No Strings Attached

by Randi Reisfeld

  Nick put in, “But that guy you called—he has to take Sara on, right? You’re the boss’s son.”

  Lindsay grinned mischievously. “You gonna give”—she could not resist—“Pop a heads-up? Tell him you’re sending over a proven superstar, and a chunky wannabe? Besides, isn’t there some kind of disconnect between you two?”

  “Nothing that would keep me from doing a favor for my friends. I’m golden at Galaxy. As always.” He smiled smugly for her benefit.

  Sara was beaming. She turned to Nick and Eliot. “Y’all never did say what you’re fixin’ to do this summer. Did y’all need Jared to make a call on your behalf?”

  “I don’t think there’s anything Jared can do for me. I’m not what you’d call showbiz material,” Eliot said, self-consciously toying with his glasses.

  “Don’t be hard on yourself,” Sara scolded. “You can do anything you want, if you put your mind to it.”

  “Thank you. But both Nick and I are set. He’s got an internship and I’ll be at UCLA, taking a course taught by the science editor at the Los Angeles Times.”

  “The L.A. Times has a science editor? What for?” Lindsay was puzzled.

  “You’re spending the summer in school?” Jared was equally bewildered.

  Eliot explained. “I’m going for journalism at Northwestern University in the fall, and UCLA offered this great summer course—it covers natural phenomena, weather, earthquakes, that sort of stuff. Who knows, maybe I’ll learn something there that can help us—if a brushfire doesn’t swallow us up first.”

  Nick shook his shaggy mane. “Couldn’t resist, could ya?”

  Jared turned to Nick. “Bro, what kind of gig did you get?”

  “Tomorrow I start at the Les Nowicki Modeling Agency.”

  Sara clapped her hands together. “I just knew you were a model! I knew—”

  Eliot broke in, “He’s not a model. He got an internship as a photographer’s assistant.” He shot Nick a look and amended, “It wasn’t an easy internship to score. A lot of people applied. But once they saw Nick’s portfolio and video, he got the gig.”

  “E’s right,” Nick said, “but I’m thinkin’ once I get a foot in the door, I got a good shot at a modeling career.”

  “Definitely!” Sara’s face was alight.

  Lindsay took a long pull on her beer. Soberly, she said, “You do know, Nicholas, that all male models are gay. You might want to start with another part of your anatomy in the door.”

  Nick’s jaw dropped.

  It’d gotten dark out, and Jared hadn’t put the outside lights on. So he could only assume that the macho Michigan model-to-be was pale as a ghost.

  Jared jumped in to do damage control. “That’s a sweeping stereotype, Nick. It’s like saying—”

  “That all actresses have to sleep their way to the top?” Lindsay stared at Sara.

  Sara’s jaw joined Nick’s on the ground.

  Eliot grew uncomfortable. “Ah, c’mon, that’s such an old saw, it can’t be true anymore.”

  Her eyes trained on Sara, Lindsay responded, “Some old clichés are still true. Like this one: In this town, to get ahead, you’ve gotta give some head.”

  “I’m sure I don’t get your meaning.” Sara gulped, making it clear she obviously did.

  “The casting couch, girlfriend—surely even you have heard of that.” Then Lindsay made a lewd gesture, licking her lips suggestively.

  “Oh!” Sara’s eyes grew big, and Jared could guess, her face red.

  “Not all actresses sleep their way to the top. Why are you making her nuts?” He pinned his ex-girlfriend with angry eyes.

  “Of course not all! Did I say ‘all’? I meant the ones trying to break in—you know, the ones from … some little town in Texas … hoping to snag their first role.” Lindsay was positively gleeful.

  “I believe that I will make it on my acting talent,” Sara said, no longer skittish but composed, “because I have no intention of debasing myself for any reason.”

  “Well, good luck with that.” Lindsay rolled her eyes.

  The front door bell rang. Saved! Jared wasn’t expecting anyone, but was more than happy to have this conversation interrupted. So was Sara, apparently, who jumped up to answer it. A minute later he heard her squeal with delight.

  She came running back around the house, one hand holding her suitcase, the other holding that of Officer Ortega. “Look! They found my suitcase!”

  “We put a few of our best guys on it and got it right back. You might want to check that nothing’s missing.” Officer Ortega smiled proudly.

