Blonde Ambition

by Zoey Dean

  Cammie felt a little better. Then she realized that Anna Percy herself could reappear at any moment. “Guess what?” she asked Adam when Sherrie took a breath. “We’re going to another party.”

  Adam checked his watch. “It’s kind of late, isn’t it?”

  Mo-Theo laughed. “Is this boy for real?”

  It wasn’t unusual for girls at Beverly Hills High to hook up with hot guys from the proverbial wrong side of the tracks, which was why Cammie could attest to have attended a goodly number of parties in east L.A. Personally, Cammie found the rich-white-girl-hooks-up-with-the-Latino-son-of-Mexican-immigrants thing kind of played. But she dutifully followed Mo’s 1995 Dodge Viper to the Echo Park neighborhood, where they parked outside an abandoned redbrick building in a dirt parking lot already jammed with SUVs and European sedans.

  “Are you sure this is cool?” Adam asked, checking out the low-rent environs.

  Cammie made her voice as manly as possible. “Don’t worry, Adam. I’ll protect you.”

  He laughed and draped an arm around her shoulders as they followed Mo across the street to the brick building. Mo rapped on the heavy metal door. It was opened by a scowling bald guy who had to be at least six-foot six, three hundred pounds. When he saw who was there, the scowl changed to a welcoming nod. “Yo, Mo, wazzup?”

  They shared some kind of fist bump, then the big guy waved them all inside. Down a flight of stairs they entered a huge basement room. It teemed with young bodies dancing to pounding hip-hop. Red strobe lights blinked on and off. In a glass booth a DJ rocked out to the tunes he was sampling. The air was heavy with smoke from Columbia’s finest and cigarettes.

  Before she could say no, Mo dragged Cammie into the middle of the dancers. Not that she could have heard herself say no. Adam followed, and Cammie flirted with both of them as she danced, mesmerized by the sweaty groove. It was fun in a mindless, exhibition-ist sort of way.

  Mo leaned close. “Yo, you wanna do some E?”

  E as in Ecstasy, as in MDMA. Ugh. Cammie was no stranger to felonious substances but had seen too many girls do E and decide instantly that they were madly in love with whatever boy happened to be in their immediate vicinity. She was much too much of a control freak to find that attractive.

  She shook her head no; Mo responding by taking her hips and gyrating them against his. Cammie decided that she’d had enough of her father’s client: she turned to Adam and threw her arms around his neck, slithering up and down as she danced. He stayed loose and sexy, didn’t try too hard. And he seemed to be getting into it as much as Cammie was. The beat segued faster. More bodies pressed onto the dance floor. Nearby a girl took off her top and flung it into the crowd, then French-kissed the girl she was with.

  Cammie turned around and danced with her back to Adam. The next thing she knew, she felt his arms around her waist from behind. He was still dancing but holding her fast. She looked over her shoulder; he seemed mesmerized by the dark, smoky, sexy room. She lifted her face to his and kissed him. He tasted salty as he turned her all the way toward him. She felt his hand under her butt, lifting her higher as he kissed her back; she wrapped her legs around him and just let herself go with the feeling. God, she’d been right. Adam Flood was hot! Really, really hot. He knew just how to kiss her and touch her and tease her. All she wanted to do was to rip his clothes off and—

  “Cammie? Oh my God, Cammie!”

  Suddenly Adam put her down. The spell was broken. Standing with them now, her eyes shining, was none other than Dee. She looked even more waifish than usual in a semi-transparent baby doll dress that showed off a pink bra and thong. “Wow, this is so cool!” Dee cried. “What a coincidence! How’d you get here?”

  “The Hermosa Beach party!” Cammie yelled over the music.

  “You were there? Me too!” Dee exclaimed. “Isn’t it like the most awesome thing ever? I mean, I feel so in tune with everyone here. It’s just so soulful!”

  Cammie nodded. It was hard to tell whether Dee was on one of her New Age rants or had found her way to the E that Mo-Theo had mentioned.

  “Wow, Adam, hi!” Dee gave him a huge hug. She looked from Cammie to Adam and back at Cammie. “Are you two … you know!”

