Hollywood Hills (9 page)

“It would, wouldn’t it?” Alexa grinned. Considering Jonah’s kisses last night, she got the spine-tingling feeling that they’d pick up right where they’d left off.

Alexa glanced at her watch; suddenly, the afternoon couldn’t go fast enough. She couldn’t wait to be with Jonah again, to listen to his stories of behind-the-scenes drama, to study the depths of his long-lashed blue eyes, and, most important, to enjoy some serious kissing in the backseat of his limo.

As the white limo slid through the famous, stately gates of Paramount Pictures, Alexa leaned forward to peer out the window, her coral-and-silver earrings tinkling. The car was gliding by low-hanging palm trees and a building marked studio 4, and Alexa wondered if this was how old-time stars like Marlene Dietrich and Rudolph Valentino felt, coming to work every day. Though Marlene wouldn’t have been wearing a brand-new, swirly D&G skirt, flat copper-colored sandals that laced up her ankles, and a light-pink, crochet LaROK cami, as Alexa was now. Alexa grinned at the thought; thank God she lived in the twenty-first century.

It was six thirty on a Wednesday, but the studio was bustling. Power-suited agents strode by, barking
into minuscule cell phones, harried-looking assistants were carrying trays of coffee, and Alexa observed a gaggle of girls dressed in black-and-white nuns’ habits, all clearly on their way to shoot a scene. Outside a squat soundstage, a ruggedly hot actor from a TV medical drama stood chain-smoking, his arm around a blond guy who had to be his real-life boyfriend. It was amazing—but also kind of weird—to get a glimpse at what went on behind the screen. Alexa didn’t really like to have magic ruined for her.

Not far from the water tower bearing the Paramount logo, the chauffeur stopped the limo in front of a sleek modern building. When Alexa noticed that Jonah was not there waiting for them, she asked the chauffeur if she could pop inside and get him herself. The driver nodded, and Alexa eagerly hopped out of the limo with butterflies in her belly. She felt very Hollywood-official as she passed through the brightly lit lobby, but was disappointed when no one stopped her, framed their hands around her face and gasped that she was
the one
they’d been looking for. Alexa knew Holly would mock her for being so self-absorbed, but didn’t
everyone
come to Tinseltown with the same silly daydream?

The read-through for
The Princess and the Slacker
—Alexa tried not to snort when the security guard told her the ridiculous title—was in a conference room
down the hall. When Alexa arrived, she hovered outside the door, hiding; she wanted to spy on the action a little before she caught Jonah’s attention.

Breathtaking in a black Theory dress shirt, his thick dark hair kind of sticking up in an adorable way, Jonah sat at the center of the long table, surrounded by several B-list actors Alexa recognized from random films and TV shows. Across from Jonah sat a bearded guy in a baseball cap who Alexa guessed was the director, and immediately next to Jonah was—
shit
—Charity Durst, clad in a white wifebeater (no bra) and size zero Chip & Pepper jeans. In front of each actor there was one thick white script and a cup from The Coffee Bean. Jonah was reading aloud from his script, his voice strong and sensual.

“Brianne,” he was saying. “You have to forgive me. I know you caught me in your bed with your cousin. Fine. But that was last week. I was stupid then.”

Alexa clapped her hand to her mouth so nobody could hear her giggle. She sincerely hoped that Margaux’s fiancé, Paul, was not the genius behind this screenplay.

The director cleared his throat. “Let’s try to get more passion in there, Jonah,” he suggested. “Remember, this is Roger’s big redemption scene.”

Jonah nodded, then tilted his head all the way back and slowly rubbed at his temples with his fingertips,
keeping his eyes shut. The rest of the room watched him with silent reverence, and Alexa held her breath, curious. After a minute, Jonah straightened up, shook his head a few times, and looked back at the script.

“Brianne,” he said, and this time his tone was full of pent-up hurt and emotion. “You have to forgive me…” As Jonah repeated the previous lines, his voice shaking, Alexa could have sworn she saw tears glimmering in those blue-blue eyes. Her heart seized up with worry before she realized:
He’s acting.
She felt at once foolish, and then awed by Jonah’s talent.

The director nodded emphatically. “Better,” he said, making a notation on his legal pad.

“Prove it to me,” Charity Durst suddenly spoke in her whiny voice, glancing from the script to Jonah and back again. “Not with words this time, Roger. But with—”

“With what?” Jonah asked, his voice still tearful.

“With kisses,” Charity breathed. She glanced up from the script, shaking out her dirty-blonde hair while Alexa balled her fists together in annoyance. “Should we try it now?” Charity asked the director with a sly smile.

