No Strings Attached (27 page)

Kitchen, bathroom, and a tricked-out game room completed the main floor.

Suddenly, Jared's cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID: his father.

Jared watched himself in a hallway mirror as he talked to his dad. Make that
lied
to his dad, who believed he was in summer school, making up for the disaster that'd been his senior-year grades.

“Hi, Dad, I'm good. I'm just walking into the dormitory now … it's fine, I'll survive. It's Ojai Community College, not the county lockup!

“Nope, don't need a thing. Just got done confirming my classes—they'll wipe out last semester's failing grades, like they never happened.”

“Yeah, I got a private room, no pesky roommates to distract me.

“Totally, I understand why you cut off the credit cards. It sucks, but I'll have to deal, right? What's my choice?

“No need for you to visit—you've got business. It's cool, it's chill.”

After he hung up, Jared raked his fingers through his hair. He would make good this summer—that part wasn't bogus. Just in a different way than he'd told his old man.

Jared picked up a huge copper bong from the old chipped oak coffee table and stared at his reflection. Smooth-cheeked, collar up, cool and confident, clear green eyes—he did not recognize the screwup his father saw him as.

Whose fault were those failing grades anyway? He'd made it clear he neither wanted nor needed college. Rusty Larson owned Galaxy Artists, the hottest talent agency in town. Why Jared wasn't there, working at the junior exec level already, was the mystery. Whatever. He'd play it the old man's way, promising to take make-up classes, which he'd pass with flying colors. The rent-a-brainiac he'd hired to take the tests for him would see to that.

His one regret regarding his summer scheme was the secrecy involved: He couldn't tell his friends what was really up. Someone was bound to blab. In Hollywood, gossip is
precious currency, and he would not chance his dad finding out. That meant house parties were out. He'd have to socialize on neutral turf: the clubs, or some girl's apartment.

Speaking of … he punched in speed dial. But neither Caitlin nor Julie picked up. He left messages. “Hey Cait, it's Jared. See you at Mood tonight …?” “Jules, Jared here. Be at Hyde later?”

Then he made for the liquor cabinet, poured himself a Stoli-rocks, and slipped out the sliding glass doors that led to the backyard. Standing on the stone lip of the pool, he sipped the smooth vodka, refusing to let the toxic crap in the water screw with his happiness. A simple call to a cleaning service would take care of everything. As he'd told his dad, it was all chill. It'd be a funky, functional, fund-enhancing summer. Accent on the “fun” part: Jared was determined to have keggers o' it this summer.

Inspired, he raised a toast to his absent relative.

“Here's to you, Uncle Rob—to bagging that Academy Award, and to the biggest favor you've ever done for me. Does a favor count any less just 'cause you don't know you're doing it?”

Jared knew the answer to his existential question was a resounding …

“Fuuu …!!!”

It happened so quickly he could not react—couldn't get
his mouth closed before sucking in a glob of foul-smelling, vomit-inducing algae garbage. Couldn't keep his balance, couldn't hold on to his drink. He'd been pushed from behind, shoved, rendered defenseless as a girl. He heard the smash of his vodka glass hitting the poolside pavement and felt a wet film of fetid slime cover his skin. He belly flopped, face forward, into the muck.

Lindsay laughed so hard, she thought she'd bust a gut. The
sight of Jared McPerfect—Mr. Pristine—caught unaware, blindsided, flailing, pinwheeling his arms as if he could turn them into propellers and fly … then, splash!, nosediving into the pool. It was too, too much. What a rush!

Shoving him had been pure impulse. She'd planned on surprising him, not turning him into the raging freak he now resembled, shaking his head furiously, like a wet dog. She clutched her stomach at the sight of Jared soaked, sputtering, and screaming obscenities as he tried to free himself from the gook-choke.

Lindsay had just arrived in Los Angeles. She'd come straight here, only to be greeted by Jared, his back to her, prepped to perfection from the tips of his alligator Tods to the
top of his two-hundred-dollar designer haircut. The lad of the manor had been so engrossed in admiring his reflection in the pool, raising his glass to the splendor of himself, he'd heard neither the taxi door slam nor the thwacking of her flip-flops as she'd made her way to the backyard, dragging her wheelie behind. Jared might as well have had a target on his back.

