No Strings Attached

by Randi Reisfeld

  “I told you we weren’t lost,” Nick said.

  There was nothing else to do. Nick was just gonna stand there and watch. Eliot had to take matters into his own hands. He’d noticed the cell phone that slipped to the ground along with Jared’s towel. He dug into his pocket and retrieved his own cell. During the process of renting the share house, he’d already programmed Jared Larson’s number in.

  The Killers’ “Mr. Brightside” rang out. Which apparently was Jared’s ringtone. His head jerked up. And not a moment too soon. He’d been kissing her, caressing her breasts, and was headed southward. He stopped to get the phone, just as Eliot knew he would. Hollywood playas never missed a call.

  Finally! Jared saw them, standing not twenty feet away, Nick gaping, Eliot with the cell phone by his ear.

  The girl, openmouthed, flipped around, affording them a full-on topless view. Eliot nearly fainted. It was her.

  “Jared Larson here,” Jared said warily into his phone.

  Huh? Who did he think was calling? Eliot was confused. Jared couldn’t be that dense, could he?

  Catching on, Nick shot him a murderous look.

  Eliot cleared his throat. “Uh … Jared? It’s us. Eliot. And Nick. From Michigan. We’re … uh … here.” Stupidly, he waved.

  Jared shaded his eyes, kept a straight face, flipped the phone shut. “Dudes. You’re seriously early.”

  Nick countered, “Nah, we’re right on time. Sorry we kind of walked in on you guys.”

  Shit, Eliot thought: Jared had meant California time. They weren’t expected for three hours. “We’re still on East Coast time,” he said by way of apology.

  Wrapping the towel around his waist, Jared nodded. “S’cool. This day has already been full of surprises.”

  For a guy who’d just been caught with his pants down, this Jared character was smooth. A childhood rhyme caught Eliot by surprise—“smooth as the shine on ya’ granny’s ride.” Okay, I’m officially an idiot, Eliot realized.

  Jared pointed toward the sliding glass doors that led into the house. “You guys go on inside. The room upstairs with the twin beds is yours.” He nodded at the girl, who hadn’t bothered to cover up. “By the way, this is—”

  “Zoe!” The name popped out of Eliot. “Zoe Wong! I’d know you anywhere. I mean …” He fumbled, feeling excessively stupid, “Not that I’ve ever seen your … uh … or even thought about you in that way … it’s not like that.”

  Jared swooped in for the save. “Lindsay Pierce. She used to play Zoe on TV. Her real name is Lindsay.”

  And those are real too, Eliot caught himself thinking, and turned tomato red.

  Nick thought he’d died and gone to heaven. A tune looped in his head. I wish they all could be California girls. … Maybe they all were! He was too macho to deal in superstitions, but this felt like a sign. Proof he’d done the right thing, coming out here for the summer. First thing they see? An R-rated scene, costarring a real, actual actress.

  It didn’t take a leap of the imagination for Nick to put himself in Jared’s towel. He’d been a fly-guy in high school, a chick-magnet, teacher-charmer, trophy-winning athlete. With his dark good looks and buff bod, he was the guy other guys wished they looked like. In L.A., he’d be golden. This summer was going to rock harder than he’d dared imagine. He just needed Eliot to be there with him, not make them both look like hicks. He flexed a bicep.

  Eliot nosed into the room at the end of the hallway. “Do you think he meant this one?”

  Nick sighed, ran his fingers through his long, curly black hair, and elbowed his way past Eliot. “Yeah, bro, I’m pretty sure this is the room.” On the second floor of the house, they’d passed an open loft area with a view of the living room, a tricked-out master bedroom with its own balcony, and another with a double bed and canopy. Theirs was good-size—twin beds against opposite walls, a couple of dressers, windows that faced the winding street.

  Nick upended the bigger of his duffle bags, the one that held his weights, barbells, ropes and elastic pulleys, and a half dozen pairs of new gym shorts and matching bicep-baring tank-shirts. He was just about to shove them in the top two dresser drawers.

  “Wait!” Eliot brandished a can of disinfectant like a weapon. “We have to spray and wipe the drawers clean first. Who knows what could be living in them?”

  “A colony of rats? Or snakes? Maybe spiders!” Nick teased. “I’d say cockroaches, but I bet they’re not allowed in this neighborhood.”

