No Strings Attached (33 page)

“The bland, the blonde, the botoxed,” she'd heard one of the crew snipe about the pair. John had that kind of stony square face like it was chiseled out of marble, and Sally had blindingly white teeth and not a wrinkle on her. But Sara was pretty sure viewers loved them.

She knocked on the door of dressing room one, and was soon looking into the swimming-pool-blue eyes of Cameron Diaz, who'd been relaxing on the couch, a fat fashion magazine in her lap.

“Ms. Diaz, they're ready for you in makeup whenever you are.”

Cameron slipped into a pair of high-heeled slingbacks and stood up, signaling she was good to go.

The star was tall, really slim, and like so many people in Los Angeles, very friendly. To Sara's comment that she hardly needed a lick of makeup, the star insisted that all girls need all the help they can get.

Sara had to pinch herself. One of the world's biggest movie stars was talking to her … just like any other girlfriend. Wait'll Momma hears!

It wasn't just Ms. Diaz who'd been gracious and normal. Sara had met a bunch of movie and TV stars. A few arrived
with big entourages—usually it was the hangers-on who ordered her around—but it was her job to get them lunch or whatever they wanted, to make sure they were comfortable. Some came with long lists of requirements, topics they would not discuss on camera, and at least one stormed off the set after agreeing to an interview. But mostly, she found, the bigger the star, the nicer and more gracious they were.

The notion cheered her. When she got to be a star, she wouldn't have to pretend to be a diva, or anything like that. She could still be nice, virtuous, down-home. And she'd get there on her God-given talent, not because she'd compromised even one single value. She'd show Lindsay!

Everything that'd happened so far was due to divine providence. Jared had snared her an agent, Lionel—who she adored!—and Lionel happened to be friends with Candy Dew, the producer of the show, who mentioned they were hiring assistants. The phrase “It's not what you know, it's who you know” was turning out to be true in this world.

The point of
Caught in the Act
, she'd been told, was to present a different side of celebrities, to get them to confess their secrets—silly, sinful, salacious, or sweet; as long as it was personal, it'd do.

Candy had put it this way: “The only reason anyone comes on the show is because they have something to prove, or
promote. It's our job to let them promote their latest movie, album, TV show, perfume, or whatever, prove they're not sick, or gay, or married, or too old, or crazy, and get them to spill something juicy to us. It's pretty simple, actually.”

Her job? Do whatever was required, from whoever asked.

Listening to stars promote their movies got her thinking about the screenplay written by Officer Ortega. Sara had rescued it from the filthy pool because it was the right thing to do. She'd only read a few pages, but it seemed interesting. It was about this rookie cop and a runaway.

Now she picked up today's
Caught in the Act
script from Wes's assistant and made her way to dressing room three. The star, thin, angular, with a mustache and soul patch, was on the phone. Waiting at the door until he motioned for her to come in, she caught herself thinking,
He's not nearly as good-looking as Nick.

When he got off the phone, he asked what she needed. That accent! It just about knocked her out.

“Would you mind if we went over the questions that Sally would like to ask during your interview?”

For the next half hour, over bottled water and fruit, they did. She found out he did not want to talk about any of his rumored romances, but he'd be happy to comment on his latest movies. And she found out, quite accidentally, that he had the funniest story to tell about his first dinner in an upscale
Asian restaurant, where he mistook the heated cloth napkins for shrimp toast—and tried to eat them!

Darn if she didn't laugh as hard as anybody during the taping, as he described the looks on the waiters' faces as he bit into the steaming fabric. Wes came over and put his arm around her. “Great job, Sara,” he said. “You've got quite a knack for getting people to open up to you. Maybe you should consider that as a career option.”

“I'm determined to try my hand at acting. That's why I'm here,” she reminded him.

He snapped his fingers. “Damn! I forgot to tell you. Marla said your agent called—you should call him back. And, Sara—get a cell phone, okay?”

As soon as she could, she returned Lionel's call. And screamed so loud, the whole crew probably heard her. Sara had her first audition a week from tomorrow. When she stopped screaming, Lionel said, “It's just a peanut butter commercial, don't get excited.”

Don't get excited? How could she not? Sara practically skipped along Hollywood Boulevard that evening, thanking the Lord for her good fortune.

