Page 3 of Ambiguous
“Hasn’t recorded diddly squat for his new solo album, and the label’s about to drop him or sue him. This is his last chance. They want you and me to explain his obligations to him and babysit him until he finishes. Make him accountable. Document progress. That sort of thing.” His phone rings. “I’ll have Devin email you the contract.” He waves me away.
I nod and go to my office. I set down my briefcase and coffee, hang up my suit jacket, and adjust my bow tie, my neck stiff.
Conflict and unpleasant meetings are part of this job. It’s not the first time I’ve had to lecture the talent. Even famous talent. I spend the next hour reading the contract and highlighting all the penalties that will go into effect if Julian Hill doesn’t get his act together and record the album he’s contracted for.
When it’s time for the meeting, Terrill stops by my office, and we proceed to the medium conference room. Julian is sitting at the end of the table, slouching like a rock god king with his legs stretched out to one side. His expression suggests he’s in charge, even though he’s the one ostensibly in trouble. Next to him sits an older, dark-haired person with short hair and long, sharp, black nails.
Julian takes my breath away. While I’ve met plenty of celebrities, with him I feel this hit to my solar plexus. I freeze, because he’s so hot it’s too much to process.
Dark, perfectly mussed hair. Dark brown eyes. Tan skin.
His black pants are painted on, highlighting his lanky form. He’s wearing heeled black boots with chains on them and a loose, lacy, unbuttoned blouse and piles of long pearl necklaces. Rings on every finger click as he fidgets. His Adam’s apple moves as he drinks from a bottle of water.
He started with a boy band a decade ago. And, while I listen to plenty of pop music, I’ve intentionally ignored him just to piss Emily off. I’m mature like that sometimes. I’m not sure why I even started that—she and I love a lot of the same music and go to concerts together whenever we can, but at some point I decided he was just too cheesy, and then it became athing. Julian is now on his own, the only one from his original group to have a successful solo career.
Of course I’ve heard his music. I’m generally aware of him, because I live in a condo in America and not under a rock cut off from communication with the outside world.
I’ve just never put his songs on voluntarily. Now I wish I knew more about him.
The table’s been set up for the meeting with bottles of fancy water and carafes of coffee. Readying himself for introductions, Julian sets down his water and stands up.
I walk over to shake his hand, and it’s like it happens in slow motion. One second I’m standing, and the next my toe hooks on a chair leg and I go flying. My flailing wrist manages to knock his open bottle of water from the table, and I take him down to the floor in one fell swoop, splashing water all over him as I go.
He lands on the industrial carpet with an “Oomph,” and I end up sprawled on top of him.
Heat singes my cheeks.Oh shit, oh shit.I won’t blame him if he pulls a diva fit after I ruined his clothes. They’re next season’s Gucci.
I start mentally updating my résumé.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, fumbling up to the table to grab a stack of paper napkins from the coffee service while struggling to get off of him as fast as I can.
Julian frowns, and then he jackknifes up to a sitting position, forcing a laugh. His now-wet shirt leaves little to the imagination, revealing the shapes of tattoos scattered all over his chiseled torso. I kneel at his feet and start wiping his pants, only to realize that, yeah, I’m trying to dry off the crotch of a Grammy-nominated recording artist.
“Oh my god,” I repeat. “I’m so sorry.”
I can’t stop dabbing at his crotch.
With a white napkin.
That’s leaving shreds of wet lint.
On his dark designer pants.
I’m making itso much worse—and my reaction to him is getting worse, too. Partly because there’s a bulge underneath that zipper, and it’s not small. Like, notat allsmall. Partly because he smells amazing—like maybe rum and vanilla—which makes my body hum and my cock wake up.
Even though I don’t live my life as a train wreck, apparently it can get derailed in one second flat.
But all those thoughts vanish when his brown eyes focus on mine. His irritation has been shut down, and now I see resigned amusement in his expression. He smirks and runs his fingers through his hair, then puts a large paw on my hand, stopping my movements.
“It’s no biggie, mate. I’m used to people dousing me in water, though security usually keeps them from touching my junk.” Julian Hill has this honeyed British accent, the kind that makes anything he says instantly respectable. I can see the media training click in place, and he gives me the broadest smile I’ve ever seen. A famous smile. He stands up, his pants soaked and covered with the napkin fragments from my attempt to fix my gaffe. I yank my pocket square out of my jacket and make one last-ditch effort to clean him off, realizing too late that I’m on my knees while he’s standing—and this position is perhaps worse than covering him like a blanket. He again puts a hand on my wrist, which is still on his zipper, takes the pocket square, and looks at me with those soul-searching eyes. “There’s no harm done. You didn’t hurt me. Water will dry.”
I swallow hard and am officially starstruck, which isn’t something that happens to me very often.
When I get to my feet, I’m looking at him straight on. He’s within an inch or so of my six foot one. Hard to tell with his heels, but I might be taller than he is. He’s about as lean as me, too, although I think he gets that from running around a stage rather than the way I do it.
I toss the napkins in the closest trash can and stammer, “I can’t believe I did that. Can we get you some, uh, new pants?” I wince.
“That’s not necessary. I’m Jules. Jules Hill. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Like he needs to introduce himself.
