No Strings Attached (47 page)

“Guess we all are,” Sara said. There were many ways in which the earth could shake you up.

A week and a half later, a guarded normalcy had returned to Los Angeles. Only, Lindsay mused, in her case, normal was better than ever. She felt beyond comfortable lounging poolside at the Larson mansion, pampered, protected. She felt hopeful, like she'd prosper again. Wearing a new metallic bikini, she lay back on a lushly cushioned chaise lounge, a fat new issue of
In Style
on her lap and visions of glam outfits and red-carpet appearances in her head.

It was Tuesday afternoon, and she had the pool, the entire mansion, practically to herself. Nick had returned to his modeling gig; Eliot to his classes; Sara and Naomi, healed now,
back to
Caught in the Act
. Jared had surprised everyone by going for an actual study session with Adam, the kid he'd hired to take the tests for him. Boyfriend had decided to play summer school catch-up, even though Lindsay was fairly sure the big face-to-face with his father hadn't happened yet.

Everyone was still obsessed with the fallout from the quake.

Online, on TV, and in the news, there were round-the-clock updates. Financially, the damage totaled in the millions. Hundreds, like herself and Naomi, had suffered various degrees of injury. Tragically, twenty-two people had died. Most were from the Ojai area, where the quake had been centered, but a few people had perished in the shaky homes atop the Hollywood Hills.

She'd come close to being number twenty-three. She didn't remember a lot, just flinging open the sliding doors, dashing through them in search of Amanda's pooch, George Clooney, and then the sensation of dropping, falling. The earth had cracked, right under her feet, and she'd gone down. And out. Lindsay had blacked out, and so everything that happened afterward she learned about only after the fact.

The contents of the house had crashed down on top of her. She'd been buried under an eight-foot mound of glass, steel, bricks, wood, and—she giggled—knickknacks. Death by tchotchkes. She couldn't help finding that ticklish.

Here was the thing, and Lindsay faced it head-on:
Surviving a near-death experience had not changed her. Or at least, not so far. She understood that Eliot had prepared them, that Sara and Nick had acted coolly and courageously, that Jared had been sick with worry. And that Naomi, of all people, had bravely risked her own pitiful life to save hers. Lindsay was grateful, she really, really was. She would so show her gratitude; she'd buy each person an extremely trendy and expensive gift, right from the pages of
In Style
.

But … see, she knew it was wrong to feel this way, but still … it was over.

Been there, survived that, bought the T-shirt.

Earthquake. Rescue. Rehab.

Next.

Lindsay wasn't going to go all Oprah, or Angelina, or even Madonna in her red string bracelet phase. Lindsay wasn't going to dedicate herself to Kaballah, or Christianity, or any other spiritual thingie.

Except for being deeply superficial, she wasn't all that deep.

At least she was real. Life would go on and
The Outsiders
would get made. Grudgingly, she accepted that Sara probably had the role; the earthquake hadn't changed the fact that twerpy little Lionel had as much as said so. Jared was all “Keep the faith, Lindsay,” insisting nothing had been determined yet.

Naturally, the final audition had been postponed due to
the quake. But movie schedules were being set: That tryout would happen before Labor Day, just a week away. Maybe there was something she could do in the screen test for the studio heads that would make them forget about Sara.

Those were the thoughts that occupied Lindsay's brain, and not for very long, either, as she rolled over on her belly for a more even tan. She wanted the role of Cherry, but if the worst happened, she'd survive to sniff out another acting part. Her time would come.

Desirée, the housekeeper, poked her head out the French doors. “Miss Lindsay, there's someone at the door to see you.”

Lindsay squinted. “Who is it?”

Desirée shrugged. “Didn't say. But the lady is carrying a tiny dog.”

Amanda? Lindsay leapt off the lounge and scooted inside.

Amanda was clad in a navy blue Prada power suit, and adorned with her armpit accessory, George Clooney, who snarled at Lindsay.

“Lindsay, darling, how are you?” Amanda air-kissed the vicinity of Lindsay's cheeks.

“I'm good. Great, in fact. Do you want to come sit down?” Lindsay calculated: If her boss-cum-agent had arrived just to thank her for saving George Clooney, no way would she hang out. If, however, there was news of the audition, Amanda would deign to stay a while.

