Hollyweird Read online

  “What is up?” I repeated for the old man.

  “Oh. Oh! Well, I wanted to know how things went with the girls.”

  “The gir—how’d you know about them?”

  Michael chuckled and I could envision him doodling on a couple more stickies for his desk. “Nothing gets by the big boss. Jameson, you sound … grumpy.”

  “Yeah, well … ” Out of my peripheral vision I saw the Golden Arches beckoning to me like a shameless siren and I veered across traffic, making an illegal left turn. “Don’t you think they complicate things a tad?”

  “That, my dear Jameson, remains to be seen.”

  I screeched into the McDonald’s drive-thru and gave my order over Michael’s protests about “ingesting the greasy abomination they call burgers.” His harping continued when he advised me to read the “eye-opening” book Fast Food Nation as I took a large slurp of Coke and rifled through my two oil-stained bags to make sure nothing had been missed. Two double cheeseburgers, a large fry, and … “Dude!” I looked up at the pimple-faced slacker wearing a headset. “Where’s my pie?”

  Once I got my hot apple pie I pulled into a palm-tree-shaded parking spot and wolfed down my meal between bites of conversation with Michael.

  “What do you mean, ‘remains to be seen’? I’m running out of time, I can feel it.” I folded a handful of fries into my mouth. “Thergonaslwmdn.”

  “Really, Jameson. Your manners.”

  I chewed and swallowed. “They’re going to slow me down,” I repeated.

  “Or, it could be their timing is perfect.”

  “Say what?”

  Michael heaved an exasperated sigh, something he frequently did when speaking with me. “Perhaps those girls are more than meets the eye.”

  My gaze shot up to the visor and I gave Michael—well, my Bluetooth link to Michael—a suspicious look. Weren’t those the same words I’d been using about Dakota?

  “Are you saying Ms. Preppy and her punk sidekick are bad news?”

  “Au contraire!” Michael shrilly negated me. “What I’m saying is they just might be the key to Dakota’s downfall.”

  I crumpled up the red fry box and tossed it into the paper sack on the floor. “Miiiikey,” I drawled in warning. His cryptic clues were beginning to piss me off. “What do you know about these girls?”

  “I really can’t say—”

  I yelled an expletive that had the old man huffing in surrender.

  “Okay, okay. Look, all I know is they’re supposed to be there. And you’re supposed to use them.”

  “Use them!” My appetite vaporized and the food I’d eaten congealed in my stomach like day-old bacon grease. He wanted me to use the girls? My morals had frequently been challenged on this job, but this …

  “Trust the boss, Jameson,” Michael said, in a rigid tone he rarely used.

  Trust the boss, trust the boss.

  How could I have faith in—?

  Suddenly, a line from my mom’s favorite Christmas movie, Miracle on 34th Street, sprang to mind: “Faith is believing in things when common sense tells you not to.” My common sense was screaming that things were getting out of control, way out of control, but I had to believe. It had worked for little Susan Walker and her Kris Kringle—hopefully it would work for me.

  What choice did I have?

  ALY

  “What if I do something monumentally, horribly embarrassing?” Des hissed under her breath.

  We were walking down an endless hall of floor-to-ceiling windows on the seventeenth floor of a bronze L.A. high-rise that boasted a garden plaza. When we’d first emerged from the elevator, Des and I had gawked at the spectacular view of “The Miracle Mile,” a chrome-shiny business district so congested the locals joked it’s a miracle if you find a parking spot within a mile. Although we were swaying on our feet from the dizzying height, the perf-panorama had worked to calm our nerves for uno momento. But now we were headed to the EnterTEENment Magazine office and, predictably, Des had grown a little … manic.

  I gave her a doubtful look. “Embarrassing, like what?”

  “I might have a spontanepiss.”

  “Spontanepiss?” I choked out the question.

  “What?” she asked in all innocence. “It’s a word.”

  “I’ll have to add it to my Des Dictionary, alongside pierconify and tattegory.”

  “Two totally legit terms,” she declared. “You can’t tell me that a person isn’t personified by their piercings; they so are. And tattegory, hullo, you can take one look at a person’s tats and know everything about them.”

  Despite having heard her bod-mod theories a thousand times, I still grinned. “And spontanepiss?”

