Managed: A VIP Novel Part 46

"I still can't believe you bought a house here."

"Twenty f.u.c.king hours in a plane to get to Australia. You'd better believe I'm taking my time about going back to London. We might as well be comfortable for the interim."

"Hey, a good many of those hours were spent f.u.c.king, so it couldn't have been that bad."

This is true. Struggling to be quiet, and the fear of being caught, made for some truly spectacular make-up s.e.x. I'm such a fan now, I plan on bickering with Sophie tonight in some public place so we can find a way to do it again.

"You know, I might be cured of my fear of plane travel," I tell her, bending to kiss the curve of her neck. "However, we'll have to conduct experiments on our return trip to make certain."

Sophie nudges her sweet a.r.s.e back against my waking c.o.c.k. He stirs, wanting to say h.e.l.lo.

"I hear there's a first-cla.s.s flight that now has a full shower on board." Her hands reach back and slide up my hips. "That could be interesting."

"Sod it, let's shower now," I demand, inching up the hem of her skirt.

Rye's voice breaks through my happy bubble. "Oh, G.o.d, my eyes. They burn."

I sigh against Sophie's skin. "Why did I invite them here again?"

"Because you love them," she whispers against my cheek.

"I love you. I tolerate them."

"I want the old Scottie back," Whip whines.

Sophie laughs at that.

"Jesus," I grumble. "They're all behind us, aren't they?"

She cranes her head to look around me. "Yep. All of them."

"Scottie has left the building," Jax tells them. "You now have Gabriel to contend with, and he appears to be a randy b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

At that, I smile, because he isn't wrong. "It'll happen to you too, John."

"Don't count on it."

Poor sod, he doesn't know what he's missing.

Finally, I turn and tuck Sophie against my side. Jax, Rye, Killian, Liberty, Brenna, and Whip have all managed to leave their appointed rooms and congregate in the ma.s.sive living room.

Killian and Libby are tucked up on the sofa as Brenna hands out some sort of fruity-looking c.o.c.ktail. They've taken over my house. And it isn't uncomfortable or strange to see. It feels right. It feels good.

Rye and Whip appear to be bringing out a small drum kit and portable keyboard. Only then do I notice that Jax and Killian have their guitars.

"Planning to sing for your supper?" I ask.

Jax plucks at his guitar's strings. "For Sophie." He gives her a wink. "Because she's the best hostess."

She blows him a kiss.

"Any requests?" Jax asks.

"Yes." I lean in to tell him the song I have in mind, adding, "'From me to you."

He shakes his head, grinning wide. "No, man, that one is definitely from me to you."

I pull Sophie onto my lap, and we make ourselves comfortable in a low-slung chair as the guys fiddle with their instruments. Though I rarely let it show, hearing my mates play, seeing their progression from b.u.mbling lads who could barely coordinate a sound to seasoned musicians who create transcendent music, fills me with pride.

Sophie lights up as they begin to play "With a Little Help From My Friends."

"Beatles for joy," I tell her softly.

Her head rests on my shoulder, and she places a hand over my heart. "And for love."

I close my eyes and let the music wash over me. "Always for love."

Thank You!

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Take a look at IDOL

If you haven't read IDOL, book one in the VIP series, here's a little peek:

Liberty

There's a b.u.m on my lawn. Maybe I should use a better term, something more PC. Homeless person? Vagrant? Nope, I'm going with b.u.m. Because I doubt he's actually homeless or without means. His current state seems more a choice than a situation.

The big black-and-chrome Harley that's smashed into my poor front fence is proof enough of some wealth. f.u.c.ker tore the h.e.l.l out of my lawn on its way down. But it isn't the bike's fault.

I glare at the b.u.m. Not that he'd notice.

He's sprawled on his back, arms akimbo and clearly down for the count. I might wonder if he's dead, but his chest lifts and falls in the steady pattern of deep sleep. Maybe I should worry about his health, but I've seen this before. Too many times.

G.o.d, he stinks. The cause of his stench is obvious. Sweat soaks his skin. Vomit trails down his black T-shirt.

My lip curls in disgust, and I swallow rapidly to keep from gagging. A snarl of long, dark brown hair covers his face, but I'm guessing the dude is youngish. His body is big but lean, the skin on his arms firm. Which somehow makes him all the more depressing. Prime of his life, and he's fall-down drunk. Lovely.

I pick my way around him, muttering about drunk-driving a.s.sholes, and then march back with hose in hand, taking careful aim. Water shoots out at high speed, hitting its target with a satisfying hiss and splatter.

The b.u.m jerks and rears up, sputtering and flailing around, searching for the source of his torment. I don't let up. I want that stench gone.