It'd just been
too
tempting. And “temptation, resistance of”? Not a Lindsay Pierce strong suit.

“What the fu—!” Jared finally managed to splutter when he saw his stealth attacker. “Lindsay?! What are you doing here?”

She tossed back her gleaming copper hair and admonished him. “Jared Larson, this is exactly why you'd never make it as an actor. You can't keep the smile off your silly face. You want to be mad at me, but you're just too happy to see me.”

He growled. “You forfeited any chance of a happy reunion by throwing me into the pool. Or should I say, the toxic waste dump?”

She shrugged. “Think of it as delayed payback. Last time I was here, it was you who threw me into the pool. Only,” she amended, “it was cleaner. And we were naked.”

“I don't remember you minding, especially since I jumped in after you. Anyway”—only Jared could manage a smirk while being humiliated—“we ended up in the hot tub.” With that, he splashed down hard on the slimy pool surface, hoping to spray her.

Lindsay skipped backward. “I knew you'd do that. After all these years, you're still so predictable.”

He glowered, taking long, painstaking strides through the gummy water, making his way toward the steps.

“Hang on,” Lindsay said. “If Uncle Rob is as predictable as his nephew, the towels will be exactly where I remember them.” She flipped around, executing a killer ass-swivel—she knew he'd appreciate the move, which she'd practiced in her floaty halter top and snug, low-slung Diesels—and flounced through the sliding doors into the house.

It was good to be back, Lindsay thought.

By the time Jared had stripped off his scum-soaked clothes, taken a quick turn in the outdoor shower, and toweled himself furiously, Lindsay had settled into one of the poolside lounge chairs, fingers wrapped around a cool, fruity-flavored vodka drink. She could still read him like a billboard above Sunset Strip: He was psyched and confused, couldn't decide whether Lindsay bursting back into his life was a good thing—or one he ought to be wary of. Given Jared's natural distrust of people (
Takes one to know one,
she thought), he was proceeding with extreme caution.

Calmly, confidently, she repeated her story, testing which parts he'd pick out as totally bogus. “Word on the street is, you're looking for tenants. You need cash, I need a place to
crash. I'm back in town, I need to reconnect with friends. And who's the first friend I
bump
—oops, bad word choice—into, but you? It's bra
sheet
.” She punctuated with a winning smile.

Jared attempted a scowl but came up with a barely concealed grin. “You can't even say it right. It's
beshert
—buh-
shirt
. Not that you're even Jewish.”

Lindsay toyed with her big hoop earrings and tossed her ponytail defiantly. “I'm Jewish-by-Hollywood. I lived here long enough. Anyway, Jared, I
know
what it means: We each need something the other one has. And here we find ourselves, together again. It's perfect.”

“It's
beshert
,” he corrected. “It means fated, that something was meant to be. It does not mean that something came up and you figured how to take advantage of it.”

He'd hunkered down on the lounge chair next to hers, shirtless, just a towel wrapped around his waist, cell phone in his lap. Lindsay felt a familiar twinge. It'd been three years, and time had been good to Jared. Always a looker, he'd grown taller, tanner, leaner, and smoother, if that were possible. It was all she could do not to reach over and touch.

In the old days, her fifteen-year-old self would have practiced no such self-control. She'd have twirled that towel right off his slim waist. Jared would have been the “something” she'd have taken advantage of.

And Jared would've said, afterward, “You're amazing, Linz. Let's do this. Move in. Forget about rent.” The teenage Jared she used to know wouldn't have missed a beat … or stopped to ask what Lindsay was doing back in California after being away so long. Three years in which she'd not once responded to his calls, letters, and, later, e-mails. Of course, being Jared, he hadn't tried very hard to stay in touch with her. Just long enough to lick his superficial wounds. Then he'd probably gone on to some other young starlet.

Today's twenty-one-year-old version of Jared peppered her with questions. The full-on interrogation. When she'd lied and said, “Word on the street is, you're looking for roommates,” he freaked. Apparently, he hadn't wanted anyone he knew to find out.

