He glowered, taking long, painstaking strides through the gummy water, making his way toward the steps.
“Hang on,” Lindsay said. “If Uncle Rob is as predictable as his nephew, the towels will be exactly where I remember them.” She flipped around, executing a killer ass-swivel—she knew he’d appreciate the move, which she’d practiced in her floaty halter top and snug, low-slung Diesels—and flounced through the sliding doors into the house.
It was good to be back, Lindsay thought.
By the time Jared had stripped off his scum-soaked clothes, taken a quick turn in the outdoor shower, and toweled himself furiously, Lindsay had settled into one of the poolside lounge chairs, fingers wrapped around a cool, fruity-flavored vodka drink. She could still read him like a billboard above Sunset Strip: He was psyched and confused, couldn’t decide whether Lindsay bursting back into his life was a good thing—or one he ought to be wary of. Given Jared’s natural distrust of people (Takes one to know one, she thought), he was proceeding with extreme caution.
Calmly, confidently, she repeated her story, testing which parts he’d pick out as totally bogus. “Word on the street is, you’re looking for tenants. You need cash, I need a place to crash. I’m back in town, I need to reconnect with friends. And who’s the first friend I bump—oops, bad word choice—into, but you? It’s bra sheet.” She punctuated with a winning smile.
Jared attempted a scowl but came up with a barely concealed grin. “You can’t even say it right. It’s beshert—buh-shirt. Not that you’re even Jewish.”
Lindsay toyed with her big hoop earrings and tossed her ponytail defiantly. “I’m Jewish-by-Hollywood. I lived here long enough. Anyway, Jared, I know what it means: We each need something the other one has. And here we find ourselves, together again. It’s perfect.”
“It’s beshert,” he corrected. “It means fated, that something was meant to be. It does not mean that something came up and you figured how to take advantage of it.”
He’d hunkered down on the lounge chair next to hers, shirtless, just a towel wrapped around his waist, cell phone in his lap. Lindsay felt a familiar twinge. It’d been three years, and time had been good to Jared. Always a looker, he’d grown taller, tanner, leaner, and smoother, if that were possible. It was all she could do not to reach over and touch.
In the old days, her fifteen-year-old self would have practiced no such self-control. She’d have twirled that towel right off his slim waist. Jared would have been the “something” she’d have taken advantage of.
And Jared would’ve said, afterward, “You’re amazing, Linz. Let’s do this. Move in. Forget about rent.” The teenage Jared she used to know wouldn’t have missed a beat … or stopped to ask what Lindsay was doing back in California after being away so long. Three years in which she’d not once responded to his calls, letters, and, later, e-mails. Of course, being Jared, he hadn’t tried very hard to stay in touch with her. Just long enough to lick his superficial wounds. Then he’d probably gone on to some other young starlet.
Today’s twenty-one-year-old version of Jared peppered her with questions. The full-on interrogation. When she’d lied and said, “Word on the street is, you’re looking for roommates,” he freaked. Apparently, he hadn’t wanted anyone he knew to find out.
He sat sideways on the chaise lounge, feet planted on the ground, hovering over her. Until she told him the truth, Jared wasn’t letting his guard, or his towel, down.
“Chill out.” She assured him she hadn’t spoken to, nor heard from, anyone in Jared’s circle. It wasn’t the grapevine that’d outed him, but the on line. Plotting her return to Los Angeles, she’d been on Craigslist every day for months, waiting and watching for a listing both location-acceptable (near the studios, where she hoped to land auditions) and financially feasible. Lindsay had money, but no intention of getting ripped off.
A match popped up a few weeks ago, worded in her native tongue, Hollywood-speak. She could have written the ad herself.
She recited it to Jared, with her interpretation. “Everyone knows a ‘cozy’ house means it’s miniscule. ‘Tucked away’ is code for ‘not the best neighborhood.’ And ‘rustic’ translates to maybe there’ll be running water. Which reminded me of you—the prince of spin. And then I saw your cell phone number on the listing. Like I said, it’s brasheet.”
“Beshert,” he growled.
“Yeah, that.” Lindsay drained her drink. Tipping her chin to the sun, she inhaled the sweet jasmine-scented air. She knew she looked … um … what was that other Jewish word? Kvetching? Something like that.
