No Strings Attached (39 page)

Before his dad answered, Jared jumped in thoughtfully, “Isn't the director of
The Outsiders
with Galaxy? Maybe you could just ask her a few questions—y'know, what they'll be looking for at the auditions.”

Rusty leaned over and mussed Jared's hair. “Okay, I like your thinking, Son. No dirty pool, just something to help your lady. Hang on. …”

Rusty stood up, flicked open his cell phone and punched in the speed dial for one of his star directors. After a minute, they heard him say to the big-name female director, “Sweetheart, how's it going? No, I'm back on the West Coast—yeah, got in early. So listen, about
The Outsiders
. You start casting this week, right?”

Lindsay bounced up and down in her chair, completely unable to contain herself. A couple of times during the conversation, Jared put his palm over her mouth to keep her from squealing.

“Spill! Spill,” she shouted as soon as Rusty hung up.

“They're testing some of the biggest teen stars for Ponyboy—actors and rock stars.”

“And Cherry?” She prodded.

“They're only seriously looking at unknowns.”

Lindsay bit her lip. “Or someone making a comeback?”

He studied her, pressed his fingertips together. “Sure, Lindsay, that's possible.”

“Dad,” Jared said, “anything you can tell her, any insider tips that you know—it'd be a real favor. More than anyone, Lindsay's helping me get through my classes. She's been so supportive, helping me with my papers and stuff. That oughta be worth something.”

Rusty looked surprised.

Lindsay melted.

“I asked for the entire script to be sent over. If you read the whole thing, you'll see what they're going for—an updated version, not as close to the book as the nineteen eighty-three movie was. They want the greasers tougher, more like hip-hop kids, and the socs to have a little more meat to them, not so one-dimensional. As for Cherry, they're thinking of a sexier
type, more sultry than syrupy. And instead of mourning her boyfriend Steve, she's making an obvious play for Dally. But anyway, it should all be in the script.”

Lindsay's heart soared.

Jared said, “Dad, this is … really cool of you.”

Rusty said, “I gotta warn you, Lindsay, all the insider info in the world won't help if some actress just comes in and blows them away. Scripts change all the time. It'll be up to you to win the role by yourself.”

“Oh, don't worry, Mr. L. I will. I will so get this on my own. It's …
beshert
.”

“Hi, Sara.” Lindsay was leaning over the kitchen counter Sunday morning, sipping coffee and pretending to read the
L.A.
Times
.

Sara, wearing some heinous puffy-sleeved thing out of the Frederick's of Purity catalogue, regarded her warily. “What are you doing up so early?”

“Early? It's after nine.” Lindsay acted borderline chipper.

“And yet this is the first time I've seen your face before noon on a Sunday.” Sara slung her fake leather bag over her shoulder.

“I couldn't sleep. I'm nervous about the audition next week.” Which wasn't entirely a lie.

“Me too,” Sara acknowledged.

Lindsay turned toward the fridge. “So, I'd offer you coffee,
but you don't do caffeine, right? How about some OJ?”

“Thanks, but I don't have time.”

“Off to church, huh? And I guess your little shadow isn't going along.”

“No, Naomi doesn't go to church.” Sara headed toward the door.

“Hey, Sara, wait up. Mind if I come with?”

Sara's clear blue eyes went wide—then quickly narrowed. “Why?”

Lindsay heard Jared's voice in her head.
Do not pull anything with Sara. Take the high road. Win the role because you're the one best for it.

Lindsay shrugged. “Because it's Sunday. And I'm feeling”—she pressed her lips together—“well, a little prayer couldn't hurt, right? A little inspiration?”

Sara hesitated. Clearly she didn't believe a word of this hooey, but no way would Sara refuse. Especially after Lindsay greased the wheels: “We can borrow Jared's car. Beats the walk and the bus. You'll get a front-row pew.”

A few moments later, after Lindsay had changed into the longest dress she owned, only a couple of inches above her knee, she carefully backed out of the driveway and headed down the hill toward Cahuenga Drive. “You know, Sara, I've been thinking—”

“About getting religion so you can get a role in a movie?” No mistaking it: Sara's tone was sarcastic. Lindsay guiltily wondered who she had to thank for that: her influence, totally.