She was in that generous frame of mind when, passing Big Al's Bondage Boutique, she noticed a teenage girl squatting on the sidewalk, coffee cup in her hand. Sara flashed back to her first day in Hollywood. This kid was only a few years
older than the child who'd scammed her—a child who was probably rotting in some juvie facility by now.

Sara strode over, opened her purse, and knelt down beside the girl. “What's your name?”

“‘Cel-e-
brate
good times, oh, yeah'!” Lindsay, in no way a
singer, belted the song at the top of her lungs. She bopped to her own beat in the passenger seat of Jared's convertible. She wasn't even drunk yet (he didn't think), yet full-on uninhibited—loud and off-key. Wasn't there a law against felonious assault of iconic bar mitzvah songs?

“‘We're gonna celebrate and have a good
time
'!” She hollered out the lyrics. And had he mentioned, badly?

“Linz, take it down a thousand,” he shouted.

She ducked into the oversize lavender Hermès bag at her feet—
Note to self: how'd she afford that?
—extracted a bottle of Patron tequila, and took a swig.

“Oh, no you don't.” He shook a finger at her. “Put that away.”

“Don't be a buzzkill, Jared,” she bellowed. “‘Ev'ry-
one
a-
round
the world, c'
mon
'!” She danced in her seat, waving the bottle in the air.

“We're gonna get pulled over before we even get to the club!”

“When'd you turn into such a wuss? I'm precelebrating. I got my first audition next week—whoo-hoo! And besides, it's not against the law if the passenger is drinking.”

“What state have you been in, besides oblivion? It's illegal to have an open bottle of alcohol in the car.”

Playfully, she leaned over and licked his earlobe. “Oh, but you have a way with policemen-hyphenates. Patrolman-slash-screenwriter, officer-slash-actor-producer, cop-slash-model. Really, Jared, what're the odds you'd be stopped by another one of them?”

He had to laugh. She was so, so, so cute. And so upbeat and so damn … hot! Sexier than ever, stylin' to the max, wearing a shoulder-baring halter top, sprayed-on miniskirt, and slouchy high-heeled suede boots. With that pricey Hermès Birkin bag over her shoulder, the ex-girlfriend was workin' it.

He slammed on the mental brakes. He was not—repeat NOT—falling for her. And whatever playful flirting she was doing? Meant nothing. She hadn't, after all, tried seducing him again since that first day, several weeks ago. They were friends, they were cool, and tonight Lindsay was reconnecting with
his—their—friends. It'd be her first night of serious clubbing since returning to Los Angeles. They were headed for the exceedingly exclusive Spider Club at the Avalon Hollywood. Jared's posse would be there, along with a petting zoo of A-list celebrities, everyone from Ashlee to Paris.

Lindsay Pierce would blow in there and blow everyone away. She suspected it; he knew it.

Jared had been out clubbing nearly every night since the summer began. Booze and booty weren't the only reasons. This season, he had an agenda. Before Labor Day, he would make one major deal for Galaxy, his dad's agency. Using his connections, charisma, and charm, he would suss out the hot new screenplay being whispered about; which young A-list actor wanted to switch agencies; find up-and-coming new directors. In a business where information is currency, Jared would strike it rich. He would prove to his father that he was worthy. The clubs were where the connections were, where the buzz began, where the showbiz action really was. For Jared, the club scene was the motherland.

Lindsay, the distracting passenger riding shotgun, also had something to prove to the showbiz world: She was on the comeback trail.

Lindsay had repeated the story to anyone who'd listen, how she'd tipped her boss Amanda off to
Heirheads: The Movie
. Then how the high-powered agent had coaxed the screenwriter
into e-mailing her a copy of the script, at the same time browbeating her staff for not knowing about it.

Lindsay excelled at suck-up. To her boss, she modestly cooed, “If not for George Clooney, that itsy-bitsy sweetie poochie-pie, we'd never have known about
Heirheads
.”

To her agent, she was quid-pro-quo girl. She'd found it, she deserved a chance to audition. “The part of Remy St. Martin, it was written for me.”

Lindsay's audition was a done deal.

