No Strings Attached (31 page)

Soon the housemates would be in for the ultimate Cali-sunset experience, gloriously dizzying, pinks, corals, and tangerines, a first for his newbies. Feeling generous, Jared picked up his cell phone and lazily ordered dinner from Tuk Tuk Thai for all of them. He was just about to recite his credit card number into the phone when Lindsay kicked, splashing water at him, and shook her head.

Reminding him that his credit cards had been cut off. “Wait, it'll be C.O.D. Twenty minutes? Great.”

Lindsay grinned. “Have you thought about how you're going to pay for a pool-cleaning service? Or a lawn boy? It's a mess out here, in case you hadn't noticed.”

Sara tilted her head. “You mean, hire someone to clean the pool? And to cut the lawn? Why would y'all do that?”

“Because that's how we roll in these here parts,” Lindsay mimicked.

Coloring slightly, Sara said, “But why spend money when we can do it ourselves? There's five of us. If we all pitch in, we'll get it weeded, cleaned up in no time.”

“Pitch in?” Lindsay was flabbergasted.

Sara shrugged. “I'll just go ahead and get it started. I cut the grass at home, anyway, and what's a pool if not a bigger bathtub? I can handle that. Besides, I've gotta have something to do between auditions and job hunting.”

Lindsay, who'd moseyed over to Jared's side of the hot tub, was amused. “What kind of job will you be huntin' for? And will there be a shotgun involved?”

“Knock it off, Lindsay.” Jared was getting bored with her snarkiness. Lindsay's deep-seated insecurities always came out as jealousy. But of Sara? That made no sense. To make polite conversation, he said to Sara, “You said you had an appointment with an agent. Which one?”

“It's the Wannamaker Star Agency in Hollywood. I'm set up for Thursday at three. I'm hoping to have a waitress job by then so I can pay the fee.”

Jared blinked. Was Sara really that naive? “Don't do that! That's a scam. No reputable agent charges up front. An agent only gets 15 percent of what you make for a job he or she has gotten for you.”

Sara's face fell. “Really? Mr. Zinterman didn't say that. Guess I should cancel the appointment, then,” she said dejectedly.

Just then the sound of a car horn blared. “Tuk Tuk Thai delivery!”

“Be right there,” Jared shouted. As he jumped out of the
Jacuzzi and made for the front door, he looked up: The sky was already painted with coral, pink, and tangerine stripes. Timing was everything.

A dozen empty Thai food containers and several downed beer and wine bottles later, the vibe was lighter, freer, the buzz shared by all as they ate al fresco, grazing, gazing into the sunset. Yeah, even Lindsay had mellowed.

Eliot, who'd settled next to Sara, sharing her towel, was trying to cheer her up. “Maybe Jared's father can get you an interview at his agency,” he suggested. “That's one of the biggest in town. Very reputable.”

Lindsay was about to open her mouth but Jared clapped a hand over it, silently declaring the hot tub a “no insult” zone. Then he got an idea.

“That's the suckiest idea I ever heard!” Lindsay exclaimed as soon as her mouth was freed. He hadn't even finished explaining it.

“Chill, Lindsay—and listen. You both need agents, you both need jobs. I need rent from the two of you. And I've got pull at Galaxy. …” He was about to say, “What's the downside?” but he knew: Lindsay didn't do “competition” well, perceived or real. Sara was the enemy. Enemies don't share turf.

“What's your plan?” she asked coldly, arms folded.

Sara said nothing. Hope was written all over her face.

Jared flipped open his cell phone. First, he left a voice mail
for Amanda Tucker, one of Galaxy's senior, most respected, and most feared agents. “Hi, Mandy, it's Jared. I've got an amazing opportunity for you. That assistant position you've been looking to fill? Wait'll you hear who I got you! Call me.”

Nick, Eliot, and Sara traded glances. They had a lot to learn.

Now Lindsay was grinning big. She got it. Jared was multitasking. Amanda would get an assistant with cachet, a name in this town; Lindsay would net a powerful agent. Once said powerful agent got her an acting role, buh-bye, shitty assistant job! So win-win.

Jared's next call was to Lionel Mays, a junior agent. His tone was assured. “You're gonna be kissing my butt for this one, Li—I'm sending you a fresh new talent. Every agency in town's gonna want her, and you get the first shot at repping her. You can thank me later.”