“Might as well.” The director shrugged. “Let’s get a sense of your chemistry.”

Alexa watched in horror as Charity leaned close to Jonah, turned his face to hers, and planted an
aggressive, sloppy kiss on his mouth. Jonah didn’t respond, exactly, but he didn’t fight her off, either, which Alexa would have greatly preferred.

“Terrif,” the director said approvingly. “It’ll look really natural on camera.”

“Well, with enough practice…” Charity purred and Jonah lowered his head, blushing.

Ugh.
That did it. Alexa moved into the doorway and waved at Jonah, who immediately raised his eyebrows and beamed. No matter what Desperate Durst tried, Alexa knew Jonah preferred
her.
Without a doubt.

Jonah got to his feet and apologized to the cast and crew about an important appointment, and Alexa took supreme satisfaction in the glare Charity cast her way as Jonah jogged out of the room.

“Hey, sorry about that,” he whispered, taking Alexa’s elbow and steering her into the hallway, shutting the door behind them. He turned to pull Alexa close, giving her a tender smile; it was remarkable how he’d been near tears only seconds before. But Alexa knew that the side of Jonah she was seeing now
wasn’t
an act. She felt her anger toward Charity evaporate, and she leaned in to kiss his neck. She’d forgotten how good he smelled—like orange groves, like California itself. She breathed him in, reminding herself of last night.

“You know it’s all fake, right?” Jonah added, his
voice concerned as he led Alexa down the hall. “I’m totally in the moment when I’m doing it, but once I’m out of there…” He snapped his fingers to indicate his effortless switch.

“Of course,” Alexa replied; if she was going to date an actor, she’d have to get used to seeing him kiss other girls. “Fake as everything else in Hollywood,” she added teasingly, and, in that moment, realized that maybe she didn’t
really
want to be discovered. Yes, Alexa was a natural drama princess, but there was something weird about the act of…acting. Alexa knew she got too wrapped up in her emotions to seesaw between them so quickly.

“Alexa,” Jonah said softly. He smiled and reached out to run his thumb along her glossy bottom lip. “That’s why I’m crazy about you,” he murmured, and Alexa felt her pulse quicken at the words. “You’re so easygoing. Chill. Not high maintenance at all.”

“I’m not?” Alexa asked, taken aback. “I am? I—I mean, thanks,” she stammered. In all her eighteen years, nobody had ever called Alexandria St. Laurent “easygoing.”
Holly,
in her ponytail and Adidas track pants, wasn’t a high-maintenance girl; but Alexa knew that what with her designer makeup, fashion addiction, and fits of temper, she practically defined the term. She was flattered that Jonah thought otherwise, and hoped he’d continue to remain oblivious.

“Yeah, I picked up on that when I met you at The Standard,” Jonah went on as he waved good-night to the security guards in the lobby. “I was all, ‘This girl isn’t behaving any differently around me.’ Usually people get—” He grinned and rubbed the back of his neck as they walked out of the building. “Well, a little jumpy when they first meet me…”

Alexa smiled to herself. She’d made an extra effort to play it cool last night, and it had clearly paid off.

“And then there was your long blonde hair,” he added playfully, and Alexa stuck her tongue out at him as Jonah held the limo door open for her.

“Third Street and Crescent Heights,” Jonah told the limo driver as he slid inside. “I was thinking we could go to this really hot tapas place called A.O.C.,” he explained to Alexa, who brimmed with joy; she
adored
tapas. As the chauffeur began backing up, Jonah turned to Alexa, looking suddenly bereft. “Oh, man,” he sighed, putting a hand to his forehead. “I totally forgot.”

“What?” Alexa asked, mildly alarmed; did he need to return to the studio and finish making out with Charity?

“To tell you how gorgeous you look tonight,” Jonah said, his expression ardent as he lifted Alexa’s hand to his mouth and kissed it. Alexa knew Jonah’s words and gesture were absolutely sincere, but, strangely
enough, she almost felt the tiniest bit like…
laughing.
He was just so earnest.

But still irresistible.

Alexa wriggled in closer to Jonah, feeling the warmth of his shirt against her skin. Jonah smiled, lowered his head, and began kissing her lips, his fingers slipping through the tiny holes in her crocheted top. Alexa opened her mouth to his, sliding one leg on up over his lap as the limo careened along the twisty streets of Hollywood.

Here it was, the limousine hook-up Alexa had hoped for. Jonah’s lips were hot and insistent, and Alexa felt the same
I’m-kissing-a-celebrity
thrill that she had last night. But for some reason, maybe because she’d seen Jonah kiss Charity only moments before, their closeness didn’t make her heart race
quite
as much this time. But as she and Jonah fell back against the leather seats, their arms around each other, Alexa decided not to worry about it. At all.

