Page 9 of Ambiguous
“What?” I ask, feeling even more defensive.
“I’ve always known underneath that perfect veneer you’re a fighter. Scrappy. Independent. But now I think you’re a lover, too.” She rubs her hands together. “Oooh, boy. I’m gonna have so much fun seeing the moment when you get out of denial and fall in love. Call me, okay? I want to be there.”
“Whatever,” I mutter. Then I give her a smile. She smiles back, and I know all is well. I decide to change the subject. “Cute color,” I say, pointing to her olive-green sweater. “It’s very pea soup.”
“Goes with this.” She pans the camera down to show me her pearls, shorts, fishnets, and penny loafers, then gives me a red-lipsticked smile full of teeth.
“You look like grandma got run over by a goth.”
She beams. “Aww, thanks. And thanks for telling me all about JH. I gotta go, but I’m gonna have nice dreams tonight.”
I open my mouth to say goodbye, but she stops me. “Sam? Are you sure you’re okay? It’s a big deal to meet a celebrity like him.”
“Pshaw. I’ve met plenty of huge stars.”
“But not him. He’s special.”
I think about the way his thighs looked in those tight pants and the way his shirt showed a lot of skin yet was still covering him up—at least, until I dumped water all over it. “I’ll admit, he was interesting.”
And the sexiest being I’ve ever met.
“Are you going to start listening to his music now?”
“Haven’t I absorbed enough through osmosis?”
“I dare you,” she says. “I dare you to deep-dive into him and see if you don’t feel something.”
I sigh. “Okay.”
“I’ll let you go. Thanks for spilling your guts about him. I won’t tell anyone.”
“I know. I trust you.”
“Okay, love you.”
“Love you, too, Em.” We hang up.
I never said Ican’tlove people. I just don’t need romantic love, and it certainly can’t solve all problems.
It’s more likely to fuck you up for your entire life.
CHAPTER5
Jules
Icross my jean-clad legs, hooking the heel of my motorcycle boot into the rung of the director’s chair. I’ve spent most of the day trying to focus and, like,be present, but I’m at the point where my mind’s as numb as my arse and I’m liable to say something off script.
That could be fun.
Or it could cause a riot on Twitter.
The blue curtain draped behind me forms a plain background, over which they’ll surely superimpose a logo of the YouTube show. I’m hot under the lights in this stuffy, soundproof room, which is set up for interviews of the Lighthouse artists. Since our tour is over, this is publicity for the Fly by Night music festival happening next week in the California desert—a competitor to Coachella. Karen, the interviewer, is a cute, tiny, perky Chinese American woman wearing piles of contour makeup. She’s my last stop on today’s press junket.
Giving my best, most sincere smile, I lean forward, sure the camera is catching every expression that runs across my face. The shoulder of my oversized T-shirt slips down, showing a few more tattoos. I slide it back up again, my black pearl bracelets jangling on my wrists and a skull necklace thumping my sternum. “My fans are the best people in the world,” I say. “They deserve every piece of me I can give them.”
My accent sounds more pronounced when I’m around Americans. Vowels don’t come out of my mouth the same way as theirs, like my words need to pass through gauze before being spoken aloud.
“Gotta love the fans,” she says, giving me a commercially appropriate smile full of white teeth.
