Page 121 of Fame & Obsession

“Don’t go there,” I warn. Sitting still is driving me crazy, so rising to my feet, I pace the room.I need movement to figure this out.“How did they find Osama fucking bin Laden in a gopher hole, but we can’t find some bitch who’s taunting me with every form of communication ever invented?”

“Helena?” a grating voice crackles through the desk phone intercom.

Mouthing the words, “My assistant,” she put her finger to her lips to demand silence. “Yes, Katherine?”

“There’s been a delivery for Mr. Bale.”

“I’ll be right out.” Disconnecting the call, she nods to the lobby. “It’s probably the new merchandise shirt mockup I ordered. You’ve got a concert in two weeks. You still remember you have a job, right?”

“I’ll get it.” Phoebe pushes off the couch and heads toward the door. “I need some air anyway.”

I eye her suspiciously. “You okay?”

I’d been hypervigilant about every move she’s made since announcing she was pregnant. Even though I haven’t had time to fully process the idea of being a father, the thought of the chance being taken away makes me irrational.

“Yeah.” She brushes her fingers across my back, giving my shoulder a squeeze as she passes. “Sitting in one place for too long gets to me.”

“Come right back,” I instruct as she closes the door.

Helena and I sit in silence for a few uncomfortable moments. Eventually, she motions between me and the door and lifts an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“What’s what?”

“What’s with you and Deep Throat out there?”

“Watch it.” I hold up my hand before she can speak again. “Even if you’re joking, it’s disrespectful.”

She snorts. “Since when have you cared about being disrespectful to women?”

There isn’t really an optimal time to explain to my manager that I’d knocked up my on-again, but mostly off-again girlfriend.

“Phoebe’s pregnant.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Are you kidding me? Do you know what this will do to you? No one will throw their panties at someone covered in baby vomit.”

“Great. That got on my fucking nerves anyway.”

What the hell’s her problem? Like I give a shit about groupies. Even if Phoebewasn’tpregnant, I still wouldn’t fuck around on her.

“It’s career suicide, Julian. I know men think with their dicks, but did you consider covering it for Christ’s sake?”

“It just sort of happened,” I say—because hell, what else can I say? It’s the truth.

“It just sort of happened?” she repeats slowly. “Well, that’s great.” Scowling, she throws her hands in the air. “That’s how I’ll spin it to the media. ‘I’m sorry ladies, he slipped and his dick fell into her.’”

“Knock it off, Helena. I’m not in the mood.”

“No birth control?”

“She said it didn’t work.”

“Of course she did.” Pausing, she raked her palms down her cheeks. “Are you that stupid? The struggling writer got herself knocked up by a famous rock star. This is no accident. It’s her retirement plan.”

My pacing stops, but my anger explodes like a gunshot. “Are you fucking done?” I shout.

“I, uh, wanted to see the shirts. I didn’t… It’s not possible.”

The instant I hear her voice, my guard goes up. When I turn I find Phoebe standing in the doorway shaking, her delicate face white as chalk.