Before Jared could jump up, Lindsay led the newcomer over to their group. “Guys, this is Mark.”
She was met with blank stares.
“Mark!” Lindsay squealed. “You remember, from the park.” She jogged their memories. “He rescued George Clooney, and he tried out for that heinous Heiress movie. Neither of us got it.”
Jared remembered: Mark had auditioned opposite Lindsay, and presumably Sara, for The Outsiders. Mark, this granola guy, was now an FOL, a Friend of Lindsay?
“Move over, guys,” Lindsay urged. “Make room for us. Mark, what can Jared get you to drink?”
“Yeah, what’re you having, man?” Jared grumbled, getting up to head over to the bar. He’d need another few shots of tequila if he had to hang out with this dude.
When Jared, carrying a tray full of shots, returned, Tripp was singing some old folkie song. Mark, Austin, MK, and Julie were singing along.
Jared freaked: Tripp had removed one of the guitars off the wall. Before he said anything, Lindsay leaped up. Even quasi-drunk, she realized this was a major no-no. She swiftly wrested the instrument from him and put it back on the wall.
Mark left soon after. Jared found himself relieved. A relief that lasted a microsecond:
“Body shots!” Lindsay shouted, peeling off her top—to reveal a cute cami underneath. “Let’s do body shots, let’s get this party movin’!”
She practically skipped into the game room, rounding up as many revelers as she could. She opened the sliding doors, summoning party-peeps inside. When she bumped straight into Sara and Eliot, she hooted, “It’s your birthday! Happy—”
Eliot put his palms up. “As a birthday present, Lindsay, please don’t throw up on me.”
That set off a giggle-fit. Which, midway through, led to Lindsay’s inept interpretation of E.T.—the Spielberg classic, not the TV show. She held up her finger and started chanting, “Eh … lee … yot … Eh … lee-yot …”
Caitlin hooted, “Wait, your finger has to glow. What’s in the house that we can use to light it up?”
Lindsay, Caitlin, and Ava scouted around. Five minutes later, they returned, having glued glitter to all their fingertips. And succeeded in making Eliot turn tomato red and probably wish he really could go “Home—ET go hooomme,” even as the girls were dancing around him and teasing.
The body shots had just begun: Ava was the first volunteer. Tripp had poured a tequila shot into her belly button and was first in line to lap it up. MK followed, as did Nick, then a flotilla of fellas, as Lindsay laughingly called them.
Jared felt calmer. Most of the celeb crew had split, as Lindsay predicted. No photogs had crashed the party, and so far, nothing he could see had crashed and burned.
A few body shots among friends—what was the harm in that? As long as no one was licking liquor off his girlfriend, that is. After Ava, it was Caitlin’s turn to be tickled with tongues and tequila. Even Eliot had joined in by this time: no doubt because Nick had finally made sure the E-man was sloshed. Sara and Naomi remained the teetotalers in the house.
“Yap! Yap! Yap!” He heard it, even as he joined the line to do a shot off Caitlin, and whirled around. Lionel, Sara’s agent, had arrived. In his arms, he carried a small rat-faced dog.
“George-fuckin’-Clooney!” Lindsay bellowed. “What’s he doing at my party? And … who invited you?”
Lionel, who couldn’t wait to rid himself of the runt, gave him over to Lindsay. “Good evening to you, too, Ms. Thing,” he said. “Sara invited me, and I happened to be dog-sitting. Since you and George Clooney are already BFFs, I didn’t think you’d mind if I brought him.”
“Think again,” Lindsay hissed, then drew Lionel into the kitchen, where Sara immediately rushed over to them, alarmed. “I … I …,” she stuttered. “I’m sorry, Lionel, I didn’t invite you. …” She trailed off, unsure of what to say. Lionel was a direct link to Rusty Larson, and even Sara had pledged to keep anyone away who might report to him.
Lionel beamed at her. “I know you didn’t, sweetie. I called the cell phone, and Eliot said to come on over. I have delicious news for you! And I had to give it to you in person.”
