Page 16 of Ambiguous
Sam: Me, too. And not just because it’s my job.
Jules: If all of your texts are going to be as kind as this one, I think you’re fine to just ask how it’s going
Jules: Or I can tell you
Jules: Once I’ve got something new done
Sam: Please do. I’d love to hear all about it. Actually, I think the creative process is magical. There’s some alchemy going on that I don’t fully understand.
Jules: Then I’ll let you in and see how the wizard works
Jules: Only I don’t use a wand
Jules: Well, not that kind of wand
Jules: Shit, that was inappropriate. Sorry
Sam: Don’t worry. And yes, I would love it if you showed me.
Sam: The songs, I mean.
Sam: OMG never mind.
Sam: I’m just worried about interrupting your process.
Jules: Relax, Sam. You’re no interruption. I’m happy to have you along for the ride
I fixate on that word, “ride,” remembering how he felt in my hand. And wondering if he felt anything, too.
CHAPTER7
Jules
The ocean breeze tangles my hair, and the sun beats down on my bare shoulders as I pace on the uppermost balcony of my beach house. It’s late in the afternoon on an utterly gorgeous day, but I can’t take the time to enjoy it, because I need to get a song written. Or ten.
I stare out at the Pacific Ocean.
Okay, music. Come to daddy.
The music does not, in fact, come to daddy. Perhaps because it knows that’s not my kink.
Slinging myself into a sleek patio chair, I pick up a pencil and doodle in a notebook.
What the hell am I going to do? It’s been a long day of me plunking away on a piano and a guitar, with nothing to show for it.
I look up. No one’s on the beach. Maybe a ramble would help. I’m not jailed here.
While I relinquished my anonymity the moment I became famous, a perk of making a lot of money is that I can buy privacy. This house is at the upper end of Malibu’s twenty-something-mile coastline, and I bought the lots on either side. There’s no one to the north for miles. The property is also away from the highway, so for the most part, I can avoid being bothered by the paparazzi. The security system and the guard at the gate help, too. By state law, anyone can walk on the beach, but since it’s a bit of a hike to get to it without crossing private property, it’s usually pretty quiet.
I race down three flights of stairs, grab a baseball cap and sunglasses, and exit to the beach below.
The sand’s hot, so I go to where it’s wet and let the fingers of the tide lap at my feet. A seagull caws overhead.
Could I write a song about the beach?
Ugh. Overdone.
I stare at the sea.Okay, sea, deliver me a song.