  Jared went to shake the officer’s hand, momentarily forgetting about the deal he’d made—until the cop handed him a thick manila envelope.

  “You remember,” he said haltingly, “that, uh, screenplay I mentioned? Thought you’d want to have a look at it—y’know, send it on to Galaxy.”

  “Of course! I’ll messenger it to my father first thing in the morning. With a note about your speedy recovery of Ms. Calvin’s belongings.” Jared recited the well-practiced lines.

  “You really gonna read that, send it to your old man?” Nick asked when the policeman had gone.

  Jared shook his head no. It was Lindsay who grabbed the manila envelope and cavalierly pitched it into the pool, reciting, “I don’t think this is right for Pop … mean for Galaxy.”

  Sara, wearing Nick’s shorts and Eliot’s T-shirt, dove into the mucky pool to rescue it.

  Lindsay was shocked.

  Dripping with algae, Sara waded out of the pool clutching the soaked package. “I feel responsible. Would y’all mind if I read it?”

  “Knock yourself out,” Jared said with a shrug.

  Much later, after everyone had gone in, Jared reflected. No one had asked him about his summer plans. He had them, all right. They involved doing exactly what he’d tried to tell his dad he could do: meet people, schmooze, network—bring Galaxy some amazing deal. He’d have to add another chore to the summer: peacekeeping. Refereeing.

  More to the point: taking the knife out of Sara’s back every time Lindsay plunged it in.

  A full-time gig, for which he’d get bupkis in return: nothing. His head said, Oh, Lindsay, what am I going to do with you? His heart, if he let it, was already on the verge of saying something else entirely.

  Is this what it would be—a battle between head and heart, all summer long? Jared hoped not.

  Workin’ for the Weekend

  Lindsay Stoops to Scoop.

  It wasn’t the smell that grossed her out. Or even the act itself. It was the way it looked. What if someone saw her? What if, worse, someone recognized her?

  “Isn’t that Lindsay Pierce, scooping dog poo? Eeww!” She could practically hear the snide whispers. “So that’s what became of her!” You couldn’t stoop much lower in this town, and yet, one week into her job as Amanda Tucker’s personal assistant at Galaxy Artists, this is what she’d been reduced to—picking up after Amanda’s miniature pinscher, George Clooney. Yes, Amanda had named it after a client she’d famously failed to land.

  Lindsay flung the doggie bag into the trash. She used to have “people” who did this kind of thing for her—she wasn’t supposed to be people. Among her other daily duties for her piddly paycheck: filling the min-pin’s bowl with bottled Smart water and fetching freshly baked doggie biscuits. For Amanda, she ordered soy lattes, picked up and delivered dry cleaning and laundry, went office-to-cubicle selling Girl Scout cookies for her niece. Twice so far she’d run to the Manolo Blahnik store on Rodeo Drive, switching the gold five-inch-heeled Manolos for the black lizard four-inch-heeled Manolos, then back to the gold again.

  Answering phones would’ve been a promotion.

  “Yap! Yap! Yap!” Worse, the pesky little poo-machine on the other end of the snakeskin leash suffered from Irritable Bark Syndrome and a nasty temperament—just like his owner. He growled at little children, nipped anyone who went to pet him, and loveliest of all, tried to mount any dog he c
ould get close to. Which was a joke, since George Clooney weighed all of seven pounds. And yet, the rat-faced runt tried to go all alpha dog, literally, on their asses.

  It hadn’t surprised her that Amanda kept the tiny terror in her palatial office. At her level, executive vice president of talent, she could have an alligator in there if she wanted. Lindsay hadn’t thought she’d have to deal with it. Her first day, Amanda barked instructions: “Put his poo in a plastic bag. If you’re not near a garbage disposal, put the package in your pocket until you find one—he gets embarrassed if you’re holding it out where other people can see.”

  And there was this little gem: “He won’t answer unless you call him by his full name.”

