No Strings Attached (32 page)

In spite of her lowly chores, she was beyond grateful to have this job. Her thank-you to Jared was the air-kiss she'd blown at Rusty Larson, casually mentioning her visit to Jared at the Ojai Community College campus.

Amanda, her boss, was just under Rusty on the power chain, a classic Hollywood agent. Severely striking, short-tempered, high-strung, and prone to screaming hissy fits, she strode through the office in her Prada suits and towering
heels, berating lowly junior agents and assistants, pitching pencils, notepads, and coffee cups at anyone she felt like—then doing a complete one-eighty, kissing up to casting directors, producers, directors, and studio execs.

Lindsay lapped it up, loved every second spent at Galaxy's gleaming, curved, all-glass structure in the heart of Beverly Hills. She already felt back in the game. If she wasn't playing the part she wanted, at least she was at the epicenter of the action. Inside every office, inside every cubicle, even, the hottest scripts were being read, power meetings set up, and best of all, deals were being made. Her big break could not be far away. The assistants networked incessantly, and any juicy tidbit, gossipy or gig-worthy, got transmitted instantly.

This, as opposed to Sara's craptastic junior gofer job at
Caught in the Act
, some
ET
-wannabe TV show. At least she, Lindsay, was picking up the dog shit of a power player in the biz; Sara was probably toiling for some camera grip. And that joke of an agent Jared procured for her? Maybe he could get her an audition for third banana in a commercial. Airing on cable.

Lindsay's agent, Amanda Tucker, represented practically all of Hollywood's A-list actors. It wouldn't be long before her days of running, fetching, pooper-scooping, copying, mailing, and filing were over. Besides, she had all day to eavesdrop and gossip.

What she'd scoped out so far? The gloss behind the gleaming glass structure was fading. Galaxy needed a hit. It
needed a big new star, and a starring vehicle—i.e., a blockbuster movie to which it could attach its clients, producers, director, screenwriters: The Package.

Her cell phone rang. Amanda, her most frequent caller, launched into a list: “On your way back, stop at Gelson's and pick up an order of edamame, two brown rice California rolls, and a half-caf, skim-milk, fat-free cappuccino.” Another of Lindsay's chores was to remember which fad diet Amanda favored each day. “And tell them not to skimp on the wasabi—I'm famished!”

Lindsay flipped her phone shut and fished inside her purse for a pen and paper to write down Amanda's list while she still remembered it—she wasn't authorized to have a BlackBerry yet. “Sit, George Clooney!” she ordered the dog, who for once obeyed. She loosened her grip on the leash.

Bad move.

As soon as Devil Dog felt the leash go slack, he sprang into action—bolted up and away. The leash slipped right off her wrist.

Shit! Lindsay took after him, calling out his name, to the delight and bemusement of the park-goers. She dashed up a trail, around a tree, looking everywhere. Finally, Lindsay saw his tail wagging. “George Clooney! Stop!” she yelled—and promptly tripped, right into the azalea plants.

She cursed, banging the ground with her fists. She'd lost the damn dog, and with it, her job, her future, her hopes. She
was doomed. She closed her eyes, lay on the ground, and thought about weeping dramatically.

“I think I have something that belongs to you.” A voice—male, strong, assured—floated down from above.

Accentuated by a confirming “Yap, yap, yap!”

Lindsay opened one eye. It was level with the scuffed toe of lace-up Timberlands. Granola-guy, was her first thought.

“Miss? Are you okay? I've got your dog …”

She opened both eyes, allowed them to travel upward—the boot was tucked under rumpled jeans. A black Napster T-shirt came next. She was about to get to the face, only it got to her first. Scruffy cheek stubble, medium brown eyes, long dark hair. So not her type.

In bending to help her up, he dropped what'd been tucked under his arm.

She instantly recognized it as a movie screenplay.

He became her type in a nanosecond.

Lindsay poured on the grateful. “Thank you so,
so
much. I'd have died if I lost poor … George Clooney. He means everything to me. And he's so tiny. …” She trailed off, allowing actor-dude (for of course that's what he was) to lead her to a bench, where she made a great show of affection toward an obviously wary George Clooney, who growled and tried to bite her.

“So, I'm Lindsay Pierce, and you're—?”

