Gabriel
IT ISN’T difficult to track down Liberty Bell James. I simply go where Killian is, knowing she’ll in the vicinity. At the moment, it’s Charles Ehrmann Stadium in Nice, France–this week’s venue–where Kill John is conducting a sound check.
Liberty is in the center of the hall, comfortably lounging in one of the seats at the end of a row, and apparently playing a game of Candy Crush on her phone.
I lean against the seat in front of her. “A cable network contacted me this morning. They want to use ‘Reflecting Pool’ for the start of one of their shows this season.”
A soft flush runs over her cheeks. The woman isn’t fully comfortable with success, but she’s getting there. “That seems really…commercial.”
No shite. “Actually, a car company wants to use ‘Lemon Drop’, too. I think we ought to say yes to both.”
“Ugh. And have the threat of hearing myself every time I turn on the TV?” Her nose wrinkles.
I cross my arms over my chest, bracing my feet wide. I’ll be here for a while. “We’ll work in a clause to cover how long the commercial can run to avoid overexposure.”
“Missing the point, Scottie.”
“I believe you’re the one missing the point, Mrs. James.” “For the last time, call me Libby or Liberty, Scottie.”
“But you are Mrs. James now. I’m showing you the proper respect.”
She gives me a light punch on the arm. “Your formality is killing me, Mr. Scott.”
“Stick to the matter at hand, please. We need exposure at this point in your career. Car commercials have launched many an artist simply because people hear the song and want to buy it. Need I remind you of Sia?”
“Like I can stop you,” she mutters.
“The program Six Feet Under played ‘Breathe Me’ for one bloody show, and it launched her in the US.”
Liberty’s chin lifts on a stubborn sniff, but I see the capitulation in her eyes.
“I understand you want to keep things low key,” I say. “This is a good way to do it. No talk show appearances, media junkets, and the like. You simply let another massive media source do the work for you.”
I don’t add that I’ll work toward setting up a mini-tour when the public starts clamoring for her. Baby steps are needed with Liberty. But despite her protests, she does love the stage. Killian knows as much, which is why they’ll be performing a few songs together on this tour.
“Fine. Tell them yes.”
“Enthusiasm, Mrs. James. It’s what makes my day.”
She laughs. “Yeah, I just bet it does.” Liberty stands and gives me a long look. “And your nights? How are they doing now that you’ve got yourself a roommate?”
Sly little shit. I want to tell her to mind her business. But now I’m thinking of Sophie. How are things? I wake with my hands full of luscious, warm woman. I smell her on my clothes throughout the day. I barely have a moment’s privacy once I’m on my coach or in a hotel room, and I look forward to that. I’m beginning to hate silence, because it means she’s not there.
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.
As if reading my mind, she snorts, and her mouth quirks. “It’s ceramic, designed to look like a takeout cup.”
“Why on Earth would someone design a cup to look like something it’s not—”
“Just take the tea, sunshine.” She shoves the cup at me, and I have no choice but to obey. While I inspect it, she sighs. “Before you start complaining again, the lid is rubber. You could drink through that little hole, but I know you won’t. Take it off and drink.”
Afraid to disappoint her, I do as directed. The tea is hot, and a bit weak, but it soothes the sudden lump in my throat. I take two more sips before clutching the cup in my hand and staring down at the murky tea. The steam rising from it makes my vision blur. “Thank you.”
“Sure thing. Oh, hey, your tie is all pulled out.”
She sets down her camera bag and reaches for my tie. I lean toward her so she doesn’t have to stand on her toes, and hold still. Or I try to. I find myself listing closer until her lemon-sweet scent fills my lungs and the warmth of her body buffets my skin.
“How did you do this?” she mutters as she tugs at the tie and tucks the length farther down beneath my vest. “You’re never mussed.”
“I don’t remember,” I say, fighting the urge to rest my forehead on hers. “Tough day?”
I think about where we are, and everything clenches cold. “I’ve had better.”
“Well, drink your tea.” She smoothes a hand over my chest and across my shoulders. “Let it work its magic on your British soul.”
Stroke me more. Forever.
But she stops and gives me another happy look. “Oh, I found your phone on the dresser.”
She pulls it out of her pocket and gives it to me.
I stand there, phone in one hand, tea in the other, unable to form words. Sophie pats my shoulder. “Can’t believe you left that behind.”
I can’t believe anything about myself anymore. I don’t know whether to run or grab hold of her and never let go.
“Walk with me?” I ask, pocketing my phone. “Where?”
Anywhere. “Outside. I need air.”
