The A-List: Hollywood Royalty #1

by Zoey Dean

  Or was Amelie just different? It had to be the latter, he decided. She read cool books, and didn't

  just talk about clothes and boys all the time. He casually flipped open the menu, scanning the

  list of dinner specials for something without onions--he didn't want to have swamp breath. Not

  that he'd be trying to kiss Amelie tonight. But maybe soon?

  "So, I was thinking," Jacob began, feeling emboldened. "Maybe we should meet up at Urth

  Caffé on Thursday."

  Amelie raised her eyebrows, considering. The last time she'd gone to Urth Caffé she'd been

  fifteen, and she'd gone with her mom and a William Morris agent eager to poach her from

  CAA. But Jake wasn't chasing a profitable contract. He just wanted to hang out. Okay, maybe

  he just wanted to study. But she'd take it. At least when everyone on set left for that evening's

  hot spot, she could honestly say she had plans with a friend.

  "That would be great," she finally said. "Around eight?"

  Jake suppressed the urge to jump up and tap the roof of the trailer, like a basketball player

  who'd just sunk a three-pointer. He hadn't planned to ask Amelie out today, but he'd just done

  it. And she'd actually said yes. He couldn't believe that just last week, he'd thought tutoring

  meant he'd never have a girlfriend.

  Now, it seemed, the bane of his existence had become the key to his happiness.

  MISS TACKY TEEN USA

  Few things in her short life had really impressed Myla Everhart, but the pool at the Beverly

  Hills Hotel was one of them. Lined with palm trees and privacy-providing tropical plants, and

  surrounded by the hotel's trademark green-and-white striped sun chairs, the pool was like

  Camelot for the celebrity set. A row of cabanas gleamed white as the sun crept toward the west.

  The sky was a crisp blue, striped with orange and violet clouds. (Fine, so Myla had learned in

  earth sciences today that they were chemical trails from planes landing at LAX. But why spoil

  it?)

  She rummaged through her bag, clutching the champagne cork invite buried at the bottom. A

  few art students had created counterfeit versions of the invitation, and it irritated her that noninvitees would probably get into the party. At least she'd stopped Jojo from crashing.

  Myla took a deep breath, collecting herself. She was about to enter her first BHH party as a

  single woman. The last two years, she'd gone to the Splash Bash with Ash, and they'd always

  ended the evening in one of the hotel's private cabanas. Stupid Ash. He was probably sitting in

  his room, listening to some whiny L.A. emo band and wishing he hadn't blown it with her.

  Pulling down her oversize white Tom Ford sunglasses and smoothing the wrinkles from her

  floaty cover-up, Myla scanned the pool, already crammed with bodies in various stages of

  undress. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Billie talking to Ash's friend Tucker. What was he

  doing here?

  Before she could stomp over to demand an answer, Ash himself emerged from one of the

  cabanas in a haze of smoke with Geoff, laughing stupidly. Ash was even wearing the

  Vilebrequin jellyfish-print trunks she'd given him last summer, as if he still had a right to wear

  anything Myla had given him.

  Myla reached up for her Green Lantern necklace before remembering she'd removed it before

  school that morning. How dare he show his face here? For the last three years, Myla and her

  girlfriends had practically been the party's steering committee, planning everything from the

  guest list to the menu to the dress code. Yes, Ash and his friends had been invited when the

  corks were distributed in July. But they'd clearly parted ways. They'd split their whole social

  circle into semicircles, never to be joined again. And he still thought he was welcome at a party

  that she and her friends had spent hours of time and energy to plan?

  Straightening the neckline of her floral print cover-up--in shades of pink and green, to

  coordinate with her surroundings--Myla tossed her sunglasses into her tote. Her eyes never

  leaving Ash, she swooped down on him and Geoff.

  The guys looked up at her and burst out laughing for no apparent reason, their mouths full of

  Polo Lounge crab cakes. Clearly, they'd just smoked up. Myla's body tensed with anger. When

  she and Ash were together, he rarely got high--it made him act like a complete buffoon, and he

  knew she hated it.

