We enter a room, and a group of men turn our way en masse. My first thought is that maybe Gabriel and Brenna run a modeling agency, because they’re all gorgeous in their own way. But then I really look at them, and horror hits me with a cold slap. I know these guys. I know them well.
Kill John. The biggest rock band in the world. My eyes flit over them. Their expressions range from welcoming to mildly curious to sexually interested. Rye Peterson, the bassist, massively muscled and boyishly handsome, gives me an open grin. Whip Dexter, the drummer, nods politely. Jax Blackwood, the infamous guitarist and sometime singer is the curious one, though he doesn’t seem upset.
I shy away from his green gaze, feeling ill and unsteady on my feet.
Then there’s Killian James. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark expression. He stood as we entered, his head cocking as if trying to place me.
My heart starts to pound. Fuck. I need to get out of here.
I take a step back and collide with a body. The scent of expensive cologne and fine wool hits my nostrils.
“Going the wrong way, chatty girl,” Gabriel murmurs in my ear, gently nudging me forward.
But I need to escape.
Killian is still staring at me like a nearly solved puzzle. At his side is a pretty woman with dark blond hair—the woman who was eating breakfast earlier. She’s Liberty Bell, I realize with a start. Killian’s wife and a singer in her own right. I should have recognized her sooner. I should have realized that good things do not, in fact, happen to me.
I glance at Gabriel. He’s wearing his neutral fa?ade, but there’s a small glimmer of encouragement in his eyes. I don’t want to look away from him. He’ll be gone soon enough, and it hurts. Too much for such a short acquaintance.
Brenna is introducing me. She takes the portfolio from my nerveless fingers and hands it to the guys. “Sophie used to be a photojournalist—”
Killian makes a strangled sound before exploding. “Oh, fuck no! Now I recognize her. Are you kidding me with this shit?” He takes a step in my direction, anger infusing his cheeks with red. “You have some nerve coming here, lady.”
I hold my ground, even though my pride is imploding. I don’t know any other way.
But Gabriel puts himself between us. “Calm yourself,” he snaps at Killian. “Ms. Darling did not come here to be harassed.”
“Oh, that’s fucking rich,” Killian says with a sneer. His eyes are not kind. “Isn’t that a pap’s job?”
The other guys look confused.
“Kills, man,” Rye says. “Ease up. Lots of people are photojournalists without being a sleazy paparazzi.”
Oh, if only that were true of me.
“No.” Killian slashes a hand through the air. “She’s not just a pap. She’s the one who took those pics of Jax. Weren’t you, honey? Think I didn’t see you there, with your fucking camera? Shoving it in my face when he was fucking dying on me?”
Gabriel’s head snaps up. “What?”
“You heard me. It was her. She was the one who sold those pictures of Jax.”
“Impossible,” Gabriel spits out. “Martin Shear sold those pictures. I ought to know; I spent the better part of a year having our lawyers go after that tosspot.”
He lifts a hand as if to say he rests his case. I can’t decide if he’s trying to rationalize my actions or if he’s just that logical. I’m afraid it’s the latter. His cold demeanor hasn’t thawed. And he’s waiting for an answer, his brow quirked in that arrogant, impatient way.
I take a shallow breath. “Martin was my boyfriend at the time.”
Gabriel’s head rears back as if I’ve slapped him. The look on his face, the utter disappointment mixed with growing disgust—I’m ruined in his eyes. I can see that clearly. I don’t blame him. I’m disgusted too. It’s amazing how low a person craving love can sink when she thinks she’s found it.
If the ground could swallow me up now, I’d be grateful. But it wouldn’t change the thick, gritty sludge of regret that fills my insides every time I think about that night, about taking those pictures of Jax Blackwood, unconscious and covered in vomit. I can still hear Killian shout his name as security rushed in. I’d been so blind then, only focused on my next paycheck, egged on by Martin to never think of the subject as human but as potential dollar signs.
I’d been the ugliest, darkest version of myself. So confused and lost. And now that past is staring me in the face.
“Martin was—is—a dickbag,” I say. “I know this now. At the time…well, I don’t really have a good excuse. I met him at a low point, and he had a strange sort of charisma. He made his job sound fun: easy money, providing a service for fans.”
Several annoyed scoffs sound in the room.
“They were the lies I let myself believe,” I admit. “I wanted to quit, but I hadn’t found anything else to do. And then that night happened. When I got home, I told Martin where I’d been. He was…” I clear my throat. “He was over-the-moon happy, said those pictures would have me set financially for at least a year.”