Taming Hollywood's Baddest Boy - Max Monroe Page 0,10

does. And I even know who.

His agent. Because of my eavesdropping this morning, I know he is still in some sort of contact with his agent.

That’s a start, right?

It’s the only fucking start you have.

“Billie? Hello?”

“Shit, I gotta go, Birdie. I’ll call you later!”

“Wait—”

I hang up on my sister before she can respond.

My phone pings with what is most likely a text message from her, but I ignore it.

I don’t have time for pointless things like goodbyes when my career is on the line.

My first stop on today’s flight o’crazy may have been a mental breakdown in the middle of a meeting, but my next stop is something entirely different—getting it the hell together and finding Adele Lang.

Billie

I don’t always offer to take it in any hole, but when I do, I make sure it’s for a good reason. Blueberry Eggos in Dorothy’s little basket, it’s been a hell of a twenty-four hours.

The good news is, I not only have the number for Adele Lang, but I also have an appointment with her. Sure, it’s under the guise of being an actress/singer looking for representation—comically false pretenses given my inability to hold a note or disguise my accent in any way—but that’s not the point of this story. The point is that my career just got a fancy new life-support machine, and the family’s agreed not to pull the plug just yet.

After I pay twenty dollars for parking and a take six-story ride in an elevator, I step into Adele’s office with a whole five minutes to spare. I would have been much earlier—I padded in an insane amount of time due to the gravity of my situation—but LA traffic came to a complete stop on the 101, and when my old Civic saw what was ahead of her, she started to cough up a little fluid.

I’m not proud of what I offered the mechanic at the shop off the first exit I came to in exchange for his speediest work ever, but I am thankful he didn’t expect me to follow through with any of it.

I pull myself together and straighten my shirt as I step into the worn, eclectic space.

A twentysomething guy with bleached blond hair a la Justin Timberlake circa 1998 sits behind a marble-topped desk, but his eyes never leave the laptop on his desk.

Hesitantly, I close the distance and place myself directly in front of him, hoping he won’t immediately see right through me. My armpits are a dark, damp swamp—a notable result of indescribable stress.

I don’t have to worry about him seeing anything, though, because despite my undeniably close proximity and heavy breathing, he doesn’t even look up.

“Uh…hi?” I finally prompt when standing there starts to make me feel a little like the Grim Reaper. Oh man. If only I had the power.

“Can I help you?” he asks, but still makes no effort to look up.

What in the hell is he watching on that thing?

“I’m…Billie Harris. I have a ten o’clock appointment with Adele.”

“Oh,” he says curtly, finally tapping his finger on the space bar. His dark-brown eyes meet mine with stone-cold apathy. “Well, she’s busy.”

“Busy?”

“Yeah,” he says, unnaturally white teeth gleaming in a way his personality clearly never will. “She’s on a call.”

I don’t understand.

Is my appointment canceled?

Is this like that episode of Seinfeld where Jerry makes a reservation to rent a car, but when he gets there, there are no cars to be had?

Do I need telepathy to have this conversation?

Give me something—anything—here.

“Is she—?” I start to ask, but he cuts me off with a deep, annoyed sigh.

“Just take a seat. I’ll let you know when she’s ready for you.”

A sarcastic retort is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back. It tastes like curdled milk—which makes sense. I’ve been pounding coffee with vanilla creamer all night long.

“All righty, then. Sitting it is,” I mutter, making my way across the room to an older-style, black leather sofa. My ass isn’t even on the cushion before the receptionist is back to watching whatever he’s watching on his laptop.

I can only hope someone watches my shit that avidly one day.

I fidget with myself—mainly ironing out the wrinkles in my skirt only to watch them bounce right back—for what feels like an eternity while Adele finishes up whatever she’s in the middle of. A fluorescent lightbulb hums above me, obviously in its final hours, and boy oh boy, can I relate.

When the receptionist clears his throat, a foreign sound in an otherwise