Jared barged in. “Come here, man, I need to talk to you.” Before anyone could stop him, he’d pulled Lionel out of the kitchen, through the living room, and out to the backyard. And told the dude in no uncertain terms: He wasn’t here; there was no party; Rusty Larson would know nothing about this evening. And—urgent bulletin—whatever news he had for Sara, if it was about The Outsiders audition, he’d better tell Jared first. No way would Jared let Lindsay be humiliated. Not tonight, and not like this.
Sara Feels the Earth Move
Sunday Morning, 2–4:00 a.m.
Sara was shaking with dread and anticipation.
“You got the part! You got the part!” Naomi repeated excitedly. “Why else would Lionel be here?”
“Is that what he said?” Sara rushed at Eliot. “Is that what he told you on the phone?”
“He said he had good news for you,” Eliot explained, “and he wanted you to come to the phone.”
“So why didn’t you come get me?”
Nick answered for his bud. “El probably said, ‘Come over and tell her yourself.’ Am I right?”
Eliot offered a sloppy smile. And a hiccup.
Sara bit her nails. “But … how could you do that, Eliot? If he’s come to say I won the audition, that would mean Lindsay lost. And she’d know it, in front of everyone. That’d be horrible for her.”
Eliot’s bug eyes widened, and he happily slapped his face. “Oh. I was only thinking of you, Sara-dorable one.”
She sighed. She’d been preached to her whole life about the evils of alcohol. What she hadn’t understood until this summer was that liquor loosened lips, acting like truth serum. She knew Eliot was crushing on her—who in the house didn’t? But she didn’t think it was serious. As far as Eliot knew, she was still committed to Donald. Or had he inferred the truth, that she wasn’t so sure anymore?
She adored Eliot. As a friend. A true friend, one she hoped she’d have for life. It’d never be anything more than that. And now, this thing, inviting Lionel over—in front of Lindsay—that was unlike Eliot. It was just insensitive.
Naomi read her mind. “What do you care? Lindsay’s been nothing but mean to you. And besides, if Lionel is here to give you this amazing news, it just means you were the better actress, the better fit for the role.”
Sara found herself saying, “But Lindsay, she’ll die if she doesn’t get it.”
“Oh, come on, Sara.” This was Nick now. “She’s a drama queen. She’ll get over it. And get another role, too. Lindsay’s determined; she’s a survivor.”
Did that mean Nick thought Sara wasn’t? She looked at him. Her legs turned to jelly. Those charcoal eyes were smoldering. And those lips … no! She was not going to think about Nick Maharis now.
She stalked out of the kitchen, on a mission to find Lindsay. She didn’t make it farther than the living room. Jared and Lionel were just coming inside. Lionel rushed up to her and threw his arms around her. He glanced over his shoulder at Jared. “So is it all right if I tell her?”
Sara had not won the role—yet. The news, Lionel insisted, was almost as good. He had just got a call from Amanda, who was having dinner with the producer of the movie. They’d narrowed the search to two actresses for Cherry, and Sara was one of them. She’d audition for the head of the studio on Monday. Wasn’t that the most fabulous news ever?”
Sara stared at her agent. “I’m up against Lindsay, aren’t I? She’s the other person.”
Lionel’s silence was her answer. “Come on, Sara, you’re supposed to be over the moon about this news. Why the long face?”
“Does Lindsay know?”
Lionel assured her that Jared was going to find her and give her the excellent news that she, too, was a finalist. “It’s all good, Sara. Now I insist you come and talk to me. I dragged all the way out here to tell you.”
&
nbsp; Numbly, she followed him, and soon found herself in the middle of the living room, with Lionel, Naomi, Eliot, and Nick. In a daze, she watched Nick’s eyes wander the room: checking out the designer-decked dollies, as they checked him out. Yet he made no move to leave their little group.
Lionel leaned over, whispered in her ear conspiratorially, “You like him?”
She whispered back. “No! I mean … not in that way. It’s nothing.”
What Lionel said next disquieted her. “Are you sure he’s straight?”
She jerked her head up. “What do you mean?”
“What’s the secret, you two? Why are you whispering?” Nick nudged her.
“I asked Sara if you were straight.”
Sara had never noticed Nick’s vein, the one in his forehead that protruded when he was enraged, the way his lips pressed together, his eyes dulled. He bolted up without a word, headed for the bar.