  “George Clooney, no!” she scolded him as he tried to mount a passing pit bull bearing a dangerous resemblance to its scary owner. She jerked the little rat-beast away and continued their drudge through Griffith Park. The park was huge, and way famous. It had a gazillion trails for hiking, biking, and horseback riding, places to picnic and play golf. Plus it was home to the Los Angeles Zoo and the famous Observatory, at which a very special episode of All for Wong had been taped. Sweet memories for Lindsay—but, hello, it was also really out of the way, high in the hills and nowhere near Galaxy’s offices. On the upside, there was virtually no chance of running into anyone important. Everyone who was anyone took their Princesses and Baileys to the Hollywood Dog Park. The downside? Same thing.

  In spite of her lowly chores, she was beyond grateful to have this job. Her thank-you to Jared was the air-kiss she’d blown at Rusty Larson, casually mentioning her visit to Jared at the Ojai Community College campus.

  Amanda, her boss, was just under Rusty on the power chain, a classic Hollywood agent. Severely striking, short-tempered, high-strung, and prone to screaming hissy fits, she strode through the office in her Prada suits and towering heels, berating lowly junior agents and assistants, pitching pencils, notepads, and coffee cups at anyone she felt like—then doing a complete one-eighty, kissing up to casting directors, producers, directors, and studio execs.

  Lindsay lapped it up, loved every second spent at Galaxy’s gleaming, curved, all-glass structure in the heart of Beverly Hills. She already felt back in the game. If she wasn’t playing the part she wanted, at least she was at the epicenter of the action. Inside every office, inside every cubicle, even, the hottest scripts were being read, power meetings set up, and best of all, deals were being made. Her big break could not be far away. The assistants networked incessantly, and any juicy tidbit, gossipy or gig-worthy, got transmitted instantly.

  This, as opposed to Sara’s craptastic junior gofer job at Caught in the Act, some ET-wannabe TV show. At least she, Lindsay, was picking up the dog shit of a power player in the biz; Sara was probably toiling for some camera grip. And that joke of an agent Jared procured for her? Maybe he could get her an audition for third banana in a commercial. Airing on cable.

  Lindsay’s agent, Amanda Tucker, represented practically all of Hollywood’s A-list actors. It wouldn’t be long before her days of running, fetching, pooper-scooping, copying, mailing, and filing were over. Besides, she had all day to eavesdrop and gossip.

  What she’d scoped out so far? The gloss behind the gleaming glass structure was fading. Galaxy needed a hit. It needed a big new star, and a starring vehicle—i.e., a blockbuster movie to which it could attach its clients, producers, director, screenwriters: The Package.

  Her cell phone rang. Amanda, her most frequent caller, launched into a list: “On your way back, stop at Gelson’s and pick up an order of edamame, two brown rice California rolls, and a half-caf, skim-milk, fat-free cappuccino.” Another of Lindsay’s chores was to remember which fad diet Amanda favored each day. “And tell them not to skimp on the wasabi—I’m famished!”

  Lindsay flipped her phone shut and fished inside her purse for a pen and paper to write down Amanda’s list while she still remembered it—she wasn’t authorized to have a BlackBerry yet. “Sit, George Clooney!” she ordered the dog, who for once obeyed. She loosened her grip on the leash.

  Bad move.

  As soon as Devil Dog felt the leash go slack, he sprang into action—bolted up and away. The leash slipped right off her wrist.

  Shit! Lindsay took after him, calling out his name, to the delight and bemusement of the park-goers. She dashed up a trail, around a tree, looking everywhere. Finally, Lindsay saw his tail wagging. “George Clooney! Stop!” she yelled—and promptly tripped, right into the azalea plants.

  She cursed, banging the ground with her fists. She’d lost the damn dog, and with it, her job, her future, her hopes. She was doomed. She closed her eyes, lay on the ground, and thought about weeping dramatically.

  “I think I have something that belongs to you.” A voice—male, strong, assured—floated down from above.

  Accentuated by a confirming “Yap, yap, yap!”

  Lindsay opened one eye. It was level with the scuffed toe of lace-up Timberlands. Granola-guy, was her first thought.

  “Miss? Are you okay? I’ve got your dog …”

  She opened both eyes, allowed them to travel upward—the boot was tucked under rumpled jeans. A black Napster T-shirt came next. She was about to get to the face, only it got to her first. Scruffy cheek stubble, medium brown eyes, long dark hair. So not her type.

  In bending to help her up, he dropped what’d been tucked under his arm.

  She instantly recognized it as a movie screenplay.