He sat sideways on the chaise lounge, feet planted on the ground, hovering over her. Until she told him the truth, Jared wasn't letting his guard, or his towel, down.

“Chill out.” She assured him she hadn't spoken to, nor heard from, anyone in Jared's circle. It wasn't the grapevine that'd outed him, but the
on
line. Plotting her return to Los Angeles, she'd been on Craigslist every day for months, waiting and watching for a listing both location-acceptable (near the studios, where she hoped to land auditions) and financially feasible. Lindsay had money, but no intention of getting ripped off.

A match popped up a few weeks ago, worded in her native tongue, Hollywood-speak. She could have written the ad herself.

She recited it to Jared, with her interpretation. “Everyone knows a ‘cozy' house means it's miniscule. ‘Tucked away' is code for ‘not the best neighborhood.' And ‘rustic' translates to
maybe
there'll be running water. Which reminded me of you—the prince of spin. And then I saw your cell phone number on the listing. Like I said, it's bra
sheet
.”

“
Beshert
,” he growled.

“Yeah, that.” Lindsay drained her drink. Tipping her chin to the sun, she inhaled the sweet jasmine-scented air. She knew she looked … um … what was that other Jewish word?
Kvetching
? Something like that.

Jared noticed. Despite his wariness, he couldn't stop himself from admiring her. “You look …” He stumbled for the word.

“Luscious? Sexy? Sublime?
Kvetching
?”

A belly laugh escaped. Jared's whole body shook with obvious delight, loosening the towel. “You're somethin' else, Linz, you really are. Just off enough to be a hoot.
Kvetching
means complaining.”

“You're not … complaining … that I turned up?” She pushed back on her elbows, raising herself up to face him.

The beginnings of a blush crept up his neck. Pink. It worked for him. “Memo to Lindsay,” he said. “Stop trying to
be such a Hollywood-speak insider. No one does that anymore. Anyway, you are quite fetching.”

“Fetching? As in ‘go fetch me another drink'?”

Jared sighed. “No. As in, our little Linz has grown into quite a fetching young lass.”

Lindsay glowed. She'd worked hard to look this good.

There hadn't been much else to do in the middle of the Iowa cornfields, where she'd spent the last mind-numbing years, besides plot her triumphant return west. To the land of milk 'n' honey, the place of good 'n' plenty, where she'd once been plenty good, and plenty adored.

Lindsay had been a star, playing middle sister Zoe Goldstein-Wong in the long-running sitcom about a Chinese-Jewish family called
All for Wong
. She'd landed the role when she was only ten, a freakishly freckled moppet with huge golden brown eyes, a button nose, and Cupid's bow lips. Famously ticklish, she was best known for her throaty, staccato, hiccupy giggle-fits. A trait she came by naturally, alas. It always gave her away. One insensitive critic dubbed her the Woody Woodpecker of child stars.

The show had run for five years and rerun for all eternity, rendering her very public, unpretty puberty in perpetuity. She had not transitioned well—unlike an Olsen twin or the girl who'd played Rudy on
The Cosby Show
.

There'd been zits, bad haircuts, and that whole nasty
“plump” thing the producers had unkindly pointed out. It didn't help that Lindsay'd been a smart-mouth, purposely ad-libbing when the cameras were rolling.

The war between Lindsay's family, under the guise of “protecting” her, and the producers—who were protecting their show—had grown bitter, and public. Good thing the tabloids weren't as out of control back then as they are now. Not that she'd ever been as big a tab-magnet as today's young stars.

And there was this: The measure of her fame was not a direct connect with the measure of how much she liked being famous. Lindsay lapped up, thrived on, bloomed under every spotlighty ray of attention. She'd never gotten over the craving.

The family feud alone would likely have gotten her fired—“She's replaceable, you know,” producers used to threaten—only
All for Wong
got canceled. End of feud, end of story; to Lindsay, it felt like the end of her world.

Once the gravy train stopped rolling, that is, once her income dried up and she could no longer support the family, they hauled ass back to Iowa. With her in tow. Towed her back like a broken car. Only she wasn't broken, and she didn't want to be dragged back. Grenfield, Iowa, was her family's hometown. Not hers. Never hers.