Jared noticed. Despite his wariness, he couldn’t stop himself from admiring her. “You look …” He stumbled for the word.
“Luscious? Sexy? Sublime? Kvetching?”
A belly laugh escaped. Jared’s whole body shook with obvious delight, loosening the towel. “You’re somethin’ else, Linz, you really are. Just off enough to be a hoot. Kvetching means complaining.”
“You’re not … complaining … that I turned up?” She pushed back on her elbows, raising herself up to face him.
The beginnings of a blush crept up his neck. Pink. It worked for him. “Memo to Lindsay,” he said. “Stop trying to be such a Hollywood-speak insider. No one does that anymore. Anyway, you are quite fetching.”
“Fetching? As in ‘go fetch me another drink’?”
Jared sighed. “No. As in, our little Linz has grown into quite a fetching young lass.”
Lindsay glowed. She’d worked hard to look this good.
There hadn’t been much else to do in the middle of the Iowa cornfields, where she’d spent the last mind-numbing years, besides plot her triumphant return west. To the land of milk ’n’ honey, the place of good ’n’ plenty, where she’d once been plenty good, and plenty adored.
Lindsay had been a star, playing middle sister Zoe Goldstein-Wong in the long-running sitcom about a Chinese-Jewish family called All for Wong. She’d landed the role when she was only ten, a freakishly freckled moppet with huge golden brown eyes, a button nose, and Cupid’s bow lips. Famously ticklish, she was best known for her throaty, staccato, hiccupy giggle-fits. A trait she came by naturally, alas. It always gave her away. One insensitive critic dubbed her the Woody Woodpecker of child stars.
The show had run for five years and rerun for all eternity, rendering her very public, unpretty puberty in perpetuity. She had not transitioned well—unlike an Olsen twin or the girl who’d played Rudy on The Cosby Show.
There’d been zits, bad haircuts, and that whole nasty “plump” thing the producers had unkindly pointed out. It didn’t help that Lindsay’d been a smart-mouth, purposely ad-libbing when the cameras were rolling.
The war between Lindsay’s family, under the guise of “protecting” her, and the producers—who were protecting their show—had grown bitter, and public. Good thing the tabloids weren’t as out of control back then as they are now. Not that she’d ever been as big a tab-magnet as today’s young stars.
And there was this: The measure of her fame was not a direct connect with the measure of how much she liked being famous. Lindsay lapped up, thrived on, bloomed under every spotlighty ray of attention. She’d never gotten over the craving.
The family feud alone would likely have gotten her fired—“She’s replaceable, you know,” producers used to threaten—only All for Wong got canceled. End of feud, end of story; to Lindsay, it felt like the end of her world.
Once the gravy train stopped rolling, that is, once her income dried up and she could no longer support the family, they hauled ass back to Iowa. With her in tow. Towed her back like a broken car. Only she wasn’t broken, and she didn’t want to be dragged back. Grenfield, Iowa, was her family’s hometown. Not hers. Never hers.
She’d spent her enforced separation from L.A. working on her looks, her ticket back. Lindsay wasn’t deluded. She was far from Ms. Uber-talent, but close enough to the scene to know talent’s limits. In this town, a rockin’ bod combined with A-li
st connections were far more potent than any ability you might have.
Taking the looks route hadn’t been easy. Denying herself in America’s heartland, where the major food groups were corndogs, Krispy Kremes, and Dairy Queen shakes, was a bitch. Hitting the local YMCA instead of a real fitness center, working by herself instead of with a trainer, had sucked. No one helped, no one encouraged her. Not the children of the corn, as she secretly called the kids at Grenfield High, not her cretin cousins, certainly not her parents. They thought she was nuts.
“Lindsay, sweetheart,” her mom (who probably felt guilty living off her all those years) kept at her, “you don’t have to be skinny; you’re perfect the way you are. You don’t have to be judged by how you look. You can grow up normal now.”
What Mom never understood? Lindsay didn’t do normal. Not back then, and not now. She’d turned eighteen in May, graduated high school, tucked in what was left of her stomach, and headed back to Hollywood, head, tush, and tatas held high. Slim and curvy where baby fat once rolled, defined cheekbones where chubby cheeks were often pinched, she’d grown tauter, totally tantalizing. And bore ambition to match. Forget the TV “sitcomeback.” Or playing some drug addict in an indie movie to prove her acting chops.