Sara leapt up off the ground as if she'd been launched and threw her arms around Jared, practically burying his face in her bust. “You got me an agent? You could do that with one phone call?” she squealed. “Bless you! Bless you!”

“Down, girl,” Lindsay warned, though her tone was mischievous, not malevolent. “Jared set you up with an interview. You'll have to prove yourself.”

Nick put in, “But that guy you called—he has to take Sara on, right? You're the boss's son.”

Lindsay grinned mischievously. “You gonna give”—she could not resist—“
Pop
a heads-up? Tell him you're sending over a proven superstar, and a chunky wannabe? Besides, isn't there some kind of disconnect between you two?”

“Nothing that would keep me from doing a favor for my friends. I'm golden at Galaxy. As always.” He smiled smugly for her benefit.

Sara was beaming. She turned to Nick and Eliot. “Y'all never did say what you're fixin' to do this summer. Did y'all need Jared to make a call on your behalf?”

“I don't think there's anything Jared can do for me. I'm not what you'd call showbiz material,” Eliot said, self-consciously toying with his glasses.

“Don't be hard on yourself,” Sara scolded. “You can do anything you want, if you put your mind to it.”

“Thank you. But both Nick and I are set. He's got an internship and I'll be at UCLA, taking a course taught by the science editor at the
Los Angeles Times
.”

“The
L.A.
Times
has a science editor? What for?” Lindsay was puzzled.

“You're spending the summer in school?” Jared was equally bewildered.

Eliot explained. “I'm going for journalism at Northwestern University in the fall, and UCLA offered this great summer course—it covers natural phenomena, weather, earthquakes,
that sort of stuff. Who knows, maybe I'll learn something there that can help us—if a brushfire doesn't swallow us up first.”

Nick shook his shaggy mane. “Couldn't resist, could ya?”

Jared turned to Nick. “Bro, what kind of gig did you get?”

“Tomorrow I start at the Les Nowicki Modeling Agency.”

Sara clapped her hands together. “I just knew you were a model! I knew—”

Eliot broke in, “He's not a model. He got an internship as a photographer's assistant.” He shot Nick a look and amended, “It wasn't an easy internship to score. A lot of people applied. But once they saw Nick's portfolio and video, he got the gig.”

“E's right,” Nick said, “but I'm thinkin' once I get a foot in the door, I got a good shot at a modeling career.”

“Definitely!” Sara's face was alight.

Lindsay took a long pull on her beer. Soberly, she said, “You do know, Nicholas, that all male models are gay. You might want to start with another part of your anatomy in the door.”

Nick's jaw dropped.

It'd gotten dark out, and Jared hadn't put the outside lights on. So he could only assume that the macho Michigan model-to-be was pale as a ghost.

Jared jumped in to do damage control. “That's a sweeping stereotype, Nick. It's like saying—”

“That all actresses have to sleep their way to the top?” Lindsay stared at Sara.

Sara's jaw joined Nick's on the ground.

Eliot grew uncomfortable. “Ah, c'mon, that's such an old saw, it can't be true anymore.”

Her eyes trained on Sara, Lindsay responded, “Some old clichés are still true. Like this one: In this town, to get ahead, you've gotta give some head.”

“I'm sure I don't get your meaning.” Sara gulped, making it clear she obviously did.

“The casting couch, girlfriend—surely even
you
have heard of that.” Then Lindsay made a lewd gesture, licking her lips suggestively.

“Oh!” Sara's eyes grew big, and Jared could guess, her face red.

“Not all actresses sleep their way to the top. Why are you making her nuts?” He pinned his ex-girlfriend with angry eyes.

“Of course not all! Did I say ‘all'? I meant the ones trying to break in—you know, the ones from … some little town in Texas … hoping to snag their first role.” Lindsay was positively gleeful.

“I believe that I will make it on my acting talent,” Sara said, no longer skittish but composed, “because I have no intention of debasing myself for any reason.”

“Well, good luck with that.” Lindsay rolled her eyes.

The front door bell rang. Saved! Jared wasn't expecting anyone, but was more than happy to have this conversation
interrupted. So was Sara, apparently, who jumped up to answer it. A minute later he heard her squeal with delight.

She came running back around the house, one hand holding her suitcase, the other holding that of Officer Ortega. “Look! They found my suitcase!”

“We put a few of our best guys on it and got it right back. You might want to check that nothing's missing.” Officer Ortega smiled proudly.