  A chunk of half-chewed crab flew from Geoff's mouth and landed within a millimeter of her

  lime green Dior peep-toe pumps. Kicking the foul food away, she grabbed Ash by the arm and

  yanked him to a corner of the party.

  "What are you doing here? Besides acting like a stoned Neanderthal?"

  Ash glared at her angrily, seemingly shaken out of his pot-smoking stupor. "I could ask you

  the same question."

  Myla shook her head. "No, you couldn't." She stared at him violently, her heart palpitating with

  fury. "You know this is my party. In fact, I should make you and Geoff pay me for the crab

  cakes, since all the food is on my AmEx. Talia called our catering order months ago. End of

  discussion. Get out."

  Ash crossed his arms over his chest defiantly. His mop of hair was a little damp from a recent

  dip, and the same troublesome strand as always hung cutely over his left eye. Myla reminded

  herself that it wasn't her job to push his hair out of his face anymore.

  "Yeah, you planned it months ago," Ash retorted. "But my boys and I practically invented this

  party three years ago. Remember when the seniors wouldn't let freshmen come to their stupid

  luau at Hermosa Beach? And I suggested that we rent the Beverly Hills Hotel pool? If it

  weren't for me, you'd never have set foot here. You said the hotel was for old people and

  looked like it was painted with Pepto-Bismol."

  Talia and Moira Lacey were drinking daiquiris on sun chairs five feet away, listening to every

  word. Myla didn't want to make a scene, but she also didn't want to give in to Ash.

  "I'm not leaving." She folded her arms across her chest, mimicking Ash's stance.

  A waiter stopped next to them with a tray of seared ahi tuna. "Ahi, miss?" She shook her head.

  "Thanks," Ash said, grabbing a spear and greedily sucking down the tuna in one fluid motion.

  "I'm not leaving either," he said, tossing the empty skewer in a garbage can. "And that tuna was

  good."

  "Why do you have to make everything so difficult? We're broken up, and this is my party.

  Can't you just go hang out in Tucker's garage and pretend you're in some lame band?" Myla

  narrowed her eyes, waiting for Ash to back down. He always did. Last year, she'd wanted to

  go to the Rock & Republic show during L.A. Fashion Week, even though Ash had had tickets

  to see Wolfmother at the Wiltern. In the end, Ash had called the fashion show organizers and

  had even gotten Myla a spot walking down the runway in R&R's first-ever couture gown.

  She didn't get what was up with him the last few days. It was almost like he didn't want her

  back.

  Could it be that . . . they were really done?

  As the realization overcame her, Myla wouldn't let the tears come. Her jaw formed a hard,

  angry line. She couldn't believe she'd wasted so many precious hours waiting for Ash to

  apologize when she could have been accepting their breakup and moving on to the necessary

  next steps: Get Over It, Get Happy, and her favorite, Get Revenge.

&
nbsp; He made a puzzled face. "Hmm, I don't know, Myla. We could try to enjoy ourselves. Create a

  my-dance-space-your-dance-space situation? Oh, but I forgot--you can't enjoy yourself unless

  every moment plays out exactly to your specifications."

  Myla pulled on her strand of emerald hair angrily. First Jojo had waltzed in and was trying to

  steal her life. Now Ash was purposely torturing her. Things were not going to her

  specifications at all.

  She stormed away and plunked down defiantly in a striped lounge chair next to Talia and

  Moira.

  She was scanning the pool area for a waiter carrying more ahi tuna-- her favorite--when her

  eyes landed on Easy Eastman, aka Cassie Eastman, Ash's summer skank. Her melon-y breasts

  were barely covered by two Day-Glo orange triangles, and half her butt was exposed in an

  undersize bikini bottom, like she was vying for the title of Miss Tacky Teen USA in her

  Versace knockoff. She shouldn't have even been at this party, yet she was tottering on fourinch heels next to the pool, sipping from a cosmo and licking her fingers as she put away a

  miniature Kobe beef burger. A contingent of the boys' water polo team stopped their game of

  chicken to study Cassie's bikini line while their swim team girlfriends looked on jealously.

  "Cassie," Myla called out commandingly.