Jared had tried to curb Lindsay's enthusiasm. “Amanda will totally send other actresses to audition for this. It's not you exclusively.”

“They can dig up Katharine-freakin'-Hepburn and send her, for all I care.” Lindsay flipped her copper tresses defiantly. “This role has my name on it.”

Woe to the dunderhead who tried to yank her off the grandiosity pedestal. Jared knew when to give up.

“Besides, this script is so good, it can be the one that saves Galaxy,” she'd asserted proudly.

“What about my family's firm needing saving?” That'd been a scary newsflash to him.

She repeated the office scuttlebutt: Galaxy was losing out to the biggies—CAA, ICM, William Morris, Endeavor. Galaxy had not nailed a blockbuster deal in weeks.

That'd freaked him out. In a biz fueled by “What have you done for me tomorrow?” if Lindsay was right, the situation sucked. If Galaxy looked weak, they'd soon be hemorrhaging A-list clients. His dad needed him more than ever. Rusty Larson just didn't know it yet.

A perp lineup of bare boobs, of all sizes 'n' shapes, met them at the door—the nightly brigade of girls holding their tops up, hoping to impress the bouncers at the velvet ropes of the Spider Club.

Lindsay was scandalized. “Are they auditioning for ‘America's Next Top Tit-Model'?”

Jared laughed. “Things have … evolved … since you've been gone.”

“You call degrading themselves evolution? Give me a break. What ever happened to the good old reliable payoff? Or the haughty ‘I'm on the list' line. Or just sneaking in …?”

“Like
you
ever had to! You had an all-access pass to every club in town,” he reminded her as the burly bouncer, recognizing Jared, lifted the ropes and waved them in. “You may find that decadence has trumped cleverness.”

“Self-degradation? Bad. Decadence? Just the way I like it,” Lindsay quipped, slipping her arm around his waist.

It felt like old times.

On the trendy carousel of clubs in L.A.—Hyde, Les Deux, Mood, Rokbar, and the Tropicana came to mind—the Spider Club was the Friday night scene to make. Officially, Spider was the VIP room at the Hollywood Avalon rave hall. Realistically, only the seriously elite ever got in. Other clubs had theme nights, Spider's theme was “You know what? Don't even bother.”

Inside Spider, the def-est DJs ruled. Tabletops were the preferred dance floor for sexy girls. The club was anything you wanted it to be, a rowdy drink-and-dance-fest or a discreet canoodle cradle. The red, pink, and orange Moroccan love-den booths inspired make-out sessions
and
make-deal sessions.

Everyone was looking to score.

“Yo, Ja-
red
! Over here!” First voice he heard over the thumping beat belonged to Tripp Taylor, trust-fund son of a famous producer. The Tripster was decked out tonight in an up-collar D&G shirt and wide-brim fedora dipping over one eye, a look that was too skeevy for Jared. He had one arm draped around slinky Caitlin Cassidy, daughter of a cosmetics empress, the other on the thigh of Ava Golightly, resident anemic-bulimic of their crowd.

“Make some room, peeps,” the already inebriated Tripp ordered. “Our man with the plan has arrived. And, looky-loo, he has not come solo!”

Stacked cushy red-leather cylinders formed the backrest of the booths, each side roomy enough to seat three or four
depending on the coziness quotient, which usually went up as the night wore on.

Facing this tony trio was Julie Baumgold (or, as Jared secretly thought of her, Julie BBB—Beautiful But Bony), Austin Tayshuss, and MK Erksome. This sextet was Jared's core crowd.

Julie B. was the first to realize whom Jared had brought. She clamped one bejeweled hand over her glossed lips. “Lindsay?! Oh, my God,
Lindsay
! You look amazing!!”

Ava came in second. “When'd you get here? You look fabulous!”

Tripp extended his hand. “Jared said you were back, but he failed to mention the foxy-factor! What's in the water back in Indiana?”

“Iowa,” Jared corrected him, unsure why he was annoyed.

“I knew it was one of those
I
states.” Tripp clasped Lindsay's hand.

Lindsay lapped up the attention, “Thanks, you guys—it's great to be back. What're ya drinking?”

Austin, son of a socialite and an action star, rose. “Squeeze in here, Linz, we'll make room.”