Page 43 of Fame and Obsession

Great.

Apparently, I just agreed to a date with my stalker.

Thirteen

Julian

Helena’s taste in office décor mirrors her management style—efficient and bullshit-free. However, since she’s called me in on a Sunday, the air is about to become anything but calm.

Helena has a few bones to pick, and I have no clue which ones she’s going for first.

My manager is punctual to a fault, but today she’s playing an offensive strategy I know by heart. She’s kept me waiting—on edge and unable to read her face.

She wants me to squirm.

I can still see the pissed off look on her face—the one that lasted the rest of the album release party. We even did a three-song encore to appease her and the suits. It didn’t matter. She still looked like she wanted to tie my balls into balloon animals.

Perusing her office, one of the magazines catches my eye. Vinyl is a fairly important entertainment magazine, and I’d done a few interviews for them. It’s no Rock World, but the exposure is worth its weight in gold. Vinyl may have a smaller circulation, but it has something Rock World and Entertainment Monthly doesn’t—the sharp wit and amazing curves of Phoebe Ryan.

Well, not for long if everything goes as planned today.

Miss Ryan is in for a rude awakening if she thinks she’s seen the last of me. Last night, I was already three steps ahead of her.

“Are we adding kleptomaniac to our list of offenses, Julian?”

I glance up to find Helena standing beside the chairs, one hand on her hip, the other resting on the wooden backing. The corners of her mouth tighten as she rakes her eyes over me.

“You need a little lawlessness in your life, Helena.” I swipe the stapler from her desk and toss it in the air. “It keeps you young.”

“You make me age well before my years. Have a seat.” She points to the chair she’s leaning against. “On this side of my desk, please. I believe I’ll be the manager today, and you can be the habitual pain in my ass.”

I can’t make it easy for her. “I prefer to stand.”

She stalks past me in a blaze of copper hair. “And I prefer not to be made to look like an ass. Now, park it.”

Conceding, I place the stapler back on her desk and sit in my appointed chair. “Helena—”

“What the hell, Julian?” she demands, collapsing into her large wingback chair.

“Tell me how you really feel.”

“I’m about to,” she says, accusation gleaming in her eyes. “Never, in fifteen years of management, has an artist pulled a stunt like you did.”

I smile. “The improvised cover of Enter Sandman was fucking phenomenal, wasn’t it?”

Truthfully, I have no idea why I’m pushing the issue. The stage antics were a little over the top.

Leaning across the desk, she shoves her finger in my face. “You don’t get to be cute, Julian. Do you know what kind of tap dance I had to perform to smooth things over with that venue guy? He wanted your balls on a skewer.” She falls back into her chair with a groan. “I should have handed them over on a dinner plate if I had half a brain.”

What I did was risky. I knew shit would hit the fan by walking off the stage, even with the video playing. I had half a second to make a decision, and I made it. I knew Phoebe recognized me, and I thought she knew why she was really there.

Apparently, her boss hadn’t dropped the news on her.

“It won’t happen again.”

“You’re damn right it won’t happen again. Know why?” Extending her arms across the desk, she leans in for emphasis. “Because if you pull that shit again, I’m gone. It’s not just your ass on the line.”

“I wouldn’t have done it without good reason,” I mutter.

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