“Didn't take you very long to get jaded,” Lindsay remarked.

Chastised, Sara mumbled an apology.

Lindsay laughed. Waiting for the light to change at the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Doheny Drive, she admitted, “Anyway, I do have sort of a confession to make.”

Sara eyed her suspiciously. “Save it for church.”

“I think
you'll
find this confession useful. With all due respect to the higher power.”

Sara crossed her arms, distrustful.

“Here's the thing: I had lunch at Jared's family's house yesterday. His father, Rusty Larson, was there.”

“Mr. Larson, who owns Galaxy. You asked him about the movie,” Sara guessed.

“I got insider info.”

“And you're taking this opportunity to share it with me? Even I'm not that much of a hayseed. Not anymore, anyway.”

Lindsay exhaled slowly. Here it was; Sara would either buy this or not. “Hear me out before you turn me down. Rusty—I mean, Mr. Larson—told me that dozens of actresses are going for it, but they need to make a decision within the next three weeks. So I had this brilliant idea. Why don't we work together
in this first round of auditions, eliminate the competition?”

“How are we going to do that?”

“By using the rest of the info he gave me.”

As All Saints Baptist Church came into view, Lindsay launched into her plan to give Sara the wrong info.

“They're totally playing it old-school, a faithful adaptation of the nineteen eighty-three Francis Ford Coppola movie. So you should watch it again, totally imitate Diane Lane's performance, but sweeten it up. They want Cherry to be so sweet, she could cause an insulin attack. Really sensitive. Really moony for her dead boyfriend, Steve, and for Ponyboy.”

A small pang of guilt stabbed her. And surprised her. Why should she feel guilty? Hollywood was cutthroat. Better the girl learned it now. Still, she was feeling borderline crappy now that she was totally turning Sara in the wrong direction. Lindsay forced herself to swallow the guilt, and stay on point.

Sara still didn't trust her. “You're saying you know this because Mr. Larson got it straight from the director, while you listened in?”

Lindsay wavered. Sara was staring at her with her big blue eyes. She pushed on. “Can you keep a secret? Jared and his dad have … issues. And Rusty kinda thinks that I'm a good influence—”

Sara chortled. “
You're
a good influence?”

Lindsay was miffed. “Believe it or not, there are worse
influences than me. It's not like I'm some doped-up loser, like your little friend Naomi.”

Before Sara could defend the homeless girl, Lindsay said, “Rusty cares about Jared's well-being, and helping me is his way of helping Jared. It's all good.”

Even Sara could see the logic in that.

“So will you work with me? We get rid of the competition, and when it gets down to the two of us, as it will, the best one will get it. That's fair.” Lindsay pulled up to the church and shifted the car into park. She held out her hand. “Deal?”

Sara hesitated, then took it. “It's not fair at all. But it's Hollywood.”

“When do services end? I'll pick you up.” Lindsay gestured at the imposing stone structure

Sara was puzzled. “Aren't you coming in?”

Lindsay waved her hand dismissively. “Not necessary. I made my confession. I feel so much better. My soul is cleansed, knowing we're in this together. Besides, Barneys is having a sale.”

Nick felt nauseous. It wasn't something he ate, more like
something he'd bought into. This whole deal. Except for the part where he got to live in a cool Hollywood place with sexy roommates, the summer was turning out to be one serious bust. He stared at the pot of coffee sitting on the burner at Nowicki studios. No one had brewed fresh; this'd probably been sitting here since the weekend. He poured himself a cup anyway, tasted the grinds in his first sip. His stomach lurched.

It was the end of July, and he didn't even have a portfolio yet, let alone appointments with reputable modeling agencies. Which Nowicki's was not. The stuff being shot at his studio was so not his cup of bitter coffee. No matter how you sweetened it.

“Nicky—”

God, he hated being called Nicky. Especially by the boys here.

“Nicky, darling, they're waiting for you in the back room. They've got the camera set up. Chop, chop.” Alonzo, one of Les's personal assistants, clapped his hands.

“Be right there,” he called, tossing the coffee into the garbage.

