed over more. But I don’t bother fixing my tie either. I want to pull the damn thing off and toss it in the nearest bin before it strangles me. Liberty looks at me as if I’m off my nut.

“Well,” she says, clearly struggling not to tease. “You could always ask Sophie to send her things out to be dry cleaned.”

And miss the post-wash show? “That would be rude,” I mutter.

Liberty’s expression is too neutral to be serious. “It’s probably a good idea not to tick off your new roommate.”

I shrug, tug at my tie again, then leave off—because fuck all, I will not fidget. “It’s fine. I simply hadn’t thought there would be quite so many…accessories. I’ve never roomed with a woman before.”

It’s too silent. I glance at Liberty to find her grinning. Her grin grows when I glare.

“It’s cute to see you with a girlfriend,” she says.

“What are we, sixteen?” I sneer. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Fine, your lover.”

“Christ. We’re friends. That is all.”

“Right.” She rolls her eyes.

“I told the lot of you to mind your business.”

Liberty laughs. “Oh, come on, Scottie. You brought a woman into your Fortress of Solitude. Did you really think we wouldn’t talk?”

“And what is your role here?” I ask. “Did you draw the short straw to come fact check?”

A grin spreads across her face. “I volunteered. Everyone else is too chicken to ask.”

“Lovely. You can go back and tell the rest of the clucking hens that Sophie and I are just friends.”

“Hey,” Jax says, sauntering up. “That rhymes.”

He gives Liberty a kiss on the cheek. “Killian’s looking for you. You giving Scottie a hard time for us?”

“He’s in a mood now.”

“I’m not in a mood.” I’m lying, and we all know it. Tension locks my jaw and rides down my neck.

“His tie is askew,” Jax says, frowning. “That’s practically undressed.”

Liberty nods, staring at my wrenched tie. “He won’t let me fix it.”

I give them both the finger, which they find hilarious, and walk away. The urge to fix my tie is strong now, but I leave it on principle.

I don’t know where I’m headed. I should find Jules and ask her for a progress update. I’d call her, but I forgot my phone. It unnerves me that I actually left the coach without my phone—didn’t even think about it. My head was filled with…other things.

As if called by my thoughts, Sophie appears at the top of the aisle, her smile wide and fresh, camera case slung over her shoulder, a takeout cup in her hand. “Hey! I’ve been looking for you.”

I don’t stop until I’m close enough for my body to block her from the others’ sight. I don’t want them to see her yet. “Have you?” I ask, peering down at her.

She’s wearing bright red Chucks, worn jeans cuffed wide to her shins, and a white camisole that strains over her breasts. We couldn’t be more incongruously attired if we tried. I drink her in, suddenly so thirsty my mouth dries up.

“Here,” she says, lifting her cup toward me. “I brought you some tea. One sugar, light on the milk.”

I blink in shock. She knows how I take my tea. She brought me tea. Even if it is in a paper cup, which will make it taste like shit.