  “A nervous, spontaneous reaction. Duh. I have to pee when I’m scared.” She clenched her thighs together and looked over her shoulder where Jameson trailed us at a discreet distance. “What if I pee my pants?” she whispered, and then her eyes widened in alarm. “Or worse? What if—?”

  “Des!” I said in exasperation. “Don’t go there.”

  “But—ha ha, butt, no pun intended—it could be like bowel Tourette’s.”

  I got the giggles just imagining it.

  She whacked me on the arm. “Stop! It’s not funny.” But her lips twitched when she said it. “Come on, Al. I’m seriously shaking in my combat boots.”

  I gave what she called her “dress” boots a meaningful look. “You’re not wearing combat boots, for a change, and he’s just a guy, Des.” I hooked my arm through hers. “He puts his underwear on one leg at a time.”

  “Pfft,” she scoffed. “Bet he has someone do it for him. And you know he’s got people taking them off.”

  I thought about the insinuations Jameson had made earlier. Was Dakota more scoundrel than stud? Guess we’d know soon enough.

  I looked back at Jameson. Our gazes caught and my pulse revved like I’d throttled up a Harley. I gave him a tentative smile and then twisted back around. Maybe he wasn’t so deplorable after all. He hadn’t said another disparaging word about Dakota since picking us up for our meeting. In fact, he had teasingly played into Des’s nervous energy by regaling her with amusing anecdotes about Dakota. Still, something about Jameson just seemed … off. I sensed an underlying—what was it? Hatred? No, more like distaste for his employer. Question was: why? Why work for someone you didn’t respect? With Jameson’s gorgeous looks, he could easily get work out here as a model or actor. Playing PA to Dakota Danvers just didn’t make sense.

  “How is it you’re so calm, cool, and annoying?” Des asked, sounding miffed. “I like it when you lose control. You need to quit being so Good Golly Miss Molly all the time.”

  If one bone of contention lay between us, it was this.

  Me = Good Girl.

  Her = Rebel.

  Des tried to coax, cajole, and cow me into breaking the rules as often as possible. I could count the number of times I’d actually done so on one hand, and the consequences hadn’t been worth it, but that certainly didn’t keep her from trying to scuff up my goody two-shoes.

  “Aren’t you at least nervous?”

  “A little,” I answered. Truthfully, I had this inexplicable sense of foreboding more than I did the jitters. I could only tie it to the negative comments Jameson had made about Dakota. Besides, Des seemed nervous enough for the both of us.

  “A little,” she mimicked. “He’s only the hottest star on the planet and we’re about to meet him. Right here. Right now.” Audible gulp. “Oh, shit.”

  We stood outside Jolly Green Giant–sized double doors that had the mag’s name etched into the crystal-clear glass. Inside, the lobby for the EnterTEENment offices boasted art deco furniture and a bright, funky décor that looked like a Crayola box had exploded on the walls. As I carefully reached for the door handle, mindful of not leaving any fingerprints, I had to admit a sudden swarm of dragonflies took wing in my tummy. Turning to give Des one last reassuring smile and to shore up my own fleeting courage, I flinched when I
noticed her pasty and putrid complexion.

  “Oh, no,” I said as she slammed a hand over her mouth. “No, no-no, no.”

  “S’okay,” Des mumbled around a cringing swallow. “I just puked a little in my mouth.”

  “Interna-hurl,” we both said, and then cracked up.

  We dashed off to the bathroom where Des brushed her teeth with her finger and some toothpaste I had in my purse. When we returned to the office doors, Jameson stood waiting, his brow creased in worry. “Everything okay?”

  “I’m a little, uh, nervous,” Des admitted with chagrin.

  “But I think it’s out of her system now,” I said. “Or would that be back in, Des?” I asked with a laugh.

  “There’s nothing to worry about.” Jameson gave Des a sympathetic smile, but when his glance slid my way his face turned stony, like a cop standing at the ready before a bust. His morose gaze then shifted to the office, as if searching for an unseen Dakota. If looks could kill, Dakota’d be dropping dead somewhere in there. Then, as if Jameson realized he’d just pissed on our parade, he pasted on a fake smile and tossed us a wink. “Like I said, no worries. I’ve got your back.”