  “Germs! I meant germs, mold, dust,” Eliot argued. “You know how allergic I am. And don’t think you’re immune either.”

  “Knock yourself out.” Exasperated, Nick flopped on the bed.

  Nick and Eliot had been next-door neighbors and best friends forever. They’d braved everything together, from the terror of the first day of kindergarten through cub scouts (“scub scouts,” as Nick’s sister Georgina used to call it), from confirmations and bar mitzvahs, braces, glasses, and zits; from the “Will I be cool?” fear of freshman year in high school through the triumph, relief, and excitement of graduation.

  Didn’t matter that they were so different—Nick, dark, hearty, handsome, and an up-for-anything adventurer, while Eliot was pale, shy, gawky, terrified of his shadow. Didn’t matter that Eliot was a reader, a thinker, computer savvy, observant, and cautious, while Nick was all about action movies, violent video games, wildin’ out, impulse. Or that Nick was a babe magnet. Eliot? Not so much.

  Early on, the two had forged an unbreakable bond, a protective shield.

  No way was Nick ever going to suffer the humiliation of failing any classes. Not while Eliot had his back.

  And anyone who even thought about bullying Eliot had to go through Nick first. No one was dumb enough to try.

  Nick fronted that the upcoming year would change nothing, despite the fact that Eliot’s grades and SAT scores had won him admission to Northwestern University in Chicago, while he (even with Eliot’s tutoring) would be staying home, “stuck at State,” as the Michigan saying went. If you were smart, you went to the University of Michigan in nearby Ann Arbor. If you weren’t of that “caliber,” a word Nick’s father used, you went to Michigan State, in East Lansing. Stubbornly, Nick refused to believe that distance would cause a chink in the armor that was their friendship.

  Eliot knew better.

  Not that he’d dare say it out loud—’cause that’d be wimpy—but Nick sensed the real reason El had agreed to come with on this trip. Sure, the E-brain was taking classes at UCLA with some science professor. But, dude, he could have done that anywhere. Eliot was here as a last act of solidarity, of support. One final give-in to Nick, who was on a quest—his chance to make it big, to change the course of his future.

  Nick had the look—and the bod—to be a model. He was five-eleven, 180 pounds of serious ripped muscle, with dark, hooded eyes—“bedroom eyes,” the girls used to say—a straight nose, and pillow-soft lips. He wore his dark curly hair long, behind his ears, just brushing his shoulders, and liked to sport a few days’ worth of manly stubble. Gave him a sexy, dangerous vibe.

  Nick had done some modeling in catalogues for stores like Meijer and Kohl’s, as well as a TV spot for a Chevy dealership. It was time to trade up. The Abercrombie shopping bag, Calvin Klein jeans, posing with some hot babe in magazine spreads. It was all about being in the right place, with a tight butt, at an opportune moment.

  He could have come out west alone, he wasn’t scared or anything. He just thought it’d be more fun with Eliot along.

  Eliot, who was now staring out the bedroom window, declaring, “This house is one mudslide away from death.”

  Maybe scratch the fun part.

  Sara: Stranger in Holly-Weird

  Sara stood on the fabled corner of Hollywood and Vine, over-whelmed and underfinanced. The oppressive heat, though dry, had turned her shoulder-length, wavy blond hair into sticky, sweaty tendrils. Her loose-fitting T-shirt now clung to her. Embarrassed, she pulled at it self-conscio
usly, and willed herself to stay calm.

  Granted, she was—momentarily—lost. But she’d made it this far. She was in the heart of Hollywood, California! A place she’d spent her whole entire life dreaming about. The city that held, Lord willing, the key to her entire future. She should be tingling with excitement, not shaking with fear.

  Things just hadn’t started out as she’d expected, that’s all.

  Her dreams, fueled by magazines, movies, and the chitchat of small-town beauty pageants, had not prepared her for this chaotic city, or even this street, choked with traffic, wider than the river that snaked through her rural Texas hometown. And the people walking by—it was like a carnival of faces, tourists with cameras, bikers, hippies, skinheads, freaky folks of all shapes and sizes.

  It wasn’t like she believed the myth about the streets of Hollywood being paved with gold. But she had expected a town radiating glamour, glitzy stores showing off designer fashions, famous restaurants packed with stars.

