Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109637 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109637 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Brenna gives me a long, hard look. “This is the chance of a lifetime. You know it. I know it. Don’t you dare puss out because of a little adversity. Trust me, I speak from experience when I say you’ll regret it.”
I could answer a dozen different ways, from angry to self-pitying. Outside this jewel box of a room, the famous and powerful are having coffee and plotting their lives. I’m in London, being offered the chance to tour Europe with one of my favorite bands. It will be awkward, and facing Gabriel again will definitely be its own brand of torture.
Life in New York would be easier. Familiar.
Not personal, my ass.
“Fuck it,” I say. “I’m in.”
Chapter Five
Gabriel
* * *
It takes me two minutes and thirty-six seconds to exit the conference room, leave the hotel, and walk to the end of the block. I know because I count each second. I walk steadily and with purpose.
And if my hand trembles a little, no one fucking sees it because I’ve tucked it into my pocket. Problem solved.
Lesson one in business: to every problem there is a solution.
Lesson two: never get emotional.
Never get emotional.
The instant I turn the corner, my control starts to crumble. I bobble a step. A red haze falls over my vision. Another step and I’m panting. I spy a newspaper stand and suddenly I’m kicking it.
“Fucking shit!” I give the metal stand a rough slap as well before I begin pacing.
“I had the same reaction, dude.”
The sound of Killian’s voice stops me cold. He’s lounging against a cheese monger’s shop and drinking a carryout coffee. “I kicked the shit out the garbage bin there.”
Next to the newsstand there’s a dented bin. I snort, though I can’t truly find the humor in anything. “Of all the garbage bins and newsstands…”
“You’re the one who walked to my spot,” Killian points out.
I look down the street. “Where’s Libby?”
“Giving me time to cool off.” Killian laughs without amusement. “I’m not allowed to return to the hotel until I’m ready to apologize to the pap.”
“Her name is Sophie.” Don’t think of her. Don’t fucking do it. But it’s impossible to blot out what I’ve said to her. Rage flows through me again. I grind my teeth and count to ten. Slowly.
Lesson three: Act on behalf of your client, not yourself. I handled the situation like I’ve always done—decided what was best for the band. Protected them first and foremost, putting aside personal needs.
Bullshit. Everything is personal.
Oh, how I know it now, chatty girl.
It should have been a simple thing, dealing with this issue. I barely know the woman. The lines of risk are clear. She could easily upset the balance we’ve struggled to restore.
That didn’t explain why each word out of my mouth to her felt like fucking acid on my tongue. Or the way the hurt in her eyes had nearly made me physically ill. I’d barely managed to get through that interview from hell without punching a wall.
And then I’d simply left her. Walked away without a backward glance, leaving her feeling like scum, as though she were unworthy of any of us.
“Cockless git,” I mutter, fighting the urge to kick something again.
“You have to find a way to forgive Jax.” Killian takes a sip of coffee. “That’s what Libby told me. I thought I had. But he keeps finding ways to piss me off.”
Hands low on my hips, I study the scuff on my shoe. I don’t bother correcting Killian’s assumption. I’m not angry at Jax for arranging that Sophie arrive on the scene. I understand him. He wanted a testament to what he’d done. Or perhaps he didn’t really want to die at all, but for someone to find him before it was too late.
I can’t be sure, but I’m not going to rail at him for being human. A sigh escapes me, and I run a hand over my face. I haven’t had a proper sleep in weeks, and exhaustion is catching up on me. Around us, Londoners make their way down the street toward the nearby Tube station. It’s already overcast and chilly.
A mother pushes her child along in a gray pram, and stops at a bookstore window. There used to be a picture of my mother kneeling beside me in my pram. I was probably two, and even then I had a surly expression. But my mother beamed at me as though I were her world.
I rub a hand across my aching chest.
Jax, Killian, Whip, and Rye gave me friendship when I had none, a family when mine had gone. They gave my life purpose—a job I love and experiences few people on Earth ever have. In return, I vowed that I’d always protect their interests. I’ve done a shit job the last few years. I can do better. I must do better.