Chew this! Her goal was no less lofty than icon. Lindsay Pierce aspired to be a brand. Complete with makeup (“Get the Lindsay Pierce look!”). And fashion (“The Lindsay Pierce line is sold exclusively at Bloomingdale’s!”). And major accessories (“Bracelets, scrunchies, toe rings, designed by Lindsay herself!”). Of course, there’d be a fashion doll. And a fragrance. Everyone who was anyone did perfume. She read Us Weekly. She kept up!
Hooking back up with Jared Larson was a means to an end. Jared’s dad owned Galaxy. Jared could get her a high-powered agent, who’d snag her star-making movie roles. Convincing her ex-bf to help? Let’s just say that when she saw her ex-boyfriend’s ad on Craigslist, it was a done deal.
“The truth, Lindsay—why are you really back?” Jared demanded.
Oy. Still with the interrogation. All she needed was crappy lighting and stale coffee, and this could be a scene from Law & Order. Why was Jared so jumpy? She attempted to peel away, if not the towel, the layers of lies he was bound to be telling. “Does Uncle Rob know you’re living in his house—and renting out rooms while he’s away?”
“Do Mom and Pop Pierce know where their oldest daughter is?” he volleyed back.
Lindsay laughed. She’d missed more than Jared’s body: Swapping one-ups with him was one of the best parts of their relationship. They got each other. “I didn’t run away. My folks know I’m here. Besides, I’m eighteen—legal. In case you hadn’t noticed.” For emphasis, she puffed her chest out, tossed her copper tresses back.
“Okay, yes, my uncle knows I’m here.” Jared was pink again. Lindsay wasn’t sure if her chest had caused him to blush, or he was lying.
“And Rob’s okay with this?”
“Why wouldn’t he be?”
Lindsay could think of about a zillion reasons but didn’t press. “I take it your father doesn’t know what you’re up to.”
“Not exactly.”
“Hmmm.” Lindsay narrowed her eyes. “We can safely assume Daddy Moneybags isn’t financing you—otherwise, why the need to collect rent?”
Jared conceded that his father had cut off his credit cards—temporarily.
“And the crowd, our old friends? Tripp, Caitlin, Ava, MK, Julie B …? None of them know the truth either?” That was a guess.
Jared held her gaze. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell them.”
Lindsay licked her lips. That’ll cost ya, she thought. But didn’t say aloud. Instead, she closed one eye in pretend concentration. “So lemme get this straight. Your dad thinks you’re at community college making up your failing grades. To be sure you don’t screw around, he’s cut off your credit cards. Your friends believe this hooey as well—except they assume you’re plastic-fantastic, flush. It wouldn’t occur to your uncle that you’re squatting in his crib. Hence, you’re living here for free, making money off other people. Is that about right?”
Jared’s curvy lips tightened into a straight line.
“Whew! Keeping up with Jared’s web of lies. Feels like old times. I love it!”
Maybe he saw the wheels in her head turning, maybe he realized her arrival here was gonna cost him, one way or another, but Jared obviously couldn’t resist lobbing one back. “I’d be careful about worshipping old times, Lindsay. You can’t go home again.”
She stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean? Another convenient quote from the master of deception himself?”
Jared burst out laughing again. She’d been right. He couldn’t stay mad at her. He shook his head, still chuckling. “I didn’t think metaphors could get any more mixed up, but once again, you prove me wrong.”
“Let’s try basic arithmetic. Here’s the math as I see it: You want four roommates. You’ve got two guys coming later today, one girl arriving tomorrow—and now there’s me. Add up so far?”
“You want to move in. How are you going to pay the rent?” He folded his arms over his rippley-smooth chest.
Just for fun, Lindsay uncrossed her legs.
“In U.S. currency, I mean.” Jared would not be distracted.
“No problem. I’m going to get a gig. But,” she added before he could chime in, “no way I’m paying what the others are! Not if you want me to keep—let alone keep track of—all your little secrets.”
