No Strings Attached (30 page)

She'd just finished repeating her story to a policeman—Raimundo Ortega, his badge said—when the gleaming Lexus convertible pulled up. Its driver, a spiffy-looking guy in a bright lime-green polo shirt, crinkled his forehead worriedly. “Are you Sara? Did something happen?”

“You must be Jared. This is so embarrassing. …” She offered a rueful smile and told him what'd happened.

He pulled a business card from his wallet. “Officer, I'm Jared Larson. My father is Russell Larson, the head of—”

“Galaxy Artists.” Patrolman Ortega, clearly impressed, finished the sentence.

“That's right,” Jared said with a smile. “If you could retrieve Miss Calvin's suitcase as soon as possible, we'd be in your debt.”

The cop, who'd only a moment ago advised Sara that petty theft was a low priority—discouraged her from thinking she'd ever see her belongings again—practically saluted Jared. The LAPD would get right on it! He would personally call with a status report in a few hours.

“I can't tell you how much we'd appreciate that,” Jared responded politely.

What Patrolman Ortega did next could've knocked Sara over with a feather. “I know this is kinda strange … circumstances and all,” he said haltingly, “but, if you wouldn't mind, sir, there's this, uh, screenplay I've been working on, and y'know how it goes. …”

Jared held his hand up. “Say no more. Just send it to my summer house in the Hollywood Hills, and I'd be happy to get it to my father right away—with a special note about how cooperative you've been.”

Sara got into Jared's car numbly. What kind of strange place
was
Hollywood? “W-what,” she stuttered, “was that all about?”

“Nothing that doesn't happen every day. Mr. Policeman needed extra incentive to find the thief who stole your suitcase.”

She thought for a moment. “Incentive? Don't take this the wrong way—I'm grateful for everything—but wasn't it more like bribery?”

“No way. It's just how things work in this town. Quid pro quo.”

“Quid pro what?” Sara was even more confused.

“You do something for me, I'll do something for you,” Jared explained. “And let me tell you something—a cop with a screenplay to sell? That's just a cliché. Who doesn't have a screenplay to sell? Or a headshot to get to a casting director. A tape or DVD, a dream of fame and …” He trailed off, probably realizing he was about to describe Sara.

“So you really will send his script to your father?”

He shrugged. “Let's see how fast he comes up with your suitcase.”

Sara was speechless.

“Anyway, at least they didn't get your money,” Jared said, changing the subject. “Unless you had a cash-stash in the suitcase?”

Sara shook her head. “Something more valuable.”

“Jewelry?” Jared guessed.

“My Bible.”

This—
this!
—shocked him. Not that she'd been mugged. Not that he'd just bribed, and probably lied to, the police. He coughed, a poor attempt to cover up a laugh.

Sara wasn't angry. She had good instincts about people—well, if you didn't count that little girl at the phone booth—and she believed, deep down, Jared was a good person. She
turned her head, sized him up as he drove. He was a looker, too, if you liked skinny boys with fancy cars who could sweet-talk their way out of any situation. They weren't her ways; she wasn't sure if they were virtuous.

But she felt safe, for the first time all day.

“You hungry?” Jared asked her now.

“No.” Her stomach growled, giving her away.

He laughed. “Hang on, we're coming up to In-N-Out Burger. Best burgers in the West.”

She brightened.

“With fries and a shake, that's what we'll get you,” Jared was a mind reader.

“I'm on a kind of tight budget,” she admitted, salivating.

“No worries, it's on me. Your trip got off to a bad start. This is comfort food—you'll feel better, promise.”

He pulled up to a fast-food place that resembled a glossy country diner.
IN-N-OUT BURGER
, the sign above it, painted fire-engine red with a blazing yellow arrow, advertised.

While they waited on the ten-car-long line, Jared informed her, “This place is a California legend. People drive sixty miles each way for their famous double-doubles.”

“What's a double-double?” Sara's stomach rumbled so loud, she was sure folks in the cars behind them could hear it.

Jared just grinned.

The minute she found out, she became an instant convert.
They sat at an outside picnic table for what Sara believed was the tastiest meal she'd ever had. The heat no longer bothered her, nor was she fretting about how her sweaty clothes were clinging to her. She felt sure her suitcase would be returned. Life was all about the burger—or, burgers. A “double-double” turned out to be two juicy cheeseburgers, lettuce, tomatoes, and onions stacked on a big ol' toasted bun.