Not far from Paramount, around six thirty, Holly’s heart was racing. But for an entirely different reason.

Because even though Holly Jacobson was no longer a
virgin
-virgin, she certainly felt like a driving virgin, especially here in LA. Her first time behind the wheel of Jonah’s Hybrid, her palms were sweating like mad
as she turned onto Hollywood Boulevard, passing seedy souvenir shops, secondhand music stores, and a painted mural of James Dean and Natalie Wood. Reckless LA drivers—trust-fund kids, skyrocketing celebrities, agents and managers surgically glued to their BlackBerries—swerved around her as if their million-dollar cars were big, shiny toys.

Just pretend you’re driving to the Oakridge Galleria
, Holly told herself as a neon-bright Scientology sign flashed by her window.

Yup. Exactly like home sweet home.

Holly was on her way to see Kenya, who had squealed with delight when she’d heard from Holly that afternoon, and had uttered an eloquent “no shit” when Holly had confessed what had brought her to LA. Kenya had then suggested that the two of them meet up at Musso & Frank Grill, a classic Hollywood restaurant. Which was all very well and good, if Holly could find the restaurant
and
make her way through the insane traffic alive. It was a challenge not unlike jumping hurdles at a track meet, Holly thought as she took a deep breath and braked slowly at the intersection of Hollywood and Highland.

She was wondering if she should pull over and call Tyler for emotional support, or Alexa for directional guidance, when she happened to glance out the
window—and saw something that once again made her heart contract. Only this time, in a wonderful way.

There it was, smack-dab on one of the many rolling green hills that surrounded the city: the Hollywood sign. Holly felt herself choke up a little at the sight of those familiar raised white letters, standing out boldly against the gathering twilight. Finally, when she least expected it, she’d found what she’d been looking for. And, somehow, seeing that iconic sign, realizing that yes, she was really here, in this legendary land of palm trees and fantasy, eased Holly’s fears. Newly empowered, she turned the car around. After all, she’d single-handedly saved a surfer from the depths of the Pacific that morning; she could sure as hell find parking on Hollywood Boulevard. Which she did, a few seconds later.

Musso & Frank Grill looked like a 1920s speakeasy, all maroon leather banquettes and framed black-and-white photos of movie legends. As Holly walked in, still glowing from her Hollywood sign moment, she half expected flappers in feather boas to Charleston past her with long cigarette holders, or a dapper Cary Grant to stop and ask her to accompany him to a lavish premiere. Instead—even better—she spotted Kenya Matthews at the bar.

“Jacobson!” Kenya cried as soon as she noticed
Holly. All smiles, she bounded over, her neat rows of dark brown braids swaying from side to side. “God, how long has it been?”

“Too long,” Holly replied as she returned Kenya’s embrace. Around this time last year, Holly had hugged Kenya good-bye at
her
graduation from Oakridge High; all the track girls had shown up in support of their tough-but-sweet captain. Holly well remembered Kenya’s commands of “Give it your all, Jacobson!” when Holly had been a mere freshman and was taking her first baby steps on the track. Kenya had also been the one who’d promoted Holly to cocaptain in Holly’s junior year, and Holly still credited a lot of her success as a runner to her.

“Let me see, let me see,” Kenya was saying, holding Holly at an arm’s length like a proud mom, her gray eyes sparkling. “Whoa. There’s something
different
about you, girl. I mean, besides the fact that you’re now best friends with Jonah Eklundstrom.”

Holly laughed and fiddled with the shell belt she’d looped through her new Sevens, which she’d paired with a close-fitting, scoop-neck charcoal tee, dangly gold leaf earrings, and Alexa’s gold mules. It wasn’t a very Holly outfit—Kenya had probably expected her to show up in track pants. The thought of clothes reminded Holly of her fancy-dress splurge, and she
felt a stab of guilt, which she tried to brush aside. If she
was
a changed Holly, then she shouldn’t let that one irresponsible purchase nag at her.

“Well, um, I grew my hair out a little,” Holly finally said, reaching over to tug affectionately on one of Kenya’s braids. “You’ve changed, too, Matthews.” Back in high school, Holly had always seen Kenya either in the library with her tortoiseshell glasses on, highlighting something in a textbook, or running up the track in old sweats, timing herself with a wristwatch. Now, clad in an adorable sky-blue tube dress that nicely set off both her cocoa-colored skin and trim, curvy figure, Kenya exuded playfulness and sass.