“Mark Oliver,” he replied genially.

“Are you an actor?” She nodded at the script, tucking her hair behind her ears coquettishly.

“Isn't everyone in this town?” Mark had obviously never watched
All for Wong.

No matter. It was info, not a new fan, she was after.

What Lindsay learned: Mark, a relative newcomer who'd been in several failed TV pilots, was represented by the Endeavor Agency, one of Galaxy's rivals. The script he was reading was for an action comedy called
Heirheads: The Movie.

The plot involved three splashy young heiresses who use their vast resources to solve mysteries. It was Paris Hilton-as-Nancy Drew-meets-James Bond, Charlie's Angels without Charlie. As Mark described the characters, Lindsay easily saw herself as the most glam heiress, Remy St. Martin.

Mark was reading for the part of Remy's wealthy boyfriend. He didn't think the main girls were cast yet, but had heard rumors that some big-name starlets were going to screen-test. Lindsay wiped away the drool before he could see.

She had found her first gig.

“Unzip your pants, Nicky, another inch down. We're going for more tease in this shot.” The middle-aged photographer, Les Nowicki, looked up from behind the camera lens. His tan
lines deepened when he frowned. “You have to learn to relax, to make love to the camera. Let's try it again.”

Nick
was
trying. But relax? Not happening. Especially when a bunch of weirdos, guys, chicks, and others of indeterminate gender were staring at him, sizing him up—and down. He took a deep breath and eased his pants' zipper down another notch. An assistant turned a giant fan up, blowing his unbuttoned shirt wide open.

“That's better, that's
good
!” Les praised him through the lens while snapping his fingers. “He needs more shine!” Keith, one of Les's assistants, dashed over to rub his chest with oil. Nick tensed.

He was well into his first week at the modeling agency. The gig was not what he thought it would be. As a photographer's assistant, Nick figured he'd be hauling equipment, setting up lighting, moving props, learning by watching, getting instruction.

His goal was to get his own professional photos done, then sign with one of the major modeling agencies in town. By the end of the summer, he'd have a kick-ass portfolio—and the bucks would roll on in. Bonus? Meet 'n' greet some hot model-babes.

He hadn't bargained for spending his days, and some nights, striking seminude poses for the camera, being slathered with oils, gelled, glossed, made up, and dressed down.

Nick's primary function was being a stand-in. Before the
actual models arrived for the shoot, he was the guy who posed while Les's freak-team of assistants worked on the lighting, backgrounds, wardrobe, and often, on him. There was a gal who sprayed fake-bake tans and body glitter on the models, a guy whose sole job was eyebrow plucking, a manicurist, a pedicurist, and even someone who waxed the male models. Breast carpets, considered manly by many, were verboten at the studio. It was all about slick and shiny, and especially ripped.

For hours on end Nick stood, sat, reclined, lay on his belly, squatted, leaned against the wall, the window, the bed, so the team could judge what would work and what wouldn't. Digital pictures were taken, studied by Les and his team, then retaken, with adjustments in lighting, props, and his pose. By the time the actual models arrived, the set would be positioned and the shoots good to go, swiftly and smoothly.

The cool part was when he got to wear samples of designer duds—tight D&G T-shirts, Boss shades, Zegna suits. The uncool part was that most of what he wore, he wore … open. Suggestively so.

Nick had been too excited when he learned he'd gotten the internship to bother checking it out, to do what Eliot called “due diligence.” So he came west without the slightest inkling of what kind of modeling photo studio Les Nowicki ran. He knew now.

Les specialized in shooting models for calendars, posters,
and greeting cards. Hallmark was probably not a big customer. A glance at the framed portraits lining the studio's brick walls told the tale: These models, mostly male, weren't exactly in family-friendly poses.

“Sophisticated” was the word used in his interview.

“Soft-core” was his opinion now.

“Turn your face toward the window, Nicky, rest your left hand on your thigh,” Les instructed him. “Excellent!” He snapped away.

Nick stared outside. The studio was located on the fourth floor of a funky building on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood, or WeHo, as Les's helpers referred to the neighborhood.

“Boys-town,” Lindsay had flatly declared.