She was too hungry to be embarrassed about the way she practically Hoovered it, washing it down with a rich chocolate shake. Not until she wiped her face and released a huge sigh of contentment and relief did she realize Jared was staring at her.

“Welcome to Los Angeles,” he said with a wink.

Sara was charmed by the orange and blue house. “It's like a little gingerbread cottage, right out of a fairy tale … so colorful!”

Jared admitted he'd never quite thought of it like that.

Her appreciation grew when Jared led her into the living room. “This is just so homey!” she exclaimed. “It's like a huntin' lodge, only with guitars on the walls instead of deer heads.”

A throaty, staccato laugh rat-tat-tat-tatted from behind her. Sara spun around. The cackling was coming from a pretty, freckled girl with long reddish hair. Tucked comfortably in the corner of the sofa, she balanced a thick fashion magazine on her lap and held a glass filled with ice and a clear liquid.

“If you're waiting for her to stop, best sit down and get comfortable,” Jared advised.

“Is she laughing … at me?” Sara was confused.

“Guitars instead of deer heads! That's … priceless!” the girl squealed, slapping the cushion with her free hand.

Jared leaned over and took the drink away from her. “Sara, I'd like you to meet Lindsay. Tragically, she is unable to help herself. She's afflicted with TAS: Tactlessly Annoying Syndrome. Exacerbated by alcohol.”

Tears were sliding down Lindsay's scrunched-up face as she continued to hoot. “Hunting lodge!”

Just then the sliding glass door from the far end of the room opened, and someone started toward them. Sara gasped and turned scarlet. 'Cause this boy must have jumped down off one of the billboards on Hollywood Boulevard. He was dark-eyed, curly-haired, and what a build! He was the hunkiest guy she had ever seen. The most naked, too. But for a teensy black boykini, he wasn't wearing a lick of clothing. She could not stop staring.

Above his swimsuit, his flat stomach formed a V shape. He was all ripples and muscles, biceps, triceps—what they called six-pack abs. He didn't have any chest hair. And he was dripping wet.

Something went flippity-flop in her tummy. She forced herself to look away.

So it was a moment until she could respond to his greeting. He walked right up to her, held his hand out. A large hand, she noticed, with slim, well-defined fingers. “Hi, I'm Nick,” he said in a big, booming voice. “You must be Sara, right? I was just in the Jacuzzi. Welcome to Casa Paradise!”

Her voice wavered. “Thank you. This … sure is … some house!”

“Too bad it could skid down the mountain in a mudslide, be swallowed up in an earthquake, or flame out in the flick of a wildfire.” The worried-sounding voice drifted down from a loft area that overlooked the living room. Sara peered up into the bespectacled, round, friendly face of another boy, this one skinny and frizzy-haired, leaning over the wood railing.

“Hi, I'm Sara—and I sure hope you're not the building inspector or anything?”

Nick interjected, “He's Eliot, our resident worst-case-scenario worrywart, and all-round pain in the butt.”

Eliot. Nick. Jared. She gulped. She'd be living with three boys. Surely something Jared had not told her pop.

“You just get here?” Eliot asked. “I'll help you with your luggage. Is it outside?”

“You could say that,” Jared responded dryly. “Very far outside.”

A little while later Sara found herself on the low-slung striped sofa, between Nick and Eliot. Jared had settled into an
easy chair, Lindsay'd fled to the black leather love seat. What surprised Sara was how friendly everyone seemed, even Lindsay—how comfortable they were with each other. And they'd only started sharing the house the day before.

What truly astounded her? She practically felt like one of them already. Completely the opposite of how she was only a few hours ago. Settled, secure, among folks all around her age. Everything was gonna work out just fine. Maybe being robbed her first day was God's way of testing her.

“What if you don't get your suitcase back?” Nick was asking her now.

“That'd be okay.” Sara pictured the little girl who'd been used as bait. “They're just material things. Those people probably need those clothes more than I do. I've already forgiven them in my heart.”

“You have?” Jared was astonished.

“You're taking this really well,” Eliot put in, also surprised.