"Get off my lawn." Because he's filthy all over, I aim lower, drenching his pants and crotch.

"Mother f.u.c.ker!" He has a deep voice, and it's raw. "Would you f.u.c.king stop?"

"Yeah...no. You smell like s.h.i.t. And I sincerely hope you did not actually s.h.i.t yourself, bud, because that is a seriously low point to come to."

I draw the jet of water up his lean body to his head. Long, dark hair whips in all directions as he sputters again.

And then he roars. The sound rings my ears, and really ought to put the fear of G.o.d in me. But he's too weak to stand. One muscled forearm swings up, though, slapping the wet hanks of hair back from his face.

I get a glimpse of dark eyes blazing with confused rage. Time to wrap this up. Letting go of the spray nozzle, I lower my weapon. "Like I said, get off my lawn."

His jaw ticks. "Are you f.u.c.king insane?"

"I'm not the one covered in vomit and laid out on a stranger's property."

My lawn b.u.m glances around like he's just realized he's on the ground. He doesn't spare his clothes notice. Seeing as they're soaked to his skin, he's probably well aware of their state.

"Here's a tip," I say, tossing down my hose. "Don't be such a cliche."

This gives him visible pause, and he blinks up at me, water running in rivulets over his cheeks and into his thick beard. "You don't know me enough to slap a label on me."

I snort. "Literally fall-down drunk, crashing your bike-which I somehow doubt you actually ride other than on weekends. Over-long hair, a face that hasn't seen the business end of a razor in weeks-again, probably because you want the world to believe you're a bada.s.s." I glance at his arms. Strong, ropy with muscles. "The only thing I don't see are tattoos, but maybe you've got 'Mom' plastered on your b.u.t.t for color."

An indignant sound leaves him. Almost a laugh but too full of anger to fully get there. "Who are you?"

It's impressive, the layers of disdain he manages to get into that one question. Especially given the state I found him in. Humility certainly doesn't stick to this guy. Unlike his smell, unfortunately.

"The person whose land you f.u.c.ked up. I'd slap you with a bill, but I don't want to come too close to the stench." Wiping my wet hands on my jeans, I give him one last glare. "Now go on and get before I call the police."

It's safe to say I'm worked up now. I march back up the long drive to my house instead of walking with quiet dignity as I'd planned. But it feels good; my pace is freeing. I've been so quiet these past few months. So contained.

So maybe I have something to thank Mr. Arrogant Drunk for.

However, my charity does not extend to him following me. Which he does. I see him rise in my peripheral vision. He wobbles, then steadies before peeling off his shirt and slapping it to the ground.

A strip show. Great.

I pick up my pace, cursing that my driveway is so long-at least two hundred feet from curb to doormat.

Another movement and he's flung a boot my way. I glance back, slightly alarmed. And there go his pants. Six-feet-something of sinewy, p.i.s.sed off, naked male starts stalking up behind me. There are the tattoos I'd guessed at. Or rather, one ma.s.sive one of swooping, intersecting lines that covers his upper left arm and torso.

I concentrate on that instead of the heavy length of his d.i.c.k hanging between his legs, swaying like a pendulum with each step he takes toward me.

I glare over my shoulder. "You come any farther up my drive and I'll shoot you."

"You would have a shotgun, wouldn't you, Elly May," he snaps back. "Talk about a cliche. All you need is a pair of overalls and a piece of straw to chew on."

I can't help myself, I spin around. "Are you calling me a country b.u.mpkin?"

He halts too. Hands low on his hips, utterly unashamed of his nakedness, my lawn b.u.m stands there, glaring at me like he owns the world. "Are you saying you aren't, Huckleberry Pie?"

Heat swims over my skin. I stride right up to him-well, not too near; I'm still afraid of the stench. Up close, I can admit that he isn't bad looking. Past all the scruff, bloodshot onyx eyes, and pasty morning-after complexion, he has blunt but even features, and lashes long enough to make a girl envious. This just makes me angrier.

"Listen, buddy, stalking a woman while naked can be construed as an act of s.e.xual intimidation."

He snorts. "That speaks volumes for your s.e.x life, Elly May. But don't you worry. Even if I had the slightest interest in doing you, I have a nice case of whisky d.i.c.k working, so nothing's getting up right now."

"Happens a lot, does it?" I wrinkle my nose, refusing to look down. "And you talk about my s.e.xual deficiencies."

A glint comes into his eyes, and I could swear he wants to laugh. But he smirks instead, his lip curling in annoyance. "Give me an hour and some coffee, and then we can talk about it all you want."

"Next thing you know, you'll be demanding breakfast too."

A cheeky smile lights him up. "Well, now that you mention it..."