  Not Big Al’s Tattoo Parlor. Or Bondage Babes Leather ’N’ Thongs. She shuddered.

  No wonder she felt less like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s and more like Kate Hudson in Almost Famous. Setting her suitcase down, she stepped off the curb, shaded her eyes from the oppressive sun, and waved tentatively, hoping a taxi would stop.

  “Mira, mira, chica—oooh, come closer!” A man with a scruffy beard and bad skin leaned out of his car window, leering at her.

  She jumped backward, her heart thumping.

  “You need a ride, sexy mama?” He crooked his finger, beckoning her. “We got room for you.”

  “N … no,” she managed to squeak, thankful the traffic light had changed, and the impatient car behind honked, forcing him to move on.

  No, this was not the Hollywood she’d fantasized about.

  Guess that’s why they call ’em dreams, she thought ruefully, and not “real life.” Sara squared her shoulders, gripped her suitcase, and plowed on. She’d taken the shuttle bus from Los Angeles International Airport into Hollywood, thinking: How far could it be from Hollywood to the Hollywood Hills? Thinking it’d be easy enough to walk.

  The bus driver had dropped her off at the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Cahuenga, advising her to grab a cab to complete her journey to the Hollywood Hills. “You can’t walk it,” he’d told her. “It’s too far, honey. And here’s a tip: No one walks in Los Angeles.”

  Cab fare had not figured into her carefully constructed budget, so she skipped lunch. But darn if she could figure out how you “grab a cab.” In the town that made movies, hailing a cab didn’t work like in the movies, where all you had to do was step off the curb and wave into the street. All she’d netted with that gesture was a scary man trying to lure her into his hunk-of-junk car.

  She walked west along Hollywood Boulevard. The oppressive desert heat forced her sweat glands into overtime. Now everything was sticking to her, the long flowy skirt, her bra and panties, even her jewelry—a simple cross pendant and her silver purity ring.

  Two long blocks later, at the crazy-big intersection of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland Avenue, she found a phone booth. The famed Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, with its opulent pagoda roof, was only a few feet away; the brand-new ultramodern Kodak Theatre, home to the Academy Awards, loomed behind her.

  She parked her suitcase on the curb and dug into her purse for the phone number of the only person she knew—though hadn’t yet met—in Los Angeles.

  Her panic accelerated with each one of the four long rings. Finally, a voice that wasn’t voice mail: “This is Jared.”

  A long pause. Then, “Sara who? Do I know you?”

  His tone caught her up short. What if the guy from whom she’d rented a room turned out to be unfriendly, or worse, a thief? What if he’d taken her money and there wasn’t even a room? She swallowed hard. “Blind faith, that’s what you’re going on,” her boyfriend Donald had said when she’d sent ahead the first month’s rent. “And that’s just not smart, Sara.”

  But Donald hadn’t wanted her to go, would’ve said anything to stop her. And a few seconds later, when she explained herself, the voice on the other end of the pay phone softened. “Oh, that Sara! Of course!” Jared had told her to wait right there. He’d be by in a jiffy to pick her up. Not that he’d said “jiffy.” Her word.

  Heaving a sigh of relief, Sara hung up, closed her eyes, and leaned her forehead against the plastic receiver. A verse from a hymn popped into her head. I once was lost, but now I’m found. …

  Yes, faith was a good thing. It would see her through. It would see her live the dream she and her mom had nurtured for so many years. And like her mom often sang, Dreamin’ comes natural, like the first breath of a baby. … It would reward them for the sacrifices they’d made, for the scrimping and scraping by they’d endured for so many years. Pageants had been Sara’s ticket to show business, only it’d cost a lot to enter them and make her costumes. Singing and dancing and baton-twirling lessons, it all added up! But she and her mom had persevered. Little Miss Texarcana. Little Miss Darlington County. Little Miss Country Dumplin’; Jr. Miss Bayou. She didn’t always win the crown, but she usually made the top three.

  Her mom was never disappointed. When she didn’t win, Abby Calvin would remind her, “God has bigger plans for you. You’ve been blessed with talent. You’re meant for better things than standing around, showing off some fancy outfit, twirling a baton. My Sara is going to be a star.”