This time Lindsay didn't let loose peals of laughter but leaned forward and asked, “Are you one of those teens for God or something?”

“I'm a Christian, if that's what you mean.”

Lindsay smirked and pointed to the bottled water on the coffee table. “Best not drink that. It's Kabbalah water. It'll turn you Jewish.”

Eliot chuckled; even Nick couldn't hide his amusement.

Jared frowned. “You're being a jerk, Lindsay.”

She turned to Sara. “Only if you drink the whole thing.” Lindsay found herself highly amusing, but Sara didn't get it. What'd Lindsay find so funny?

Or why, a bit later, when she innocently said, “So are you fixin' to be an actress too?” Lindsay forgot to laugh. She turned purple.

Jared pressed his lower back into the pulsating jet of the
Jacuzzi, luxuriating in the powerful water massage. He rested his elbows on the blue marble lip of the hot tub and inhaled the sweet, orangey California air. This was his real life, not sweltering in some pissant classroom in Ojai making up his loser classes. If he cared about medieval times, he'd rent
Gladiator
, not read
Beowulf
. Advanced calculus? And God created accountants … why?

Jared didn't need college, he needed to fast-forward to his real life. The one where he eventually ran Galaxy, where he made business deals from the Jacuzzi, swilling Corvoisier.

The bubbly in his glass today was beer. It worked for now; he was buzzed, and flush. The hicks from the sticks, Nick and Eliot, had ponied up their share of the first month's rent. Sara
had paid for June in advance. He'd even guilted La Lindsay into giving up some coin.

He looked at his ex-girlfriend now, across from him in the hot tub. The Jacuzzi floozy, barely covered in a tiny string bikini, was flirting outrageously with red-faced Eliot, who was probably pitching a tent in his Boba Fett boxer swim trunks.

Eliot had to know he was out of his league, but better she cast her spell on this yokel than on Jared. He was relieved he and Lindsay had gotten interrupted on Friday—his resistance had been low, her persistence set on max. He was over her, over the hurt of unread e-mails, unreturned phone messages, unacknowledged gifts. He could duck and weave with the best of them, but backward was not a direction Jared ever moved. It was Lindsay who slammed the door on them three years ago, and Jared had no interest in ever opening it again. He ignored the twisting in his gut as Lindsay playfully flicked Eliot with water, regaling the bug-eyed yutz with tales of her glory days playing Zoe Goldberg-Wong.

She hadn't been quite so playful last night. That moment Sara had innocently inquired if she, too, was “fixin'” to be an actress? Priceless! Lindsay'd gone bat-shit. She'd taken Sara's cluelessness as a deliberate insult. Poor Sara. She couldn't know it, but she'd cut Lindsay in the worst possible way—(a) for not recognizing her! and (b) suggesting the two of them
were equals, both trying to break into the business.

Sara's gaffes would not go unavenged. War had been declared at that moment. But was it truly war when only one side was playing?

Lindsay had refused to share a room with Sara.

Sara had graciously agreed to sleep in the loft. It lacked privacy, but she was a total Anne Frank, and believed no one would spy on her!

When Sara realized the landline phone in the house had been disconnected, Lindsay had refused to lend her a cell phone to call her folks.

Eliot came to the rescue, insisting Sara use his.

Lindsay wouldn't lend her any clothes to sleep in.

Sara had laughed it off. “That's all right, you're such a teeny little thing, they wouldn't fit me anyway.”

That'd placated Lindsay for the moment.

Jared held out no hope for a lasting peace.

But at this moment, twenty-four hours later, all good. His third beer was icy cold, goin' down smooth. A soft southerly breeze caressed his shoulders, his hair. Neil Young's classic album
Harvest Moon
wafted through the outdoor speakers. The sun cast an orangey glow as it began its descent beyond the mountains.

Nick was stretched out on a towel next to them, letting what was left of the sun dry him. Pious pageant-girl Sara, in a
borrowed pair of shorts from Nick and a T-shirt from Eliot, was sitting on the grass a few feet away, hugging her knees. And, he couldn't help noticing, totally devouring Nick with hungry eyes. Hmm … be interesting to see how that played out. No way had Nick not noticed blond Sara's ample curves and sweet demeanor.