Managed (VIP 2)
“It’s a small world. People talk…”
Listening to her, I reach down and touch the scrap of red fabric playing peek-a-boo with the mattress. It’s silk, and it’s not just red. It’s red and white.
Kati’s voice ebbs and flows in my ear. “…and not just any musicians. Kill John? How the hell did that happen? Do they know about…well, your pictures?”
“They know. We talked it out, and everything is cool.” Biting my lip, I tug at the fabric. It resists for a second, and then yanks free. For a moment, I just stare at the panties dangling in my hand. White with little red cherries on them. My panties.
They’re slightly damp and completely rumpled from being crammed beneath the mattress. On Gabriel’s side of the bed. Unable to resist, I bring them to my nose and take a cautious sniff. They smell like his shower gel.
Gabriel washed my panties? Why?
A naughty thought runs through my head: Gabriel touching my dirty panties and what he might have done with them that would necessitate cleaning.
Oh, yes, please, and can I watch next time?
But, no, he couldn’t have. Not cool, collected Gabriel Scott. Could he?
Maybe he found them on the floor of the bathroom and washed them for me.
But he kept them. Hid them away as if he might… What? Want to use them again?
Flushing hot, I press the cool, damp silk to my cheek. And promptly flush again.
“Sophie? Hello? Are you there?”
“Shit,” I gasp, plunging back into reality. “Sorry. I…ah…dropped the phone down the front of my shirt. I hate when that happens, don’t you?”
Kati laughs. “Goof.”
“Sorry.” I stare at my contraband panties in wonder. “What were you saying?”
“I said Martin has been talking about you being on the Kill John tour.”
All thoughts of panties flee, and I sit up straight, my heart pounding. “What?”
“Yep. He came into my office the other day and started spouting off about how proud he was of you being able to get on the tour. That he didn’t realize you still had it in you to be such an opportunist. His words.” Her tone is dry and disgusted.
“That asshole. I’m not trying to take advantage of the band. I’m in charge of their social media, for fuck’s sake.” That I even have to say so burns. Can a person ever truly shake their past? Or will we always be judged by it?
“If he had a brain in his head, he’d know that,” Kati says, clearly trying to reassure. “I only mentioned it because you know how he gets. He’s interested now and smells a story. I don’t know if he’ll try to make contact. But I thought I’d warn you.”
“Thanks, K.”
I hang up with Kati as soon as I can, because I’m fairly certain I’m going to be sick. Martin and I have been history for a long time. He can’t hurt me. I know this. But just the thought of him brings back the ugliness of who I used to be.
I’m a better person now, someone who takes responsibility for her actions. I’m no longer flitting through life like a modern-day Scarlett, vowing to think about repercussions tomorrow instead of today.
But am I truly different? I still don’t have a set goal in life other than to enjoy it. My natural inclination is to laugh and tease first, be serious later.
Suddenly, I no longer care about pilfered panties or suppressed sexual needs; I want Gabriel to be home. I want to cuddle up and have him hold me. And yet part of me doesn’t want to look him in the eye.
Gabriel isn’t trusting by nature. In this business, he shouldn’t be. And yet I’d been insulted and hurt when he didn’t want me on the tour.
Looking at my past dead in the eye, I understand the full extent of what Gabriel has done by welcoming me into the band—into his life. He let me in, despite my mistakes, and never once has he tried to use me for anything other than comfort and companionship.
He cares about me. He trusts me.
The weight of that settles around my shoulders like a plush blanket. I’d teased him before about being his champion, wanting to lighten the moment and make him smile. But the truth is Gabriel Scott has become my top priority in life. Whatever we are, whatever we’ll be, that will not change.
Chapter Fourteen
Gabriel
* * *
“Which one is better?” Sophie asks, her voice soft in the stillness of the room. “Star Wars or Star Trek?”
We’re lying face to face on the bed in our suite. Just outside the open terrace doors is Barcelona and the harbor. Sounds of laughter from late-night revelers and the occasional cry of gulls drift in with the briny scent of the sea.
In here, however, it is quiet, peaceful. The ambient light from the street below paints Sophie’s curves in a palette of soft blues and grays. There is a gleam of relaxed happiness in her eyes that only I am privy to. Because this is our time, no one else’s.