Page 13 of The Comedown

“We have work to do.”

“That’s not work. That’s bullshit. And you’re hungry, so…”

“So?”

Punching the call button, Julez drops his head back between his shoulders, and says to the ceiling, “So, follow me,” except it doesn’t sound like follow me. It sounds almost like fall with me.

I look at Irelynn, but she’s focused on Julez.

Smiling, she finally twists to meet my eyes.

“Oh, no. Irelynn…”

“I’ll just shuffle things around, so instead of having a break before the shoot, you can take one now.”

“I just ate.”

Neither of us expands on that statement, at least not audibly. Irelynn does give me a look though, a look that I ignore to return my attention down the hall where Julez is now studying me, awaiting my decision.

“A quick bite,” I tell Julez, walking toward him after taking one of the two stainless steel water bottles with solid twist caps from Irelynn. We’re very careful to keep two on hand at all times. One is full of water while the other is kept empty for occasions like this.

Julez doesn’t bother with a reply, only holds the elevator doors for me to pass through, then he’s back to staring at his phone during the ride down to ground level. I pull my own cell out to check on Holter, immediately finding a new photo sitting in our thread. It’s the back of Bare’s bald head as he stands guard outside the bus. Good. At least someone from Julez’s team understands boundaries.

Just as the elevator doors slide open, Julez reaches a hand out behind him, and I alternate between studying it and the side of his face as he scans the lobby. Does he really expect me to hold his hand? He catches my eye, then his fist clenches suddenly, a frown settling on his face as he exits, strolling toward the main entrance.

“Where are you—”

A metallic-blue McLaren Spider comes to a screeching halt just outside the front doors of the hotel itself and Slade gets out, coming directly inside to hand Julez the key.

What’s going on? Is the car his?

“Gimme a minute,” Julez tells me, then to his agent, “Stay with her.”

He proceeds to go outside and stand in front of the supercar, holding his signature pose of his chin propped between his thumb and his index finger alongside his middle finger fashioned into a gun, all while wearing a vacant expression on his face as a couple guys holding different kinds of cameras snap photo after photo. One’s even operating a drone circling Julez and the McLaren.

Everybody around the scene is in a stupefied state, gawking at the rapper and the car behind him that’s worth just under half a million dollars. Can’t say I blame them. The futuristic design is sexy.

So is the man posing in front of it, but the car…it’s definitely the star here. Not even I could compete next to it.

Beside me, Slade is careful to keep his voice low for my ears only, saying, “Whatever he’s about to do, I need you to go along with. Within reason.”

My lips twitch. “Within reason? What does that even mean?”

Slade finally breaks his stare from his client, swinging it to me, and I turn to face him fully, crossing my arms over my chest while letting my smirk take shape.

“It means do your fucking job and make sure he looks good for the cameras.”

There are always, always, cameras trained on us, but I don’t have any control over that. Some celebrities do. Some even call the paps on themselves for ideal photo ops. But…

Wait, is that what this is? I figured I was here to improve Julez’s public image, but I never agreed to setup scenarios. Technically I never agreed to help his image at all. My job, as far as I’m concerned, is to perform—onstage, not off. That’s what I was hired to do. That’s all I was hired to do.

“Looks like he’s doing a fine job making himself look good for the cameras all on his own,” I tell Slade, dropping my arms by my sides to turn away. “If you’ll excuse me, I have actual work to do.” I don’t know what Julez is doing right now, or exactly what Slade is inferring, and I honestly don’t care. I can’t believe I’m even entertaining this shit.

Slade’s hand grips my arm, pulling me to a stop. I look down at his fingers clenched around my elbow, then up at him.

My smile long gone, I threaten, “Remove your hand or I’ll remove the meat off each and every one of your finger bones.”

Slade makes sure to get a squeeze in before dropping his hand entirely, and says, “They’re called phalanges,” with the sort of false superiority I could probably squish with the toe of my stiletto.