The reason for the face-time turned out to be something different. Something awesomely sweet, and fabulous … and confusing as hell. Amanda settled onto the Armani sofa in the great room with the rat-faced runt and accepted a bottle of designer sparkling water from Desiree. She sniffed around. “I see Rusty hasn't changed decorators since Glynnis lived here,” she noted.

Amanda had been a guest at Galaxy's parties, often staged here in the mansion, when Jared's parents were together and the agency was flourishing. Lindsay agreed. “Still, it all works, don't you think?”

Amanda nodded, though no way had she come to check out the décor. “So, my little client,” she said, crossing her long legs. “It seems as though every good deed does not, in fact, go unpunished. You saved George Clooney's life—you get a tasty reward.” She stroked the devil-dog, who promptly jumped from her arms and peed on the leg of the marble coffee table.

Amanda giggled. “Ooops, we'll need a little cleanup here. Anyway, I come bearing wonderful news: You got the part.”

For a nanosecond, Lindsay had no clue what Amanda was talking about. “What part?”

Amanda looked at her weirdly. “Did your tragic earthquake experience render you dense? What part have you been auditioning for? What part will make you a superstar, the comeback story of the decade? You got Cherry.”

Lindsay remained stupefied, way slow on the uptake. “But—but …”

“No buts,” Amanda said. “Just yours up on the big screen.”

“I didn't have the final audition. Neither did Sara.”

Amanda smiled mysteriously, coquettishly. “And yet, here I am, in person, to inform you that no more auditions are necessary. You, Lindsay Pierce, will be playing the part of Cherry Valance. The announcement goes to the trades tomorrow.

Lindsay felt sure her mouth was wide open. And maybe there were words forming in her brain, on their way out. She remained speechless long after Amanda had bid her adieu, long after more air-kisses, long after, even, she stumbled to the kitchen for a rag and a can of Resolve to clean up after George Clooney.

Nick leaned out the driver's side window and talked into the
speaker. “We'll have two double-doubles, one cheeseburger, two orders of fries, and two vanilla shakes.”

“Will that be all?” came the disembodied voice from the squawk box at In-N-Out Burger.

He glanced at Eliot, in the passenger seat, looking straight ahead, lips pressed together, arms folded over his chest.

“That's it,” Nick responded.

“That will be sixteen seventy-eight. Drive up to the pickup window, thank you.”

Ever since the earthquake, Nick had been doing whatever he could think of to make things right with Eliot, to apologize for being such a heel. But nothing he did, or said, seemed to be enough. Nick drove El to classes each morning, picked him
up at the UCLA campus each evening. He offered to buy him dinner, take him out for beers, explain what'd happened, or just shoot the breeze like they always did—anything to get their friendship back on track. But Eliot wasn't giving an inch; his shoulder was cold, turned away.

Neither had been much of a grudge-holder, but the E-man was having a really hard time letting go of his righteous anger.

Okay, Nick got it. Dude had a right to be steaming. Furious. Burned. But didn't eighteen years of friendship count for anything? Eliot's silence was killing him. Between that, his crappy job, and guilt feelings about Sara, Nick was as down as he'd ever been—lower than a pregnant ant, as his mom sometimes said.

He hadn't asked if Eliot wanted a bite to eat, just sorta kidnapped him instead of heading back to the Larson place. Nick was determined to have his say—even if he wasn't entirely sure of what that would be.

He'd driven to the In-N-Out Burger in Hollywood, remembering that Sara had gushed about it, mentioned the outdoor tables.

“C'mon, dude, let's chow down.” He parked the car, hoping Eliot wouldn't be a complete jerk and refuse to move.

“Fine,” Eliot answered, and followed Nick to one of the many empty tables. Most people drove up and drove away; the
only other tables were occupied by kids wearing Hollywood High School jackets.

They ate in silence, Eliot picking out the onions from his burger, checking the lettuce for brown spots. Nick gazed at the clouds floating lazily across the hazy blue sky. Back in Michigan, even the cloudy skies seemed purer, more of a crystal blue. Later, when the colors in the sky turned to pumpkin orange, raspberry, and even purple at sunset, when the air was crisp, signaling the coming of fall—yeah, that's when he liked it best.