Neither of us mentions that we’re in an outdoor venue. She simply takes my free hand. “Lead on, sunshine.”
 |
Sophie
OUTSIDE THE STADIUM isn’t exactly conducive to a nice walk, as it’s in a fairly industrial area. Of course Gabriel, being Gabriel, texts his driver to pick us up and take take us to a nearby harbor.
It’s gorgeous here: the Riviera sparkling in the sun, palm trees rustling overhead. Gabriel fits right in with his tailored light grey suit, sunglasses covering his eyes, his coal-dark hair swept back from his face. Images of Cary Grant dance in my head.
I’m no Grace Kelly in my jeans and Chucks. But he never makes me feel frumpy or underdressed. Even now, he walks at my side, his hand lightly touching my lower back as he guides me around an older couple strolling along hand in hand.
As soon as we pass them, Gabriel shoves his hands deep into his pockets and stares out over the sea. He’s so pretty against this backdrop it almost hurts to look at him.
But he also appears distracted and unsettled. “You okay, sunshine?”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. “We didn’t have very much money growing up. My father was a mechanic. Originally from Wales, but he settled in Birmingham.”
I have no idea why he’s talking about his dad, but I’m not about to stop him. I know without a doubt that The Book of Gabriel doesn’t open very often, if ever.
“Was? Did he retire?”
He snorts. “Retire would imply that he worked steadily. He never held down a job for very long. He preferred to live on the dole.” Gabriel’s jaw clenches. “I don’t know if he’s alive, actually, since he walked out of my life when I was sixteen.”
“Oh.” I don’t say anything else, sensing that he needs to talk more than I need to question him.
He keeps walking, his pace slow and steady, his eyes to the sea. “My mother was French. Her parents emigrated to Birmingham after her father took a managing position at the Jaguar plant. For a time, she worked as an accountant. She met my when she did the books for one of the shops where he worked.”
“Do you get your love of numbers from her?” I ask softly, because he’s drifted off, his expression tight.
“I suppose I do.” He glances at me. I can’t see his eyes behind the shades. “My mum died when I was fifteen.”
“Oh, Gabriel.” I want to take his hand, but they’re still tucked in his pockets. I wrap my fingers around his thick forearm instead, leaning slightly into him. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “Lung cancer.” A deep breath rattles him. “Rather, she was diagnosed with stage four, non-small cell lung cancer. However…she, ah, decided to take her own way out.”
I stop short, and he does too, since I’m still holding on to him. A lump rises in my throat. “You mean she—”
“Took her own life,” he answers shortly. “Yes.” “Oh, hell.”
“I don’t…blame her,” he grits out. “I simply… Ah, bollocks, I resented the hell out of her for taking what short time we had left away from me. Which is selfish, I know, but there it is.” He spreads his hands as if to encompass his pain.
A thought occurs to me, and my skin prickles in horror. “And then Jax…”
“Yes.” The word is a bullet, his face flushed and full of rage before going blank.
I move to hug him, but he turns and starts walking again, still controlled but his pace faster now.
“As I said, we did not have a lot of money. But Mum always wanted to go back to France. Her parents had died, and she felt a bit lost, I think, missing her country. This one time, Dad piled us into the car and we drove here, to Nice for holiday.” He stops and stares at the sea. “I was ten. It was the last time we went anywhere as a family.”
He lets me take his hand, and his cold fingers twine with mine. I hold him more securely. “I’m sorry, Gabriel.”
Nodding, he keeps his gaze averted. “I remember being happy here. But it brings back other memories I’d rather forget.”
“Of course.”
We don’t say anything for a while, simply walk.
“I feel shitty now,” I confess. When he glances at me with confusion, I bluster on. “I went on and on, complaining about my mom showing up, and what a pain my parents are—”
“And I loved hearing about it,” he cuts in. “Don’t you dare think otherwise. And don’t you dare pity me. I won’t stand for it.”
“It’s not pity,” I say softly, squeezing his hand. “I just…” Ache for you.
“Hell, I don’t know. I feel like a shit just because, okay?”
He chuffs out a half-laugh. “Well, okay. And I do have a family.” “The guys and Brenna?”
“Yes.” His hand slips from mine, and he clears his throat. “After Mum, well, Dad was around even less. But I’d always done well in school. I received scholarship for an independent school. You’d know it as a prep or boarding school, I suppose.”
“I know Harry Potter,” I offer.
He almost smiles. “I think we’d all have preferred Hogwarts.” “Was it bad?”
“It wasn’t good,” he says with a touch of asperity. “I don’t know how much you know about Britain, but whether we admit it or not, classism is very much alive. All I had to do was open my mouth to speak and the other students knew I was working class.”