  Cassie looked up, her mouth full. "Myla?" She said it like a question, even though she knew

  who Myla was. She jiggled over in her heeled mules, a confused look on her face.

  "Hi," Myla purred, leaning back in her chair as she scanned Cassie from head to toe. Myla

  rarely spoke to Easy Eastman. "I love your swimsuit. You just have so much to show off, don't

  you?"

  Cassie nodded vigorously.

  "So, I hear you and Ash might get something going."

  Fear came over Cassie's face and she looked everywhere but at Myla--at couples feeding each

  other stuffed mushrooms on lounge chairs, at a cabana filled with fresh-from-the-pool boys

  resuming a high-stakes poker game, at a group of cheerleaders shrieking as the DJ played their

  request, that cheesy "Summer Lovin'" song from Grease. "Well, um, but--"

  "Oh, don't worry about it. I'm so done with him," Myla cooed, grabbing her own cosmo from a

  passing tray. "It's just, well, you should be ready to invest in some Depends. Ash is great, but

  he has some unfortunate, ahem, leakage issues. But it's really only a problem if you care about

  your sheets."

  Cassie twirled a lock of her fine blond hair around her finger, looking like the before ad for

  Fekkai texturizing cream. "So he . . . wets the bed?"

  Myla patted Cassie's fake-baked arm. "I didn't want to be vulgar, but . . . yes. But don't worry.

  That's what adult diapers are for."

  Cassie's brow furrowed in concern, as though she'd put all her money on a horse and it had

  been taken out of the race. Setting down her empty cosmo glass on a low round table, she eyed

  Myla pleadingly. "So it's probably not worth, you know, pursuing him?"

  Myla shook her head. "Oh, no, I don't want to do that to Ash. I mean, he's the kind of guy who

  really needs a girlfriend. He needs someone patient, you know, a little hand-holding. Because

  he also has no muscle memory when it comes to kissing. But it's fun, like training a dog.

  You're just the girl for the job, I bet." Myla glanced around the pool, listening as the gossip

  traveled in whispers and murmurs from partiers sprawled in sun loungers to the guys on

  inflatable rafts drinking Sol. Girls who used to give Ash the eye looked crestfallen as they

  huddled near a cabana, sipping mai tais and mourning the loss of a crushworthy guy. Yes, bed

  wetting was cliché, but it worked.

  Myla stood and patted one of Cassie's arms in a display of faux sisterhood. She clipped past

  Cassie on her towering shoes. Her work here was done.

  Ash leaned back in his sun chair, the flaps of his white cabana opened wide so he could watch

  cute girls walk by as he, Tucker, and Geoff chowed down on the hotel's oversize sirloin

  burgers. In Ash's estimation, it was the first time he'd ever gotten the last word in with Myla,

  and he'd ordered a big meal to celebrate.

  Mark Bauman popped his head in the tent, his artfully windswept man-bangs practically glued

  to his forehead. "Dude, are you okay?"

  Ash took a swig of his Stella, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Course. Got my

  burger, got a brew, chicks walking by. It's a good day."

  Mark bit his thumbnail, which made him look even girlier than usual. "Uh, well, people are

  saying shit."

  "Yeah, like what?" Geoff asked, the ground beef in his mouth on display.

  Tucker sat up, his pale blue eyes flashing eagerly. "Stuff about the new girl? Is Myla's sister

  here? And, dudes, I don't believe any of the rumors about her. Except maybe that she's a sex

  addict." He squeezed his eyes shut, crossing his fingers as though wishing for her. "Lailah 2.0,

  Lailah 2.0," he chanted goofily.

  Ash wondered if she was here, or if Myla had excluded her from the guest list. He wouldn't

  put it past her to make life extra-difficult for a new sibling, just for fun. Of course, why would

  Jojo even want to come to the party, with all the shit being said about her? One of today's top

  "fun facts" was that Jojo didn't come from Sacramento but had escaped from some religious

  cult in Montana.

  Mark grimly shook his head. "No, they're saying . . . that Ash, like, slobbers everywhere when

  he kisses a girl. Plus . . ." Mark mumbled the last words, and Ash could barely hear him.