  “She’s having my baby,” Adam said with mock sincerity.

  Dee took him seriously and clasped Cammie’s arm. “Wow! Wait until I tell your sister!”

  “What sister?” Cammie spat.

  “Mia, silly,” Dee said. “She’s here, too. We met at the party, and these really cute guys invited us to come with them, and here we are!”

  “You brought Mia to this place?” Cammie yelped.

  “Come on, we went to parties like this when we were fourteen,” Dee reminded her. “You gave parties like this when you were fourteen.”

  “Where is she, Dee?” Cammie demanded. She knew that her stepsister was used to parties in the valley, where frat bizkits, aka frat boy wanna-bes still in high school, got drunk and threw up in someone’s swimming pool. Mia was not ready to handle this.

  Dee put her little fists on her hips. “How could I possibly know, Cammie?”

  Cammie spoke directly into Adam’s ear, shouting to be heard over the music. “We have to find my stepsister!”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll explain later.” She swung back around to Dee “Where’s the last place you saw her?”

  “Back there. Don’t worry, she’s totally safe!” Cammie and Adam pushed through the gyrating bodies to look for Mia—Cammie told Adam to start by looking for red hair. But there was no sign of the young girl. They found themselves in a narrow hallway with a long line to use one of two functioning toilets. Cammie pounded on the bathroom doors—each opened to an irate partygoer, but neither was Mia.

  “What now?” Adam asked.

  “Outside!” Cammie declared. They found a fire exit at the end of the corridor and pushed it open.

  There, on the ground, was Mia.

  Glassy-eyed and out of it, Mia had mascara tracks running down both her cheeks. One of Cammie’s favorite sweaters was half on and half off her shoulders.

  Cammie grabbed her arm. “What did you take?” Mia’s head lolled. “Huh?”

  “Who the hell are you?” A scruffy guy in his early twenties suddenly appeared, a half-consumed pint of Jack Daniels in his left hand.

  “Her sister, you shit,” Cammie told him. “She’s fourteen.”

  The guy faltered. “Whoa. She told me she was eighteen.” “Get her out of here,” Cammie ordered Adam, who lifted Mia and carried her around the building to Cammie’s car.

  “What are you doing?” Mia asked dreamily.

  “What did you take?” Cammie demanded. They reached her car, and Adam leaned Mia against the hood.

  “A couple of beers and a joint—what’s the biggie?” Mia asked.

  “No E? You didn’t shoot or snort anything? You sure?”

  “I don’t do that stuff,” Mia mumbled. “God, make a scene, why don’t you? Hey, where’s Dee?”

  “Forget Dee,” Cammie snapped. “We’re going home.” Cammie opened the door, and Adam hoisted Mia into the backseat. Not only did Mia stop protesting as soon as she was horizontal, she fell asleep even before Cammie was out of the parking lot. Cammie fumed over Dee for a full five minutes before she explained to Adam exactly who Mia was.

  “Wild child, huh?” Adam peered back at the snoring girl. “She looks about ten right now.”

  “Wild valley girl, the worst kind. God, what if we hadn’t shown up?” Cammie asked.

  She could feel Adam studying her in the dark. “You really care about her, huh?”

  “No. I don’t even like her.”

  “Then … ?” There was a question in his voice.

  How could she explain? Cammie was hardly the type of girl to go around saving people from themselves. “I’m not getting all maudlin here, but after my mom died, I … I had some problems,” she began. “My mom was really … She was great.” Cammie swallowed the lump that well
ed up in her throat. She wasn’t about to start crying, that was for sure. “By the time I was in middle school, I thought I was hot shit and all grown up. I looked for attention in a lot of really stupid, fucked-up ways. I’m lucky I lived through a lot of it.”

  “And?” Adam urged.

  “And … I wish I’d had a big sister to save me from doing some of the stupid shit I did,” Cammie admitted. “But I didn’t.”

  “So you’re doing it for Mia,” Adam concluded.

  “A little,” Cammie conceded. “But mostly I’m doing it for me. Believe me, that doesn’t mean I like her.”