Eliot was surprised. “Why would you ask a question like that? Nick’s a babe-magnet.”
“I heard about this thing called gaydar. …” Naomi hesitated. “Like radar.”
Lionel shrugged. “No, nothing like that. It was an honest question, that’s all. Just because girls like him doesn’t mean he swings that way. Why should Sara waste lustful looks on someone who bats for the other side?”
Sara blushed and stood up. “I need to find Lindsay.”
Lindsay found her first. Out in the backyard, Sara was walking toward the pool when Lindsay, completely hammered, called from behind her. “I have just one question for you, Sara. Why didn’t you read the scene like I told you to?”
Lindsay had seen her audition? Sara whirled around.
The stuck-up girl was coming at her now, guns blazing. But in her eyes, those normally dancing light brown eyes, Sara saw panic. And pain. She gulped.
“You didn’t believe me, did you?” Lindsay accused her. “You thought I was tryin’ to trip you up?”
“I never thought that, Lindsay. Anyways, your plan worked, didn’t it? We conquered the competition, me and you.”
“My plan worked. Yeah, right.” Lindsay laughed mirthlessly.
Sara steeled herself. “But you’re right. I didn’t end up reading it the way you said. I don’t know what came over me, exactly, but—I know you’ll think this is stupid—I’ve been reading the other script, the one the policeman wrote?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Lindsay said.
“The one you tossed into the pool that first night? And I got it out?”
A hint of recognition crossed Lindsay’s face. “That one? How does some hack script by some random wannabe have anything to do with The Outsiders?”
“It doesn’t. Not exactly.” Sara drew a deep breath. “But there’s a character in it, her name is Kate. And she sort of is like Cherry in a way. Conflicted, you know. It sort of spoke to me. And I ended up doing the reading as if I was Kate. Funny, huh?”
“Yeah, funny ha-ha,” Lindsay mumbled, then turned and walked away.
Sara took a step toward her, then froze. She wanted not to care about Lindsay. She wanted to win the role of Cherry: She deserved it. Her mom deserved it—all those years of sacrifice, all that money spent on the pageants, everything the family had poured into their only daughter. This was the payoff. This was the dream come true. She saw her name up on the screen: “And Introducing Sara Calvin as Cherry.” She’d be the toast of Texarkana. Best of all? It’d be because her whole family had worked for it and she’d earned it. She should win the role of Cherry, because it was right.
Lindsay. The cute, bubbly, freckled girl popped into her head, much as Sara tried to push the image away. Lindsay had worked too—she’d spent her whole childhood supporting her family. This was her moment, her destiny, too. And that was the difference between the two of them, Sara realized. She wanted the role—desperately—but she wanted it for her family, for her town, because she believed it her destiny.
Lindsay simply wanted it for herself.
Sara hung her head.
Naomi came looking for her. “What are you doing out here? Did you find Lindsay? What’d she say to you?”
“No,” Sara lied, “I didn’t find her yet. I’m still looking.”
She stared out over the valley. The million-dollar view, Jared had called it. At night, the lights twinkled below her, around her. And this night, the air was so clear, like someone had sprinkled it with sweet jasmine, citrusy orange, and lemon.
She didn’t know exactly how long she spent staring at the horizon. She was pretty sure the music had ended and several guests had left. Lionel had stuck his head out to say good-bye, to mention he was leaving the dog, since he didn’t want to drive drunk with it—Amanda would have him fired if he upset George Clooney in any way—and to apologize if he’d caused a rift.
Sara strolled around the side of the house so she wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. She’d gotten around to the driveway when she heard it.
The weeping: It was heartbreaking. Someone was heaving, hiccupping, sobbing like the world had ended. She looked around, but saw no one. She didn’t have to. Sara knew who it was.
It was coming from the driveway, where Jared’s convertible was parked. Her eyes caught a flash of copper. Lindsay was in the driver’s seat, bent over the steering wheel, crying her eyes out, hiccupping.
Sara had the urge to go over and shake her! To shout, “Stop it, you haven’t lost the part. It’s not decided yet!”
