Page 24 of The Comedown

Did he take something? He was not like this at lunch.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

For answer, he drops his distressed moto-style jeans.

I turn away quickly, going off to the side to get my blonde wig with blue tips smoothed and sprayed again in an attempt to give him some privacy. Along with the wig, I’m also wearing one of the outfits from the show—a wraparound crop top with high-waisted jeans—while Julian’s in…nothing. With the tour titled Family Julez I get the reference, but couldn’t they have shot him in the buff during his solo shoot?

“Okay, Collette, on your knees in front of him.”

Julian’s head snaps up from trying to pull his jeans over his stark-white high-tops while keeping his junk in one hand. Why isn’t he taking off his shoes first? He miraculously catches himself before falling, then says, “What?” in a slow and exaggerated tone.

Christ. This is definitely not the Julian I just spent the afternoon getting to know. No matter. I fight my own battles.

Slade goes over to tug Julian’s pants the rest of the way off, one leg at a time, not even checking on his client to see if he’s okay while doing it.

“Why?” I ask the photographer. He usually puts out good content, but this is just cheap. He might as well have me deep throat my mic while we’re at it.

“So I can get the shot,” he says like I’m a moron.

“I’m not doing that,” I tell him just as point-blank, making the entire room go silent—funeral silent.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my assistant pulling out her phone, ready to make some calls should this escalate.

The photographer finally looks up from his camera, glaring at me like I’m a bug on his lens. “The man’s naked. What else am I supposed to do with you?”

“Not make me kneel before him?” I hazard. Us women are good for other things. Lots of other things. Thousands of other things. Millions.

With steam rolling off his shoulders, he sneers, “Got any better ideas?”

I look at Julian, telling him, “Don’t move your hands,” then walk over to place one of mine just over top of his knuckles, making it look like I’m holding his package, too. With my jaw directly over my shoulder and on the verge of touching Julian’s, I look back at the camera, ignoring his stare on my face.

“Hold that,” the photographer says before clicking goes off in rapid-fire succession.

“Stop looking at me,” I whisper to Julian when dozens of clicks in he still hasn’t taken his eyes off me.

“I can’t help it.”

“Try,” I grit, dropping my chin to look through my lashes.

“There’s nothing else worth looking at.”

Despite telling myself not to, I meet his eyes, already grinning. What I find isn’t what I was expecting though, causing my lips to relax just as quickly. Julian’s serious. Or at least he’s trying to be through the brain fog he’s trapped in. He’s on something, that much is obvious, I just don’t know what. He didn’t take anything while he was with me, so it had to have been after we returned.

His knuckles start to swell against my palm, and his lips finally spread as he rasps, “You keep doing this to me.”

I don’t have to look to know what he’s talking about. His growing erection says it all.

But if he was telling the truth about his size, then we won’t be able to keep his cock hidden much longer.

Without breaking eye contact with him, I ask Irelynn to get one of the guitars I saw by the clothing racks, and when she brings it to us, I stand in front of Julian, blocking him like he did for me all day, then help to place the body of the guitar over his crotch.

I catch a glimpse during the transition, and he was not exaggerating. Not. At. All.

“No, no, no. Take that out. He doesn’t play guitar,” someone that sounds like Slade says.

Julian surprises me by saying, “Yes, I do.”

I can only raise my eyebrows in response.