  Adam’s fingers reached under Cammie’s hair to gently massage the back of her neck. “There really is more to Cammie Sheppard than meets the eye,” he said softly.

  “Don’t let it get around.”

  God, his hand felt so good. He was so gentle and nice and kind. How could a boy so sweet be so hot? But he was. He really was.

  “You can help me get her inside,” Cammie said. “And then we can go to my room. My father and stepmother are in a whole other wing of the house.”

  “I don’t think that’s a really good idea.” He stopped rubbing her neck.

  No, Cammie thought. That can’t be. I don’t get turned down. He’s just nervous. Or maybe he’s … That’s it. He’s a virgin. That’s so sweet, in a way.

  “It’s really okay, Adam. I’ve got a lock on my door. And I know you’ll be nervous, which is why—”

  “It’s not that… . Well, maybe it is, partly. I like you, Cammie. I’d like to get to know you better. I just have to get over this thing with Anna before I can—”

  “Anna?” The name exploded from Cammie’s lips.

  “I know we weren’t together that long,” Adam went on. “But I still have feelings for her. And that really wouldn’t be fair to you. So let’s just take it slow, okay?”

  Cammie clutched the steering wheel. She had just bared her soul to a boy she wanted and he had turned her down because he was still hung up on Anna Percy.

  “Okay,” Cammie said.

  What she meant was: Okay. Anna Percy’s going to ruin everything if I don’t do something. And soon, too.

  Behind the Mansion

  Anna awakened on Sunday morning to the sound of an exquisite melody being played on the downstairs piano. She smiled and stretched, then snuggled under her velvet-and-silk quilt. This time she didn’t wonder from where the glorious music was coming. She was just content to listen as Django played. What a terrific time she’d had the night before; she found Danny was so much fun to be with. He’d invited her to the Malibu beach house of one of the producers that afternoon. But the invitation had been extended in a completely casual and friendly way. Beyond that single kiss the night before, Danny hadn’t tried anything or intimated that he was looking for more.

  From Anna’s point of view, it was perfect. She wasn’t looking for more, either.

  She listened to Django play until her stomach rumbled. Then she rose, put on a silk robe, and padded downstairs. She smelled fresh-brewed coffee and strawberries. Django looked up from the piano and gave her his semi-serious salute.

  “Greetings and salutations, Miss Anna,” he drawled. Okay, this guy is great-looking, Anna thought. The bleached spiky hair, the ancient Levi’s—and yes, even the cowboy boots—somehow worked on him.

  “I don’t suppose you could arrange this kind of wakeup call every morning,” she said. “What smells so good?”

  He rose from the piano bench. “My granny’s top secret recipe for Cajun strawberry waffles. I left out the cottonmouth snake venom, but it’s pretty close to the real thing. You hungry?”

  “Starved,” Anna admitted.

  The dining room table had been set for two, with a snowy linen cloth. The centerpiece was a single rose from the rear garden in the Ming vase that was usually on the side table in the entryway. Anna had never seen it used before.

  “Miss Anna.” Django pulled out a chair for her. “Thank you, sir. But if you call me ‘Miss Anna’ one more time, you’re going to find granny’s waffles flung across the room.”

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Django replied archly. He forked two strawberry waffles onto Anna’s plate. “If that’s not the best thing you’ve ever tasted, I’ll run naked down Rodeo Drive.”

  “Gee, I’m tempted to say I hate them,” Anna teased. She cut into one and put a bite in her mouth. “Oh my God. This is fantastic.”

  “Gotcha.” He grinned and cut into his own waffles. “One thing my grandmother can do is cook.”

  “Where is she?” Anna asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

  “Louisiana.” He pronounced it “Lou-see-yan-ah.” “It’s a big state.”

  “She’s a big woman.”

  Anna ate another few bites before she spoke again. “You don’t talk much about your family.”

  “You don’t like to talk much about yours, either. So, you have fun last night?” he asked, deftly changing the subject.

  “Yes, I did, actually. I went to an over-the-top party on the Hermosa Beach set,” Anna explained, forking another waffle onto her plate.

  Django’s eyebrows lifted. “Am I supposed to know what that is?”