  It wasn’t just their silly pipe dream. Everyone at home agreed, from their friends and neighbors, to the teachers and kids at school, to so many pageant directors, she’d lost count. Becoming an actress was God’s plan, her destiny.

  By Sara’s nineteenth summer, they’d saved enough money for one plane fare to Los Angeles, and one month’s rent. The idea was to get a waitress job while calling on agents. You needed an agent to represent you, that’s what all the pageant directors had said. Her first appointment was already set up by Ron Zitterman at Pageants, Inc. Sara had packed one suitcase with a few “audition” outfits. A bunch of addresses for other talent agents lay tucked into her most precious possession, her Bible.

  Sara’s dad believed in her, but his faith seemed to falter the nearer she got to actually leaving. Pop put the kibosh on her staying at “some sleazy rooming home, or cheap motel.” He’d watched too many episodes of CSI to allow her to live alone.

  They’d found the listing on the computer at the library. Her dad had just about grilled Jared Larson, who’d assured Virgil Calvin that the house was in a safe neighborhood, that it’d be like a college dormitory, with other girls Sara’s age. Jared had mentioned that his own parents would be checking in.

  “Miss … miss …” Someone was tugging on her skirt, whispering hoarsely.

  How long had she been standing there, blocking the pay phone? She spun around.

  “Miss … please … can you help me?” Sara’s heart clutched. A child, rail thin, brown, and sweaty, thrust an open palm at her. “Please, for food,” she croaked.

  Sara stared down, a wave of compassion washing over her. The child’s dark hair was a matted and greasy nest, her fingernails dirty, clothes ill-fitting and shabby. And she was just this little bitty thing, couldn’t be more than eight years old.

  “Where are your parents, sweetie?” She knelt down to get a better look, found herself staring into big brown puppy-dog eyes, ringed with thick black eyelashes.

  The child seemed not to have an answer. “I’m hungry,” she finally said. “Could I have some dollars?” Her eyes now fixed on Sara’s purse, up on the shelf of the phone booth.

  “Of course you can,” Sara said without thinking. She stood upright and scanned the street, hoping to see some adult this child belonged to.

  Instead she saw the back of a husky teenager in a white tank top and backward baseball cap—peeling down the street with a suitcase. Her suitcase.

  “Hey!” She grabbed her purse and gave chase.

 
But the young thief was fast, and the few seconds it’d taken the child to distract her were costly. Undeterred, Sara sped down the block, yelling for the kid to stop. Back at Texarcana Regional High, she’d run track, been pretty darn good, too. Only she wasn’t in her tracksuit and Keds—she was hampered by the long cotton skirt clinging to her damp legs and ladylike sandals. Her calves began to ache, she felt a sharp stab in her groin. Still, she was five-nine and all legs. Sara felt certain she could have overtaken the kid. She would have, if not for the car that’d suddenly swerved onto Cherokee Street and screeched up to the curb. In a flash, the boy—and her suitcase—were inside and speeding off down the street.

  More outraged than scared, she panted, waited for her breathing to slow, her heart to stop pounding. When she hobbled back to the phone booth to dial 911, the little beggar girl was gone. No doubt the kid was already in the getaway car.

  She’d been set up. Scammed. Mugged.

  The sobs didn’t come until after she’d reported it to the police, but when they did, she shook violently. She wanted to call her mother, but wouldn’t dare. What could Abby Calvin do from a thousand miles away? Her pop would demand she turn around and come straight home. More than anything, she felt ashamed. She’d been such an easy mark—robbed by a couple of kids!

  She’d just finished repeating her story to a policeman—Raimundo Ortega, his badge said—when the gleaming Lexus convertible pulled up. Its driver, a spiffy-looking guy in a bright lime-green polo shirt, crinkled his forehead worriedly. “Are you Sara? Did something happen?”

  “You must be Jared. This is so embarrassing. …” She offered a rueful smile and told him what’d happened.

  He pulled a business card from his wallet. “Officer, I’m Jared Larson. My father is Russell Larson, the head of—”

  “Galaxy Artists.” Patrolman Ortega, clearly impressed, finished the sentence.

  “That’s right,” Jared said with a smile. “If you could retrieve Miss Calvin’s suitcase as soon as possible, we’d be in your debt.”