Whatever. From his point of view, it was a bustling, vibrant, glitzy, showbizzy part of town. Nick gaped at the towering billboards up and down the boulevard, touting the latest movies, biggest CDs, and slickest fashions going. He could easily picture himself on each and every one, especially the Calvin Klein underwear ads, Bulgari Fragrance for Men portraits, Armani shades, Tommy Hilfiger stripes, Izod polos, and Nautica stars. Ads he'd seen in magazines were super-sized in Hollywood.

“Turn the other way now. I want a profile, with your right
hand on the thigh. Higher, Nicky,” Les instructed, motioning with his hand while his eye stayed trained on the lens. “Yes, that's it!” he crowed, clicking away. “Nicky, you're a natural!”

The compliment made him feel queasy.

“Break time, ladies,” called Alonzo, another of Les's assistants. Nick quickly buttoned up his shirt and rezipped his trou.

“Hey, Nicky,” Keith called out. “A few of us are heading to Hamburger Mary's for a bite and a brew. Come with?”

Nick declined—politely, he hoped.

“Oh, the summer boy is too shy to go out with us,” Alonzo teased, as a few others laughed. “Still hasn't warmed up, but he will.”

Don't hold your breath, Nick wanted to say, but tilted his head in a friendly gesture, and headed out the door. He hated being referred to as “the summer boy.” It felt condescending.

Hiding under his army green VH-1 baseball cap, he walked the several blocks to Pink's, “the most famous hot dog shack in Hollywood,” according to Jared. Hungrier than usual, he ordered two man-size chilidogs and a jalapeño dog, and took his unhealthy stash to an empty table on the patio.

A leggy blonde walked by, arm in arm with a guy in a blue and maize Wolverines T-shirt, the University of Michigan football team. A wave of homesickness crashed over him. He checked his watch. It was just after 5 p.m. back home. If he'd
stayed there, he'd have been finished with his shift at his dad's construction site, heading to the bar, wolfing down a brewski, flirting with the babes. He'd have been … home.

He flipped open his cell, about to call Eliot. Weird El, who was only here to humor Nick, was the one in pig heaven. Spending each day in a stuffy classroom in front of the computer with a bunch of other catastrophe geeks. And then coming home to feast his bug eyes on two outta-his-league babes, an actress and a virgin. Nick had just punched in Eliot's number when a tray landed on his table. He looked up—into the amazing eyes, dazzling smiles, and perky boobs of a pair of L.A. hotties.

“Is it okay if we sit here?” asked the darker-haired one.

“Go for it.”

The redhead piped up, “We don't mean to pry, but you look so familiar. Are you an actor?”

“Or a model?” the other one ventured.

Nick folded the phone, and smiled a real smile for the first time that day.

“Sara, can you escort Cameron Diaz from her dressing room to Hair and Makeup? They're waiting for her there. And then we need you to help pre-interview Orlando Bloom—he's in dressing room three.” Wes Czeny, the assistant director of
Caught in the Act
, waved a script as he passed her in the hallway of KABC studios.

“Sure thing,” Sara answered brightly. “I'm on it.”

A big man with bushy gray eyebrows, a bulbous nose, and the friendliest face in Hollywood, is how Sara described her new boss. Her first day, a couple of people had warned her off him. “He has an evil temper.” So far, Sara hadn't seen that side of him.

“He's a teddy bear,” she gushed to her roommates.

“Wait till he wants to cuddle with
you
,” Lindsay said with a smirk.

Sara had learned to let Lindsay's snide comments slide—she was too busy to fret over them anyway. Her job took up practically all her time.
Caught in the Act
was a new show, hoping to join the ranks of such popular entertainment half-hours as
Access Hollywood
,
Extra
, and
ET
.

As a start-up, the show demanded lots of overtime. She'd been there only two weeks, and already some days Sara worked near ten hours. She did so happily, would've worked through the night if needed. It was all so new and exciting! She was getting to see everything up close, big stars and their “handlers”—her first showbiz word she hadn't learned from Lindsay and Jared!—seeing how the writers came up with ideas, watching the directors, and figuring out what all the cameras and boom microphones were for. Every single person on the set impressed
her, especially the hosts of the show, John St. Holland and Susie Smiley. They were so friendly, so smooth!