“I'm 'bout ready to head home.” He had no idea he was gonna say that. Or that Eliot would finally look at him. And agree. “I'm done with classes after this week anyway.”

“Just … just…,” Nick stammered. “Look, E, I don't know what else to do. I'm sorry, man.” He felt his lip quiver, and bit down hard.

“The whole situation blows,” Eliot agreed.

Nick opened his mouth to say something, but to his surprise, Eliot was still talking. “I feel like I've been sucker punched, Nick. Like, what a jerk I am. I never saw it coming.”

“No, man, it's not like that—”

“Not like what? C'mon, Nick, you can stop apologizing for sleeping with Sara. Any guy would probably have done the same in that situation. How can I be mad at you for being who you are—a chick magnet? It's not your fault that I repel women.”

Nick hadn't thought he could feel any worse; now he knew
better. But the next thing Eliot admitted helped, a little. “It's not like Sara was my girlfriend. She's not into me, and even without that Donald guy, she probably never would be. It was a nice fantasy, that's all.”

Nick wished he could wave a magic wand and bring someone for Eliot, some girl who was worthy of his best friend. “You'll find someone, E. Hey! In that college, Northwestern, things will be different. The place is full of brainiacs—the gene pool of females worthy of you will be much deeper than in West Bloomfield or here in Phony-wood.”

“Yeah, I'm sure my dream-geek awaits somewhere.” Eliot cracked a smile. First one in many, many days.

Nick reached into his pocked and slammed a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “Bet you the girl you get? Will be a knockout. Smart, hot—and probably neurotic, if she has to put up with you.”

Sheepishly, Eliot said, “Okay, Nick. I'll take your bet.”

“Anyway, we could go back early, not wait for Labor Day. We could leave, like, tomorrow. There's nothing keeping us here, right?”

Eliot picked at his fries. “You and Sara. You don't love her, do you? You won't …” He trailed off.

“What happened between me and Sara was a mistake, Eliot. Something, I don't know what, happened at the party and she went crazy, boozing it up, and …” It was Nick's turn to trail off.
No need to remind Eliot that Sara had come on to him.

Eliot frowned. “That thing I said about your having to prove something. That was just stupid. I'm sorry, man. I know you're not gay—not that I'd care if you were. … I mean, it'd be totally okay. But it so happens, you're not.”

“I know, man. I know who I am.”

“It's not just Sara,” Eliot said slowly. “It's what happened after. Everyone's trying to make me feel better by saying I'm such a hero. In the end, I didn't do anything. So is that who I am? Some bug-eyed geek who's all talk and no action? If a girl
was
interested in me, would I choke in the bedroom, too?”

“You think too much,” Nick said, trying not to show his surprise at this revelation.

“Who thinks too much?” Nick and Eliot looked up to see Jared swinging his leg over the bench opposite them. He was carrying a tray piled with two cheeseburgers, a soda, and large fries.

“You, uh, come here often?” Eliot quipped.

“All the time. Best burgers in the West. Anyway, all that studying makes a man crave fast food.” Jared admitted that he'd been on his way back from the school library, had pulled into the In-N-Out takeout line and seen Nick's car with its Michigan plates in the parking lot.

“So you're making up summer school?” Eliot asked. “Did your dad force you?”

Jared dove into his fries. “The scary thing is, I haven't even had it out with the old man yet. I know he's going to blow up at me—but so far, he hasn't. I'm trying to mitigate it by studying and taking the exams. Maybe that'll cool him off when he does erupt. Anyway, so who thinks too much? Gotta be El.”

Nick gulped his shake. “We're actually thinking of heading back east. Real soon.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Jared asked. “Especially now, you're finally living in the lap of Cali-luxury. Whatsa matter—being waited on, sleeping on five-hundred-ply sheets, having backyard tennis courts, lap pool, steam room, sauna, and indoor state-of-the-art fitness center isn't enough for you?”

“Maybe it's too much,” Nick said, dragging a couple of fries through a swatch of ketchup. “Maybe all this stuff just gets confusing.”

Jared looked knowingly from Nick to Eliot. “It's Sara, isn't it?”