  Now why did I think he meant that in two ways?

  Dakota Danvers had the kind of charisma that made skirts hit the floor and machismo men question their sexuality. At twenty-four, his fan base ran from tweenie-boppers to cougars. Heck, he could probably even count a few jaguars. Dark chestnut curls swept the back of his neck and he had this endearing way, which drove Des and me wild, of flicking his head to the side to get his wave of bangs out of his eyes. And those eyes … mocha brown and deeply soulful. As the moody but sensitive paranormal investigator on the CW’s most edgy show, he did most of his acting with those incredible eyes. But on the rare occasion when his character was allowed to crack a smile, it seemed as if heaven itself opened up and shone its every ray of sunshine. Hokey sounding, sure, but his dimpled grin would actually elicit a matching smile from anyone watching.

  And here I stood, grinning at him like some kind of demented dolt while Des, obviously fully recovered from her interna-hurl, shrieked and leapt into his arms.

  Arms, I might say, that bulged out of his charcoal, short-sleeved, snug-fitting V-neck Hurley tee. Sigh. The only thing more impressive than his biceps was the body-molding fit of his darkwash jeans.

  I couldn’t help but stare—no one could—but I wondered who was worse: me or Des? Tweedle Mute or Tweedle Maniac?

  Fortunately, Dakota had more than a little experience with starstruck fans. He laughingly swept Des into a hug before gently setting her a safe distance outside his personal perimeter and introducing himself.

  Me? I kept standing there—still grinning—like some kind of Botox-paralyzed fool until someone, Jameson maybe, gave me a gentle push at the small of my back.

  “Hi,” I finally managed to say as I held my hand out formally. “I’m Aly King.”

  Dakota took my hand in his, flashed that captivating smile again, and pulled me into a hug that had me go positively woozy amidst the yummilicious mix of muscles and musk.

  Too bad my euphoria got squelched by a glowering Jameson, lurking in my peripheral vision.

  Sheesh. What was with him?

  Too quick, the hug ended. I felt empty when Dakota moved away, and then chagrined by Jameson’s silent scolding.

  “So you’re the lucky winner,” Dakota said as he shoved his hands into his front pockets and hunched his shoulders over. I’d seen him do this before, on TV and in photos. At six-four he towered over everyone, and I’d often wondered if he did this to make himself seem a tad smaller and less intimidating. Then he looked at me and did that sexy little toss of his head while giving me a shy, warm smile, and I wanted to hug him all over again.

  This was the guy Jameson disliked so much?

  Here Dakota stood in all his gorgeous studliness, and instead of acting like a stereotypical Hollywood egohead, he seemed completely down-to-earth and adorably approachable.

  “Yep, I’m the winner,” I finally said. “I could not believe it when I got the call. We”—I motioned to Des, who was gawking at Dakota like he was a prime rib steak and she’d been withering away as a contestant on Survivor—“are huge fans of the show.”

  “And of you,” Des piped in. “We’ve watched all your movies and catch all the repeats of Stars Landing.”

  Dakota raked his fingers through his hair and gave us a wry smile. “What a difference a few years make.”

  “You were great as Don,” I said, not wanting him to diminish his debut role. “But we really love your Tristan Remington character on Paranormal PI.”

  He nodded his appreciation. “I get to do a lot more physical stuff, that’s for sure.”

  “Do you do your own stunts?” I asked.

  “Some,” he said with a modest shrug, “but I have a pretty strict contract that keeps me from doing anything too fun.”

  “Wouldn’t want to hurt that pretty face,” Jameson said, and he sounded a little more jeering than jesting.

  Dakota laughed off the comment with a quick grin. “That’s right; they like to remind me it’s my money-maker.”

  “Speaking of your gorgy good looks,” said a hippie-esque photographer with bare feet and braids who I’d failed to notice standing in the corner, “we should really get started.” She arranged us in front of a white canvas backdrop and blinding, scorching lights. As the #1 magazine among twelve-to-eighteen-year-olds, EnterTEENment had its own impressive, in-house photo studio with backgrounds, sets, props, lights, and cameras. The photographer, Allegra, worked exclusively for ETM but sometimes freelanced for their sister mag, Tween Scene. “I want you girls to have a lot of fun with this,” she instructed.

