Managed (VIP 2)
His dark eyes are suddenly solemn, and I know he’s about to gut me. “She missed you when you weren’t here. As much as you hide, Sophie sees right through it and still cares. Don’t fuck that up, man. Trust me on this.”
I don’t nod. I don’t have anything to say. I’ve already fucked it all up.
* * *
Sophie
* * *
“You’re taking the night off.” Brenna’s tone brooks no argument.
Doesn’t mean I’m not going to try. “That’s ridiculous,” I say, dabbing a bit of her concealer beneath my eyes. No way in hell am I allowing Gabriel to see me with puffy, bruised eyes.
I haven’t cried over him, but I did spend a good chunk of last night drinking vodka tonics and cursing his name while a sympathetic Brenna and Jules agreed that the man can suck it. “I’m fine.”
Brenna slicks on a deep plum lipstick before handing me a tube of rosy red. “I know. Doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy a night off.”
We stare at each other’s reflection in the mirror of Brenna’s bathroom, both of us wearing stubborn expressions.
Jules pops her head in. “Yeah, read a book, watch cheesy movies.”
Cheesy movies just makes me think of Gabriel and his threat to force a Star Trek marathon on me. Less than twenty-four hours, and I miss him like a lost limb.
“If I stay here,” I tell them, “I’ll go batty.”
Brenna smoothes her hair into her trademark high ponytail. “So go to the concert and enjoy it as a fan.”
The idea doesn’t sit well with me; I’ve been hired to do a job, not wuss out because my feelings have been hurt.
Unfortunately, if I want to work, I have to go back to the bus and get my equipment. That’s not happening. Maybe I am a wuss, because I need to lick my wounds a little longer.
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
Brenna is at least three sizes smaller than I am, and Jules is four inches shorter.
“Excuses, excuses,” Jules says. “I’ll find you something. Hold up.”
Her bright head disappears, and then she comes back with a flowing green, stretchy jersey skirt and white tank top. “The skirt is mid-calf on me so it will probably be at your knees, but it’s better than chocolate ice cream-stained clothes.” She grins wide, showing her dimples.
“Don’t remind me.” Last night ended with a raid on their emergency ice cream stash. I’m still feeling a little queasy.
I put on the skirt and top and frown down at myself. “I look like I’m headed to the beach.”
“You look hot,” Jules says, giving my butt a slap. “I’m off. A certain man who shall not be named just texted that he’s at the stadium, and he gets pissy if his employees aren’t on time.”
She shakes her head, but there’s no real irritation in her expression. If I’m not mistaken, she looks eager to start her night as she hurries off. I envy her.
With a suppressed sigh, I run a hand through my hair. Still rose gold, it falls in waves to the tops of my shoulders. A small line of darker blond roots shows. I’ll have to pick another color soon, but at the moment, I’m just tired.
“Fine, I’ll go,” I tell Brenna. “But I’m doing so under protest.”
She smiles. “So noted. And look, about Scottie…”
“Don’t worry,” I cut in, not liking the pity in her eyes. “I’m over it.”
“No, you aren’t.” She shakes her head, smiling softly. “But that’s okay. He’s…well, yes, he can be an ass, but he’s one of the best people I know. Behind all that starch is a marshmallow who any one of us would kill for.”
I slump against the counter. “I know that. Too well, unfortunately. It’s just the asshole part is getting in the way at present. How do you let yourself care for someone who won’t let you in?”
Brenna’s pretty face closes up, and she makes a production of quickly putting her makeup back in her travel case. “I think we’d all be happier if we knew the answer to that question.”
“Hell. Let’s just go back to ‘men can suck it’ and leave it at that for now.”
Brenna laughs. “Yeah, except part of the problem is that we love it when men suck it.”
“True.”
Laughing together, we head out for the venue. And I pretend the whole way that I’m not both dreading and anticipating seeing Gabriel again.
Having worked multiple concerts at this point, I know the places he haunts backstage and how to avoid him. That doesn’t stop me from catching glimpses of his sharp, stern profile now and then. And each time I do, my stomach cramps, and my heart gives an unruly thump.
I want to look longer, but I know he’ll notice me if I do. I swear the man has a sixth sense that way. Even skulking in the shadows, I can tell he’s scanning the area, a dark scowl on his face. Looking for me? Or just in his usual work mode? It’s hard to tell without studying him for too long.