  "Dude, what was the last thing?" Tucker leaned forward, rubbing the blond fuzz near his

  tanned temple.

  "Thathemightpissthebed," Mark blurted, clutching his forehead anxiously, panic in his eyes.

  Last year, he'd been hanging out with the Young Environmentalist Club as he tried to gain

  entry into Ash's crowd. Now that he'd finally made it to the big leagues, he looked nervous at

  being the bearer of bad news.

  The applewood bacon Ash had been savoring moments earlier started to taste sour. This was

  definitely Myla's work.

  A muscled arm shoved Mark out of Ash's line of view. Then, a face he hated appeared in the

  open cabana.

  Lewis Buford.

  Lewis's haughty, handsome face wore a shit-eating grin. He wore a Boss collared shirt open to

  the chest over a pair of fitted Diesel swim trunks. Behind him stood two members of his

  entourage--Aaron Davies, a creepy thirty-five-year-old nightclub promoter who hit on high

  school chicks, and Barnsley Toole, a Hollywood wannabe who clung to whoever could get

  him in Us Weekly.

  "Gilmour, it's nice to hear you and Myla finally split," Lewis said, his tanned face twisted into a

  half smirk, half pervy leer beneath his dark, slicked-back hair. Ash's hands formed involuntary

  fists. Why did Lewis have to catch him off guard like this? Sitting in this stupid tent, halfnaked, was not Ash's ideal scenario in which to go mano a mano with this jerkbag.

  Myla had introduced Ash and Lewis back in freshman year, after Ash had said he wanted to

  start a band. So Ash and Lewis had formed the Storms, and they hatched all kinds of plans for

  their cosmic rise to stardom. They even cowrote one song, "Deadly Kiss." But then Lewis told

  Ash he was sick of playing bass and wanted to be lead singer, even though Ash had the better

  voice. When Ash wouldn't give i
n, Lewis threw a fit--even kicking in the face of the vintage

  Fender Ash had bought on eBay. Since then, Lewis had formed several unenduring bands on

  his own, and had tried to cozy up to Myla on more than one occasion, usually when she and

  Ash were fighting. Now, Lewis thought he was hot shit because he hung out with all of hipster

  Hollywood, checking out bands at the Troubador and the Roxy trying to find rising stars for

  his upstart record label, Deadly Kiss--he wasn't even creative enough to come up with a new

  name.

  "Go fuck yourself, Buford," Ash spat, standing up from the low chair and stepping closer to

  Lewis. Lewis didn't flinch. A crowd at the bar was watching, drinking up the exchange like a

  chaser for their tequila shots.

  "Hey man, don't get all touchy just because you've got leaky equipment." Lewis raised one

  eyebrow.

  "Dude, why don't you go find a band to screw up?" It was the best Ash could come up with.

  He pushed his way out of the cabana into the sun, Lewis's shadow falling over him.

  "Don't change the subject, Gilmour," Lewis sneered, as though they were in a sarcasm

  showdown at the OK Corral. "Why don't you take a swim? Or can your huggies not get wet?"

  Barnsley threw back his head, his preppy yellow-blond hair immobile as he giggled like a

  hyena.

  Ash shoved past Lewis and dove into the pool, toppling a couple making out on an oversize

  inner tube. He swam across, climbed out quickly, and yanked a towel off a beach chair.

  Dripping wet, he stomped barefoot through the Polo Lounge and into the hotel lobby. He

  shivered, not from cold but rage. Lewis was the shit-covered cherry on top of Myla's poisonlaced sundae. She was acting like this whole big battle between them had been his idea, when

  she was the one who'd walked out on him. And not just that day at his house: She'd walked out

  on him for the whole summer--and hadn't even felt bad about it. Yeah, in the past when they'd

  fought, he'd given in, but this was so much bigger than an argument about whether to hang out

  with her girlfriends at the Beverly Center or his buds at the beach. It hit Ash like one of those

  ocean waves that start calm and then slap you in the gut: They really were over. Myla wasn't

  going to appeal to him for mercy. He swallowed hard, fighting his burger, his beer, and the