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“I told you before, this is extortion.”
“Get used to it. We have a long working relationship ahead of us.”
“I hate you,” she pouts, puckering that irresistible bottom lip of hers.
Another text chimes my phone, and I curse technology until I realize it’s not mine. I’d shoved her phone in my pants pocket when she’d stormed out of the restaurant.
Reading the text, I raise an intrigued eyebrow. “Rosa says Ass Cactus is going to blow a fuse.”
I really need to have a chat with this Ass Cactus guy.
She stomps her foot like a toddler. “Fine! Call me tomorrow. Jesus Christ, you’re such a child.”
Irony at its finest.
With a satisfied grin, I run the pad of my thumb across her lip. Letting it drop, I trail it down the length of her neck, coaxing a sigh from her throat. Satisfied I’ve affected her again, I hold her phone out, and she snatches it out of my hands.
“We’ll continue this tomorrow.” I turn to leave, but then stop and wink. “Oh, and, Phoebe? For the gala, make sure to look the part, princess.”
Sixteen
Phoebe
I’m going to kill him.
Glancing at the tiny tablet screen again, I verify the ugly truth. Right before my eyes is a picture of Julian and me in front of the Ralston Media building. It’s from the day he kissed me outside of the deli. His arms are tightly wrapped around my waist, and my hands are threaded through his unruly hair.
There we are—frozen in lip-lock for eternity.
It’s been two weeks since the ill-fated meeting in the MetroGroup Publishing offices, but I tend to avoid gossip blogs.
Apparently, I should’ve taken special note of this one.
The picture is courtesy of a Blogosphere Daily, a New York entertainment blog that boasts impressive subscription numbers that span the globe. It’s gossipy, intrusive, and a week ago, I had a starring role.
Lordess of the Lyre—Has Bale Bailed on Females Everywhere?
Well, it appears that way, so, ladies, get your best black mourning gear on and start the processional. From what BD witnessed outside of the Ralston Media building in Manhattan last week, it seems to be a done deal that Julian Bale, smoking-hot lead singer of rock band, Lords of Lyre, is off the market.
Just who is this lucky lady, you ask? Good question. We, here at BD, are working overtime for our readers to uncover the identity of our mystery woman but have no answers as of publication date. We have a sneaking suspicion that she works inside the building, so that’s where our detective work shall start, friends.
Is it serious, or did our favorite front man get a professional booty call? Our sources haven’t confirmed anything yet, but stay tuned. Has the rock god found his goddess?
You’d better believe we’re watching—everything.
“Professional booty call? Can they seriously publish that crap?” I stare at the screen. The harder I stare, the more light-headed I become.
I’ve purposely avoided all social media and gossip mags for the past two weeks. That’s because resigned to my fate, I stopped butting heads with Julian, choosing instead to combine them in order to make this project work.
In fact, we’ve talked every night on the phone while working through a rough outline for the book. Each call has lasted over two hours, and our conversations have ranged from the merits of rock music, to his inspirations, to what I ate for lunch that day. We never stay on topic, and normally have each other in tears from laughing by the end of the call.
I have to admit, when he isn’t pushing me against walls, or mauling me in public, Julian isn’t such a bad guy.
That’s because hearing his voice is safe.
But I know the minute I see him, I’ll jump him like one of his slutty groupies. Which is why if I can telecommunicate our entire business relationship, I’ll be safe.
Now that I’ve made the mistake of pulling up Blogosphere Daily, I’m even more convinced.