  When we’d first stepped through those crystal-clear doors with Jameson, we’d been whisked down a long hallway—past framed magazine covers checkerboarding the bright walls, past a maze of cubicles and a high-tech conference room—to a small makeup room where we’d gotten our hair and face done. Despite pre-planning our Meet Dakota outfits back in Colorado, we’d still agonized over our photo shoot apparel while settling into the hotel. Ultimately I’d gone with my white sunflower sundress and cowboy boots, and Des had color coordinated with her black and yellow plaid halter dress and knee-high vinyl boots. The EnterTEENment powers that be okayed our choices, saying they captured the “wholesomeness” and “girl next door” appeal they were looking for. When Des laughingly asked the editor if anyone like herself lived next door to her, the editor snorted and said this was L.A. and Des hadn’t seen true edgy yet. Equal parts irritated and intrigued, Des actually bit her tongue—well, she teethed her lip ring—and allowed the hair and makeup crew to work their magic.

  Standing here now, next to Dakota, I must confess I felt a little buzzed by the celebrity treatment. I could easily understand the lure of stardom.

  “All right girls, get in close,” the photog instructed. “Don’t be shy now, you’re meeting the Dakota Danvers and a million girls, and boys, are going to wish they were you.”

  The three of us turned to face the photographer. Des was on Dakota’s left, I was on his right. She didn’t have to be told twice to move in, but I nervously scooted closer inch-by-inch until Dakota wrapped an arm around each of us and snuggled us closer. A smile bloomed from my heart and spread wide across my lips.

  “That’s right,” Allegra trilled. “Those are the smiles I’m looking for.” She danced around us and the snaps and flashes made me feel self-conscious and awkward. I didn’t know where to look, how to move, what to do. Just as I thought to ask for some modeling instruction, someone cranked AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.” Des and I locked eyes and broke into crazy grins. Next thing we knew, we were singing the lyrics at the top of our lungs. As the song segued into another classic rock hit (Paranormal PI’s signature soundtrack genre), I totally forgot the beatnik shutterbug and gave myself up to the music, dancing with abandon.

  Snap. Flash. Snap. Flash.

>   Kansas, Journey, Blue Oyster Cult, Led Zeppelin. My elation ballooned with every beat. The whole thing became a fantasy come true. The kind of moment I wished I could capture in a magic bottle to revisit at a later time, because as strong a memory as I knew I’d created, nothing could compare to this reality. My face actually ached from smiling so much. Then Dakota grabbed me by the hand, twirled me into his chest, and dipped me low. My heart battered against my ribs, my breath stalled, and I gazed up into his laughing, smiling eyes … eyes that suddenly glowed crimson and cruel.

  What the hell? I blinked, sure the flashing light bulbs had scorched my irises, but his fiery gaze still burned into me.

  The hairs on the nape of my neck prickled and my eyes bugged. The acrid taste of fear seared my tongue and an insane fight-or-flight adrenaline rush surged through me. I tensed and jerked back against the arm bracing me, breaking Dakota’s hold and crashing to the floor.

  “Hey. You okay?” he asked, giving me a hand up and a quizzical look.

  His eyes were brown, not red, and held their normal puppy dog earnestness.

  “F-fine,” I stuttered, flashing a quick glance at Des.

  “And here I thought I’d embarrass myself,” she teased.

  I gave a half-hearted smile and then slid my glance toward Jameson. He’d taken two steps forward, his jaw clenched tight. “Okay?” he mouthed.

  I nodded and tried to shrug off my unease. Surely my eyes were just playing tricks on me.

  Right?

  Jameson

  Dammit all to hell.

  I knew Dakota wouldn’t be able to keep to himself. The douche had predictably charmed the girls with his “aw, shucks” appeal and impossible good looks. (He could play that brown-noser, Eddie Haskell, in a remake of that old sitcom Leave It to Beaver.) And what did I do? I stood behind the photographer, arms folded, fists hidden, acting like nothing was wrong.

  Everything. Was. Wrong.

  I could see Dakota’s desire for Aly and Des growing, and I had to wonder if they were a part of the plan. How could they not be? In his excitement, Dakota had nearly revealed his true nature.