Jared’s jaw tensed. He looked even more luscious when pissed. “That’s blackmail.”
“You say blackmail,” she chirped, “I say quid pro quo. Which is how this town totally operates. Anyhow, it’s not like I’m gunning for a free ride. I’ll pay for my keep. One way or another.”
Ignoring her implication, Jared said, “Do you even have an agent?”
“I’m not currently represented.” She delivered the line in her best Hollywood-speak. “I thought you could help me out. I had no way of knowing about your little spat with Rusty Larson, head of the biggest talent agency in town.”
Jared sighed. “We’ll find a way to get you an agent.”
Lindsay lit up. “I knew it! I knew we’d get back on the same track. It’s bra—”
He held his palm up. “Don’t even try.”
“Can I try something else?” She untied her halter top. If that didn’t loosen his libido …
California, Here We Are: Nick and Eliot Find Nirvana
“Holy crap! They’re gonna do it … right here … in public!” Eliot’s bug eyes nearly popped out of his head; the roadmap he’d been clutching slipped to the ground. “It’s not technically public if it’s a private backyard, but …”
Nick gaped, speechless. Right in front of them, better than big screen, more 3D than HD, was the most awesome scenic view they’d had the entire road trip. This skinny dude—gotta be Jared, the kid who’d put the Roommates Wanted ad on Craigslist—with this bodacious chick, sharing a chaise lounge in the backyard, sucking face, pawing each other, going at it, hot and heavy. A towel was slowly slipping off his butt and she was topless, man! The couple was oblivious to anything else, including the presence of the two best friends who’d driven out from Michigan to spend the summer in L.A.
Nick felt overdressed. Clearly, dude, life out here was waaay more casual than in West Bloomfield. He’d have to adjust.
Eliot, unsurprisingly, was in deep distress. “N … n … ni … Nick … I think they’re gonna do it!” He gulped. “We gotta let them know we’re here.”
“Chill, E,” Nick shushed him. “These are our roommates. And you never get a second chance to get your first impression. Somethin’ like that.”
“This isn’t right,” Eliot whispered frantically. “We shouldn’t be standing here. Let’s go back to the car … until … uh, they’re done.”
Neither moved.
Nick had spent most of the three-day drive wanting to pop his best friend. No more s
o than right now. Why couldn’t Eliot just zip it, enjoy the show? The entire trip, Eliot had whined about “things that could go wrong.” He’d conjured an encyclopedia of worst-case scenarios, everything from catching Legionnaires disease if they stayed overnight in “that fleabag motel,” to food poisoning from the freakin’ Waffle House, to carjacking. “We’re running out of gas. We’ll be stranded in the middle of nowhere” was on permanent loop.
There were times he’d wanted to pull over and leave Eliot in the middle of nowhere.
You’d think by the time they’d reached Los Angeles, the E-man would have chilled out. Not so much. The shotgun-riding worrywart was sure every other car on the freeway had targeted them for a drive-by. When they pulled off the 101 at the Hollywood Hills exit, Eliot had been convinced Nick was going either “the wrong way,” or “in circles.” Kept whining that the car, Nick’s 1997 Chevy Nova, wasn’t going to make it up these steep hills, they’d be killed in a head-on with an oncoming car, just around the next hairpin turn. “This can’t be the right neighborhood,” Eliot whined. “We’re lost. We should call Jared, give him our cross streets. He’ll tell us how to get there.”
Call for directions? How lame would that look?
Nick didn’t need directions. Let alone nervous Nelly the nail-biter on his butt. He needed his best friend to have a little faith in him. After eighteen years of friendship, Eliot Kupferberg still thought Nick Maharis was a reckless rebel, bound for trouble. Not anymore. Nick was bound for a career as a professional model. The Calvin Klein billboards, man! His gig with a top L.A. photo agency was the first step into his bright and brawny future.
“Her p … p … pants … She’s pulling them off!” Eliot cried, alarmed. “And she’s … oh, shit, Nick, I know her! I recognize her, she’s …”
“Sweet,” Nick whistled under his breath.
The action on the chaise lounge ramped up. The make-out session got more heated. Arms and legs were wildly entangled now. Jared and the chick were bumping, grinding, breathing heavily, in their own space.
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