  He became her type in a nanosecond.

  Lindsay poured on the grateful. “Thank you so, so much. I’d have died if I lost poor … George Clooney. He means everything to me. And he’s so tiny. …” She trailed off, allowing actor-dude (for of course that’s what he was) to lead her to a bench, where she made a great show of affection toward an obviously wary George Clooney, who growled and tried to bite her.

  “So, I’m Lindsay Pierce, and you’re—?”

  “Mark Oliver,” he replied genially.

  “Are you an actor?” She nodded at the script, tucking her hair behind her ears coquettishly.

  “Isn’t everyone in this town?” Mark had obviously never watched All for Wong.

  No matter. It was info, not a new fan, she was after.

  What Lindsay learned: Mark, a relative newcomer who’d been in several failed TV pilots, was represented by the Endeavor Agency, one of Galaxy’s rivals. The script he was reading was for an action comedy called Heirheads: The Movie.

  The plot involved three splashy young heiresses who use their vast resources to solve mysteries. It was Paris Hilton-as-Nancy Drew-meets-James Bond, Charlie’s Angels without Charlie. As Mark described the characters, Lindsay easily saw herself as the most glam heiress, Remy St. Martin.

  Mark was reading for the part of Remy’s wealthy boyfriend. He didn’t think the main girls were cast yet, but had heard rumors that some big-name starlets were going to screen-test. Lindsay wiped away the drool before he could see.

  She had found her first gig.

  Nick Stands In.

  “Unzip your pants, Nicky, another inch down. We’re going for more tease in this shot.” The middle-aged photographer, Les Nowicki, looked up from behind the camera lens. His tan lines deepened when he frowned. “You have to learn to relax, to make love to the camera. Let’s try it again.”

  Nick was trying. But relax? Not happening. Especially when a bunch of weirdos, guys, chicks, and others of indeterminate gender were staring at him, sizing him up—and down. He took a deep breath and eased his pants’ zipper down another notch. An assistant turned a giant fan up, blowing his unbuttoned shirt wide open.

  “That’s better, that’s good!” Les praised him through the lens while snapping his fingers. “He needs more shine!” Keith, one of Les’s assistants, dashed over to rub his chest with oil. Nick tensed.

  He was well into his first week at the modeling agency. The gig was not what he thought it would be. As a photographer’s assistant, Nick figured he’d be ha
uling equipment, setting up lighting, moving props, learning by watching, getting instruction.

  His goal was to get his own professional photos done, then sign with one of the major modeling agencies in town. By the end of the summer, he’d have a kick-ass portfolio—and the bucks would roll on in. Bonus? Meet ’n’ greet some hot model-babes.

  He hadn’t bargained for spending his days, and some nights, striking seminude poses for the camera, being slathered with oils, gelled, glossed, made up, and dressed down.

  Nick’s primary function was being a stand-in. Before the actual models arrived for the shoot, he was the guy who posed while Les’s freak-team of assistants worked on the lighting, backgrounds, wardrobe, and often, on him. There was a gal who sprayed fake-bake tans and body glitter on the models, a guy whose sole job was eyebrow plucking, a manicurist, a pedicurist, and even someone who waxed the male models. Breast carpets, considered manly by many, were verboten at the studio. It was all about slick and shiny, and especially ripped.

  For hours on end Nick stood, sat, reclined, lay on his belly, squatted, leaned against the wall, the window, the bed, so the team could judge what would work and what wouldn’t. Digital pictures were taken, studied by Les and his team, then retaken, with adjustments in lighting, props, and his pose. By the time the actual models arrived, the set would be positioned and the shoots good to go, swiftly and smoothly.

  The cool part was when he got to wear samples of designer duds—tight D&G T-shirts, Boss shades, Zegna suits. The uncool part was that most of what he wore, he wore … open. Suggestively so.

  Nick had been too excited when he learned he’d gotten the internship to bother checking it out, to do what Eliot called “due diligence.” So he came west without the slightest inkling of what kind of modeling photo studio Les Nowicki ran. He knew now.

  Les specialized in shooting models for calendars, posters, and greeting cards. Hallmark was probably not a big customer. A glance at the framed portraits lining the studio’s brick walls told the tale: These models, mostly male, weren’t exactly in family-friendly poses.