Managed: A VIP Novel Part 22

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, h.e.l.l."

"I don't...blame her," he grits out. "I simply... Ah, b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, I resented the h.e.l.l 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 encompa.s.s his pain.

A thought occurs to me, and my skin p.r.i.c.kles 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 s.h.i.tty now," I confess. When he glances at me with confusion, I bl.u.s.ter 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. "h.e.l.l, I don't know. I feel like a s.h.i.t 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, cla.s.sism is very much alive. All I had to do was open my mouth to speak and the other students knew I was working cla.s.s."

"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 s.h.i.t?"

"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 c.r.a.p beat out of me when I met Jax." He says it almost fondly. "Jax jumped right in the middle of it, sc.r.a.ppy as a dog. Next thing, Killian, Rye, and Whip were there, pummeling the s.h.i.te 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 bra.s.sed off. Who were these t.o.s.s.e.rs? 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 p.i.s.s 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 w.a.n.kers. Pa.s.sing 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 s...o...b..-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 f.u.c.king 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 s.h.i.t. 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 ma.s.sive 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-a.s.s 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 a.s.s in the car before he can say another word.

Chapter Thirteen.

Gabriel

"Why...the...f.u.c.k...did I agree...to go on this death run with you?" Jax's panting whine is pathetically weak as we make our way through El Retiro Park in Madrid.

"You asked to go," I say, not breaking stride. Perspiration trickles down my skin; my heart pumps steady and sure. "Said you needed the exercise." I glance at Jax stumbling along beside me, his chest shining with sweat. "You weren't wrong."

He gives me the finger, apparently past talking, and I take pity on him, slowing down.

"Enjoy the scenery." I nod toward the manmade pond that reflects the monument to Alfonso XII. Couples row around it, laughing, kissing, or lounging in the sun.

I wonder if Sophie has been here yet. She'd probably head straight for the boat, demanding that I row as she took pictures of it all.

I shake my head. I do not row women around in boats like some sort of cliche sap.

But you'd do it for her. Lie to yourself all you like. You'd do it and love every second.

I tell myself to shut it.

"I can't appreciate the scenery," Jax grumps, "when my legs are on fire and my lungs are waving the white flag. I mean, what the f.u.c.k? I perform every night on stage. For f.u.c.king hours."

Jax doesn't have an ounce of fat on him, but he's kept so much to himself this past year and a half that he's grown weaker than he once was.

"Different type of endurance, mate."

He grumbles, and we fall silent. Despite his complaining, I'm glad he chose to come out with me. Though he never ran with me before, we used to lift weights together, spotting each other because we were of a similar strength then. It was one of the few things we did as friends, without business taking centerstage.

I haven't thought of it until now, but I miss that time with him. I run a few more beats. "Perhaps it's best if you find an alternate form of exercise."

Though I'm not looking his way, I hear his scoff loud and clear. "Don't you dare go easy on me, Scottie boy. I count on you to kick my lazy a.s.s."

It's a struggle to keep a straight face. "Very well then, move that lazy a.r.s.e, and stop complaining."

We pick up our pace once more. Or I do. Jax groans and plods along with terrible form.

The hotel looms in front of us.

"I'm warning you now," I tell him as we pa.s.s slow, strolling people. "I'm taking the stairs to my room."

"Oh, f.u.c.k no," Jax says, looking horrified. "I'm stopping in the lobby." He flashes a rare, wide smile. "I'll pace around panting and guzzling water. Probably take me under a minute to find someone to rub me down."

Of course he will. I'd have to be willfully blind to miss the attention we both receive, even now, as we sweat under the hot Spanish sun. Wherever we go, eyes follow.

I could do the same as Jax. It'd be easy as snapping my fingers to find s.e.xual release. These days, my body is aching for it, my b.a.l.l.s sore from lack of fulfillment. And yet the thought of finding some willing woman in the hotel lobby makes my stomach lurch. Needing s.e.x isn't precisely the problem; it's more an issue of being constantly tempted by one, certain woman.

As soon as we enter the hotel, I leave Jax to his hunting and take the stairs, pushing myself to go faster, harder. My thighs scream in protest, my lungs burning as I pound along. I don't stop. I want the pain. I want to be so exhausted that my body gives up asking for what it can't have, and I can go through the day with an ache in my muscles, not my c.o.c.k.

By the time I get to the room, I'm so spent, I'm nearly stumbling. It's blissfully Sophie-free in the cool of the room. I grab a bottle of water from the mini fridge as I pace around, my chest heaving. My blood rushes through my ears, my vision a haze as I b.u.mble my way into the bath, drinking as I go.

Shoving my shorts down and toeing off my trainers, I turn to reach for the taps and knock down a small laundry basket sitting on the sink.

I rub the sweat out of my eyes and find myself facing yet another batch of Sophie's knickers, now scattered all over the floor in a patchwork rainbow of silk.