They were shooting a calendar called “A Year of Boys,” and Nick was on stand-in duty for the twelve models, one pictured for each month. The poses were all, needless to say, shirtless and suggestive.

Yesterday, he'd posed as Mr. January: naked except for fur-lined briefs. When the real model came in, they'd had to stuff the briefs—at least Nick hadn't suffered that humiliation!

Today, they were doing Mr. February.

“Nicky, Nicky.” It was Les, summoning him to the set they'd created, the facade of a fireplace. Nick would be posed lying on his side on a fluffly rug, bracketed by long brass fireplace tools. Les frowned when he saw him. “Didn't anyone tell you? We need you stripped down.”

Stripped down?

Alonzo advanced, thrusting a cardboard cutout of a red heart at him. The Valentine's Day prop. “This is all you're wearing, Mr. February.”

Nick gaped. The prop was just big enough to cover
him … maybe. He shook his head vehemently. “No way. I can't do this one.”

Keith, the one member of Les's posse Nick could deal with, strode into the studio and assessed. “What's wrong?”

“Nick is being shy. And we're running late.” Alonzo tapped his wristwatch.

“Find someone else. I'm not standing in front of everyone—”

“Hang on a minute,” Keith said. “I'll be right back.” When he returned, he was holding a beige thong. He grabbed the cardboard prop from Alonzo.

“Here, man,” he said to Nick. “Go behind the screen over there, put this on, and use the heart to cover yourself. No one will see anything.”

Nick grimaced. He hated every second of this. But at least Keith had been cool.

Impasse overcome, the rest was routine, if no more comfortable. He lay on his side, stretched out on the carpet, propped himself up on one elbow, cupped his chin. In his other hand, he held the red heart in front of him, positioning it wherever Les told him. “A little to the right. No, a little lower. Try it higher.” Wearing the thong, girly as it was, helped. He felt somewhat secure. Even as Les bellowed, “Wait, what's he got on? He's supposed to be naked. It's in the shot.”

Keith reminded him. “Don't worry, Les. The real model
won't be wearing it. Forget it's there. Let's get the lighting right and be sure he's positioned where we want him.”

Nick breathed a sigh of relief.

Short-lived, as it turned out. Les decided his faux model needed shine, a full-body layer of gloss. Alonzo and Alain—privately, Nick thought of them as the Twinkle Twins—raced to apply it. No fans of Nick, who'd refused every one of their social overtures, no matter how innocent, they did everything possible to make him squirm.

They slathered it on with long, sensual strokes. He tried to bat them away. “Cut it out,” he barked.

“Oh, but we're not done,” Alonzo purred. “Les wants you slicked up good.”

Nick'd had enough. He took a swing at Alonzo, who ducked just in time.

“Oooh,” Alain squealed, “a rough one!!”

Keith strode over. “Cut the shit,” he ordered Alonzo and Alain. “You two are done here.”

When the shoot was over, as a way to say thanks, Nick invited Keith to lunch.

Keith Sternhagen, Nick learned over pizza, subs, and beer, had come to L.A., as he had, from the Midwest. “Racine, Wisconsin. Nice city.”

“Hoping to be a model?” Nick asked.

“An actor,” the young man confided. “But it's a hard nut to
crack. I left right out of high school, had no connections, and my savings didn't last very long. I needed to get a job, and I was lucky that Les took me on. I've been with him, making a good buck, for going on seven years now.”

“So you just gave up on the acting? You don't go out on auditions or anything?” Nick took a bite out of his ham and cheese sub.

“Not lately. My last agent dropped me. It's disheartening. You keep putting yourself out there, only to keep getting rejected.”

Nick understood. He lived with it. Sara and Lindsay—who had plenty of connections—had been striking out. Last week, they'd gone for their
Outsiders
audition: Neither had heard a word since, and both were on pins and needles. It wasn't fun.

“With Les,” Keith was saying, “I got a steady income, a trade, a family. I might not be famous, but I'm not getting rejected every day.”

Nick gulped his soda. He gathered his courage. “Keith, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Keith put his pizza down.

“I'm not … I don't want to offend anyone. Y'know, I'm cool with live and let live. But that's not my lifestyle—”