Jared went to shake the officer's hand, momentarily forgetting about the deal he'd made—until the cop handed him a thick manila envelope.

“You remember,” he said haltingly, “that, uh, screenplay I mentioned? Thought you'd want to have a look at it—y'know, send it on to Galaxy.”

“Of course! I'll messenger it to my father first thing in the morning. With a note about your speedy recovery of Ms. Calvin's belongings.” Jared recited the well-practiced lines.

“You really gonna read that, send it to your old man?” Nick asked when the policeman had gone.

Jared shook his head no. It was Lindsay who grabbed the manila envelope and cavalierly pitched it into the pool, reciting, “I don't think this is right for Pop … mean for Galaxy.”

Sara, wearing Nick's shorts and Eliot's T-shirt, dove into the mucky pool to rescue it.

Lindsay was shocked.

Dripping with algae, Sara waded out of the pool clutching the soaked package. “I feel responsible. Would y'all mind if I read it?”

“Knock yourself out,” Jared said with a shrug.

Much later, after everyone had gone in, Jared reflected. No one had asked him about his summer plans. He had them, all right. They involved doing exactly what he'd tried to tell his dad he could do: meet people, schmooze, network—bring Galaxy some amazing deal. He'd have to add another chore to the summer: peacekeeping. Refereeing.

More to the point: taking the knife out of Sara's back every time Lindsay plunged it in.

A full-time gig, for which he'd get
bupkis
in return: nothing. His head said,
Oh, Lindsay, what am I going to do with you?
His heart, if he let it, was already on the verge of saying something else entirely.

Is this what it would be—a battle between head and heart, all summer long? Jared hoped not.

It wasn't the smell that grossed her out. Or even the act itself.
It was the way it
looked.
What if someone saw her? What if, worse, someone
recognized
her?

“Isn't that Lindsay Pierce, scooping dog poo? Eeww!” She could practically hear the snide whispers. “So
that's
what became of her!” You couldn't stoop much lower in this town, and yet, one week into her job as Amanda Tucker's personal assistant at Galaxy Artists,
this
is what she'd been reduced to—picking up after Amanda's miniature pinscher, George Clooney. Yes, Amanda had named it after a client she'd famously failed to land.

Lindsay flung the doggie bag into the trash. She used to
have “people” who did this kind of thing for her—she wasn't supposed to
be
people. Among her other daily duties for her piddly paycheck: filling the min-pin's bowl with bottled Smart water and fetching freshly baked doggie biscuits. For Amanda, she ordered soy lattes, picked up and delivered dry cleaning and laundry, went office-to-cubicle selling Girl Scout cookies for her niece. Twice so far she'd run to the Manolo Blahnik store on Rodeo Drive, switching the gold five-inch-heeled Manolos for the black lizard four-inch-heeled Manolos, then back to the gold again.

Answering phones would've been a promotion.

“Yap! Yap! Yap!” Worse, the pesky little poo-machine on the other end of the snakeskin leash suffered from Irritable Bark Syndrome and a nasty temperament—just like his owner. He growled at little children, nipped anyone who went to pet him, and loveliest of all, tried to mount any dog he could get close to. Which was a joke, since George Clooney weighed all of seven pounds. And yet, the rat-faced runt tried to go all alpha dog, literally, on their asses.

It hadn't surprised her that Amanda kept the tiny terror in her palatial office. At her level, executive vice president of talent, she could have an alligator in there if she wanted. Lindsay hadn't thought she'd have to deal with it. Her first day, Amanda barked instructions: “Put his poo in a plastic bag. If you're not near a garbage disposal, put the package in your
pocket until you find one—he gets embarrassed if you're holding it out where other people can see.”

And there was this little gem: “He won't answer unless you call him by his full name.”

“George Clooney, no!” she scolded him as he tried to mount a passing pit bull bearing a dangerous resemblance to its scary owner. She jerked the little rat-beast away and continued their drudge through Griffith Park. The park was huge, and way famous. It had a gazillion trails for hiking, biking, and horseback riding, places to picnic and play golf. Plus it was home to the Los Angeles Zoo and the famous Observatory, at which a very special episode of
All for Wong
had been taped. Sweet memories for Lindsay—but, hello, it was also really out of the way, high in the hills and nowhere near Galaxy's offices. On the upside, there was virtually no chance of running into anyone important. Everyone who was anyone took their Princesses and Baileys to the Hollywood Dog Park. The downside? Same thing.