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It’s funny the things that come into your mind while you’re trying to think of absolutely nothing. The empty space begs to be filled.
But, why-oh-why, it chooses to flash an image of Kael Jenkins in front of me at this ungodly hour takes me completely by surprise.
Don’t go there Sienna.It’s dangerous territory.
That’s what my brain is screaming as the crazy, little hamster in my head starts running in circles. I know I shouldn’t do it. It goes against every ethic I’ve ever been taught. I’m not an idiot. Or perhaps I am. Ashamed of myself doesn’t even begin to cut it. Because the next thing I know I’m rolling over, grabbing my cell phone back off my side table again and typing Kael’s name into a search engine.
I’ve never done anything like this before with a famous client.Why now?Privacy matters after all. How can they trust me if I’m stalking them online?
How horrible it must be to have your private life splashed across the internet just waiting for people like me to look it up for their own personal entertainment… she says, as she clicks on the first link she finds. So much for privacy. I’m totally going to hell for this.
Now where was I…
A plethora of different images appear on my screen.
There’s one of Kael playing guitar, standing on the edge of a stage. There’s another one of him being interviewed by a reporter with the Hollywood sign lit up behind him. The list goes on, varied and many…
Kael with a gorgeous brunette.
Kael backstage at a concert.
Kael drinking a beer in a swanky restaurant.
Kael dressed in a black suit, accepting an award.
Kael passed out on the sidewalk surrounded by paparazzi.
Some of the photos are black and white, some are color. Some are professionally taken, where others have obviously been taken by fans without his knowledge or permission and then posted online.
I stop scrolling on one particular photo that catches my eye. It’s of Kael sitting in a dark alley on an overturned milk crate, a grimy stage door littered with posters behind him. After a concert, perhaps? I stretch the image with my fingers to zoom in closer. His profile is like an oil painting, so many different layers and different depths. His long dark lashes lay against his cheek, and his lips are slightly parted.
I shouldn’t be doing this. So wrong, right?
But there’s something hiding beneath the surface, something that pulls me in and won’t let go, making my body stir in the strangest of places.
In the next image I click on, Kael looks to be coming out of a gymnasium of some kind. He’s wearing baggy gray sweatpants that hang down low on his hips and a snug white T-shirt, and there’s a towel slung over one shoulder. He’s carrying a black duffel bag with an emblem of some sort on the side.
Sinking further into my pillow, I click on another image.
This one is a photograph of Kael standing at a crowded bar with a couple of very scantily-clad women on either side of him. One of them is all over him with her hand pushed up under his shirt. The other girl has her lips pressed to his neck, and she’s smiling against his bronze skin. This apparently makes her very happy.
Me, not so much.Moving on.
In the next image, Kael is shirtless, his bare chest chiseled with six glorious rows of muscle all stacked neatly on top of one another.
He’s wearing worn-out jeans and nothing else. He’s also barefoot, and for some reason, seeing him with bare feet and low-slung jeans makes the muscles in the deepest part of me clench in the most delicious way possible.
The feeling takes me completely by surprise, and while my body is reacting to him on a physical level, it’s also so much more than that. I want to know him. I want to know everything there is to know about him, his wildest dreams and his darkest secrets.
No.I can’t let this happen. It’s totally unprofessional.
And yet I can’t take my eyes off him.
The photograph looks recent, like a publicity shot taken on a rooftop somewhere in the city. Dark buildings and tall smokestacks act as his backdrop. Kael is slouched in a black velvet armchair, with one arm slung casually behind his head, his other hand resting on his stomach, and he’s staring straight down the barrel of the lens.
It’s like he knows I’m watching him, fascinated by him. How is it possible for one man to be so attractive? It should be illegal the way he holds me so steadily with his unwavering gaze, and my mind grows hazy as our lustful staring contest continues.
I flush. My heart rate inexplicably increases, besieged by feelings I don’t even have a name for. Or maybe I do?Oh god.The sudden realization is overwhelming, and vastly daunting.