If she did that, she might say more. She might give voice to a tiny, persistent thought, fluttering in her brain like a darn hummingbird. And she wasn’t ready to swipe it away, nor to let it sing.
Shaking, Sara turned on her heel and walked back inside the house. To a shocked Nick she said, “I’d like a vodka martini. Straight up.”
It wasn’t the taste she took to. It was the burning feeling, stinging, punishing as it went down her throat. She asked for another.
And another. Until the truth hit her between the eyes and she let the hummingbird sing. She would not take the role from Lindsay. She’d give a horrible reading, or better, not show up for the audition. Tell Lionel she didn’t want it after all. She’d kick her own dream to the curb, because giving is better than receiving, because charity, empathy, feeling for others was part of her DNA. She would let Lindsay have this role. Because it was the right thing to do. So why did it hurt so much?
“Another, please,” she slurred, and held out her glass. Eliot and Naomi had wandered off. Most of the guests had left.
“Are you sure, Sara?” Nick asked, “You’ve had a lot … for your first time drinking.”
“I’m so totally sure, Nick-o-lash,” she slurred.
Nick’s large palm cupped her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes, those smoldering charcoal eyes, now filled with concern. For her.
“Please, sir,” she belched while paraphrasing Oliver Twist. “May I have s’more?”
He didn’t get the reference; that was okay. Sara pictured him nude as he walked over to the liquor bar, watching his thigh muscles scissor, his cute, tight butt move. I’m in lust with Nick Maharis. There, she’d admitted it. Or was it love? Love or lust, how could she know for sure? She’d never felt this way around Donald, or anyone. Sara didn’t know you could.
She’d go home to Donald, though. A couple weeks, that’s all she had left of this great summer adventure. She’d retreat, defeated by Hollywood. That’s how it’d look to everyone; she’d come home a failure. No one would know that she’d turned down the role of Cherry; no one would ever know that by doing what was right, what was unselfish, she’d sealed her own fate. The tears rolled down her face only when she heard Donald’s voice. “I told you Hollywood wasn’t for you. Now you’re back where you belong.” She cringed, just at the thought of his arms around her.
Nick: Sunday Morning, 4–6:00 a.m.
Nick eased Sara’s arm over his shoulder, snaked his own around her slim waist, and helped her upstairs. What choice did he hav
e? The girl was plastered, could barely stand up. Losing her liquor virginity would either be memorable or, he hoped, eminently forgettable. No little sips of wine or beer: She’d dived into the hard stuff with a reckless thirst. Nick wasn’t that good at figuring out people’s feelings, but he recognized when someone was self-medicating.
Something must have happened during the party, something that’d made Sara zoom from zero tolerance to eighty-proof in the blink of an eye. Damned if he knew what it was. All he’d seen was Sara being her usual high-spirited, supergenerous self. She’d baked Eliot a cake, coaxed Naomi into joining them, and then received some amazing news from her agent.
How this became a recipe for misery was a mystery.
But, dude, girlfriend was in no shape to explain.
He led her to the loft, steadied her with one hand, and went to pull down the Murphy bed.
“No,” she stopped him. “No, not here. Don’t wanna be here now.”
“Where do you want to be, Sara?” he asked softly.
“Your room. Let’s go to your room.” Her head began to loll.
She was so warm, so beautiful, so trusting and vulnerable. He wasn’t blind; she’d been wanting him all summer. He stopped himself. No, man. He wasn’t going to take advantage. Eliot was in love with her; the E-man believed he had a chance with her. He was El’s best friend.
Didn’t matter that Eliot had no shot with her. No way could Nick sleep with Sara either. No matter how much he wanted to.
Man, did he ever want to.
So … wait a minute, Nick caught himself thinking. Maybe it was her. Maybe Sara was the reason he’d ended up celibate this summer. If he’d been into her but subconsciously not allowed himself to act on it … maybe that’s why people assumed he was gay. Was that possible? Nah. Even through a beer-buzz haze, that made no sense.
Back in Michigan, in the rare instances he’d been rejected by a girl or had put the brakes on out of loyalty to a friend, he’d gone out and found someone else. Girls had been fairly interchangeable in his life so far. He’d never fallen for one girl so hard that he had no interest in anyone else.
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