Page 68 of Ambiguous
I lean in and kiss him. It’s more than a peck, but we’re not tangling tongues. It’s just… a real kiss. A kiss that saysThank youandYou’re amazingand…
He kisses back. Holds me behind my neck and pulls me to him, then breaks away and groans. Against my lips, he says, “I absolutely love kissing you.”
“I’m forgetting all the reasons why we shouldn’t do this,” I admit. “It feels right.”
“When I finish this album,” he murmurs, “we’re going to continue this.”
“That’s all I want,” I say. He reaches over and kisses me again, and it’s a dangerous kiss, full of promises and still not enough.
CHAPTER24
Jules
The next morning, I lie in bed humming. After Sam left, I jotted down another song. Before I can go down to my studio to flesh it out, my phone buzzes with a text from James.
Winterthorn: How goes the celestial life, star?
Jules: Hi, nice to hear from you James
Jules: Can I call you?
Winterthorn: Like, on the phone?
Jules: Yes, an actual telephone call
Winterthorn: Are you secretly 96 years old?
Jules:
Winterthorn: Oh all right
I hit the button, and he answers immediately, his accent sounding like home. “Have they figured you out yet?”
Typical. James always launches immediately into whatever it is he’s thinking about. Sometimes it takes a moment to catch up.
The sun streams into the room, and I yawn. “Figured out what?”
“That you’re actually lip-synching, and your drummer is the real talent.”
I laugh and roll over on my bed, noticing how empty it is, so I get up and start pacing. “How are you, Jamie?”
He lets out a loud, put-upon sigh. “So many signs. So little time.”
“Nothing’s changed, then?”
“Only the venue.”
“Good to know.”
I went to comprehensive school with James, so he knew me before everything. When I became famous, people either dropped me, assuming I was too busy to see them—often I was—or tried to get close in a way that felt fake. Jamie’s never been like that.
He’s also a delinquent inspired by Banksy. I think he’s made it his mission to leave no sign in the world without his Felix the Cat stencil.
Yes, my best friend’s a street artist. A tagger.
While I know him from the UK, he now lives about a half-day drive up the California coast. Some distant relative left him a mechanic’s shop, and he spends his days fixing cars and his nights tagging redwoods or tall bushes or something. I don’t know what’s up there for him to spray-paint. But he keeps me grounded and reminds me where I’m from.
He was also that first kiss I told Sam about.