  “A new TV show. I forgot that you don’t watch TV.”

  “As I recall, neither do you,” Django reminded her. “Ben have fun, too?”

  “He went back to school. And …” Anna hesitated. “It’s over. We’re not together anymore.”

  “Well, aren’t you the heartbreaker of Beverly Hills.” He took a sip of black coffee. “I knew he wasn’t right for you.”

  Anna laughed. “Oh, you did, did you? How about if it’s my turn to change the subject? Who taught you piano?”

  “My piano teacher.”

  “Seriously. I’d like to know,” Anna pressed.

  “Well, hell, if I’m so good at being an enigma, why change now?” he drawled.

  Anna put down her fork. “You gave me a jazz tape. You play classical enough to concertize. But you’re working for my dad and living in his guesthouse. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Django fiddled with the last piece of waffle left on his plate. “Didn’t you ever want to reinvent yourself?”

  “That’s what brought me to Los Angeles,” Anna confessed.

  “Well, that’s what brought me here, too.”

  “How did you meet my father in the first place?” Django rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “He made a few investments for me. Index funds, put options, that sort of thing.”

  Curiouser and curiouser. Anna knew her father only managed the funds of corporations or the super-wealthy. But if Django had that kind of money, why wouldn’t he just get his own place? And why would he have to work?

  “Does my father know your mysterious story?” Anna pressed.

  “Some of it,” Django admitted.

  She folded her arms. “You’re making me insane.” Django’s eyes seemed to linger on her lips for a moment. “You’re makin’ me insane, too.”

  Did he mean … ? Or was that just her imagination working overtime? God, what was wrong with her? Ben had just gone back to school. Last night she’d kissed Danny. There’d been Adam in between. And here she was, wondering if Django wanted to kiss her. When had she turned into such a—

  Anna stopped her own train of thought. She suddenly realized: this was so Cyn-esque. Anna had wanted to be more like her daring best friend back in New York; now it was actually happening. If Jane Percy knew anything of her younger daughter’s newly wicked ways, she’d probably hire well-bred men in Saville Row suits to have her deprogrammed. Because this behavior was anything but This Is How We Do Things Big Book, East Coast WASP edition.

  “What are you smilin’ about?” Django asked. “Nothing. What were you were playing when I came downstairs?”

  “Dunno.” He shrugged. “I haven’t given it a name yet.” “You wrote it?”

  He scratched behind one ear. “Last I heard.”

  “You are so ta
lented. You should be out there letting people hear what you—” Anna halted midsentence. “Look. I just got a great idea. I’d like to take your demo to the music supervisor of Hermosa Beach. Maybe they could use it on the show.”

  “Nice thought,” Django said. “But I don’t need your connections.”

  “Yes, you do. Or you wouldn’t be living in a guest-house.”

  Django pushed his chair back and began to clear the table. “Thanks for the offer. If I change my mind, I’ll let you know.”

  “But—”

  “No ‘buts,’ Miss Anna,” Django said.

  She gathered up the silverware and coffee cups and followed him into the kitchen. “Are you sure?”

  He put his things into the dishwasher, and she followed suit. “Yep,” he said. “I’m sure. So let’s not talk about it again.”

  Anna and Danny walked into the opulent living room of Arnold and Illyse Pink’s beachfront home, where a bartender was serving up pitchers of Sex on the Beach, or, for those in AA—a goodly percentage of the television industry—Virgins on the Beach. A Persian rug was centered over the bleached wood floor. There was a white Ascherberg grand piano in the corner and next to it a music stand that held Bach sheet music. And a magnificent cello. There were platters of food everywhere—ribs and chicken wings and pigs-without-blankets, a sure sign that the Pinks were both on Atkins.

  Arnold Pink was one of the producers on Hermosa Beach. He also produced three or four other network series and because of that rarely ventured to the set. Arnold had been a TV success story for two decades, and with that success came every luxury that money could buy, including his wife, Illyse, a Maxim model twenty-five years his junior.

  At the moment the Maxim model was clad in a baby blue crocheted bikini and chatting up two of the male Hermosa Beach writers, who were having a hard time keeping their tongues in their mouths.