“You?” I have to laugh. “You sound like Prince William to me.”
His ghost of a smile is bitter. “Mimicry. You learn to adapt to survive. And there are days I hate the sound of it coming out of my mouth. Because I ought to have stayed true to myself. At the time, however, I just wanted to fit in. Didn’t work, though.”
“Did they give you shit?”
“Scholarship Scott with his dad on the dole? Of course. And I was a bit of a runt until I hit twenty. Stick thin and about six inches shorter.”
I have to grin at that, imagining Gabriel in his puppy youth, all awkward angles and blooming male beauty.
“I was having the crap beat out of me when I met Jax.” He says it almost fondly. “Jax jumped right in the middle of it, scrappy as a dog. Next thing, Killian, Rye, and Whip were there, pummeling the shite out of anyone left standing.”
He looks up at me and laughs, the first truly amused sound I’ve heard from him since our walk began. “I was brassed off. Who were these tossers? They didn’t know me. Why help?”
My throat constricts. “You’d never had anyone help you just because it was the right thing?”
Eyes the color of the sea meet mine. “No. At any rate, I told them to piss off.”
“But they didn’t.”
“Of course not. Firstly, they’d heard I could secure dope—” My steps halt. “You? Smoking up? No.”
“How very scandalized you sound, Darling,” he says, fighting a small smile. “I was a teenager stuck in boarding school with a bunch of elitist wankers. Passing through some of those long hours in a haze was part of survival.”
“I’m now picturing you slouched on a couch, doing bong hits.” I grin at the thought. “Did you get Scooby-snack cravings?”
He looks at me blandly. “Yes, but only after riding around in the Mystery Machine, searching for villains. Hard work, that.”
Snickering, I start walking again. “So after you became the guys’ supplier?”
“Hilarious,” he mutters. “And it wasn’t about drugs. Not really. They were outcasts in a way too. They came from money, but they were all either half-American or had lived there for a majority of their lives.”
“I can see that. They all basically sound American. Especially Killian and Rye. I mean, sometimes I hear a faint English accent when Jax speaks,” I say, thinking back on our conversations. “And Whip has a slight Irish lilt.” “Jax and Whip—or John and William, as they were known back then— spent more of their time in the UK than Killian and Rye, so that isn’t surprising. At any rate, they decided I was worth adopting, and they
wouldn’t go away. I was doomed.” “Poor baby.”
Gabriel stops and turns toward the breeze coming in from the water. “It’s…hard letting people in. My dad was a drunk, almost never home. Mum was gone. And here were these four rich boys trying to take me in like I was Oliver fucking Twist.”
“And yet here we are,” I say softly.
He nods, almost absently. “Some things are hard to resist, no matter how badly you try to maintain your distance.” He begins walking again, back toward the waiting town car. “I spent summers at Jax’s house, went on holiday with Killian or Rye or Whip’s family. And I saw how life could be.” We near the car, and he glances my way. “And when they began their band, their talent was brilliant, even then. But their organization was shit. So I stepped in, promised their parents I would do my mates right. Always.”
I stop short. “Gabriel.”
He stops as well, his brow quirking. Framed against the French Rivera, the massive yachts and sleek sailboats resting in crystalline waters, his pale suit cut to perfection and highlighting his dusky skin, he looks every inch the international playboy. I can’t even picture him poor and struggling. Until I meet his eyes.
Such beautiful eyes. But the fine lines around them, and the weariness that always seems to linger in those stark depths, tell me a new story now. All he knows is to fight and protect, both himself and those loyal to him.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
He blinks, a slow sweep of long lashes, and his expression goes blank. “I mean it.” I take a step closer. “None of it. Not your mom. Not Jax.”
It’s as if I’ve slapped him. His head jerks back, and his lips flatten. For a second, I think he might shout at me. But then he gives me a one of those fake-ass polite looks he saves for sponsors and record executives.
“This conversation has run away from me. I hadn’t meant to go on a poor-me walk down memory lane.”
“Stop.” I touch his cheek and find him so tense, I imagine he might shatter. “We don’t have to talk about this any more. But I’m not backing down from what I said. We can’t control the actions of others. It will never happen. We can only control our own. Kill John would not be what they are
without you. And those guys wouldn’t love you like they do if you weren’t worthy.”
His shoulders don’t lose their starch. If anything, he seems to harden all over, his armor forming right in front of my eyes. But then the corner of his mouth lifts.
“Is this how it’s going to be?” he asks in a slightly husky voice. “You championing me, whether I want it or not?”
“Someone has to do it, sunshine.” I give his cheek a gentle pat then get my ass in the car before he can say another word.
