by Zoey Dean
on one of the couches, reading a script.
Helen eyed Jake's flowers quizzically, then seemed to examine his outfit. Miles had helped put
it together and Jake had to admit, he didn't look half bad. He was wearing a Paul Smith buttondown with simple silver cuff links (thanks to a tip in GQ), and a pair of indigo Diesel boot-cut
jeans with artfully frayed back pocket detail. Jake had almost been late getting to Amelie's after
having to explain to his father why a person would pay extra money for pants that came prefrayed.
"You really dressed up, hmm, Jake?" Helen sounded so matter-of-fact, Jake didn't know if her
question required a response. He was debating whether to nod politely or answer when Amelie
emerged from a room at the top of the stairs.
"Hey Jake," she called sunnily. She swung a lumpy L.L. Bean backpack over one shoulder and
descended the stairs noisily, her rubber Havaianas flip-flops slapping the wood with each step.
Her red hair hung in loose curls around her face and her cheeks glowed with just a hint of
some shimmery makeup. She looked gorgeous as always, but she was wearing her beat-up
jeans--actually beat-up, not high-fashion beat-up--and an L.A. Dodgers T-shirt beneath an
oversize gray hoodie.
Jake could feel the sweat crawling up his spine beneath his expensive new shirt. Was this party
some casual thing? Was he going to look like some Details-obsessed douchebag while
everyone else walked around in sandals and T-shirts? He should have asked Amelie what kind
of party this was. According to Miles, the number one rule of L.A. style was that it was better
to be underdressed than overdressed. That way, everyone thought you were too important to
bother spending time on your outfit. Jake felt like he'd been punched. He'd violated rule number
one before he'd even gotten in the game.
"Hi Amelie," Jake said, as Amelie reached the bottom of the stairs with a cheerful bounce. Jake
held out the flowers gingerly. He felt like those were overkill now, too. Thank God he hadn't
gone with the roses.
"Oh, um, they were selling these at the gas station. For charity," he lied, brandishing the
flowers. "So I got them."
Amelie took the daisies and smelled them, even though they didn't have a scent to speak of.
"That's so nice of you, Jake." She thrust them at her mother.
Helen nodded in agreement. "I'll put them in some water. You guys should get going," she
said, shooing them toward the door. "Nice meeting you, Jake. Have a good study session!"
Jake fidgeted beneath his fancy shirt. He felt like he was in one of those dreams where you're
naked in front of a whole bunch of people. Amelie's mom thought they were studying? They
descended the front porch steps and Amelie slowed as they reached the sidewalk. "Which one's
you?"
Jacob's Corolla, waxed and polished to within an inch of its life, looked like it could use
vitamins compared to the SUVs along the curb. "That's me," he said, jogging in front of her to
unlock the door. He held it open for her and she got in, murmuring a compliment on the
Corolla's shine.
Jake got in on his side, put the key into the ignition, and pulled carefully away from the curb,
trying not to dent the vintage Thunderbird behind him. He turned to Amelie, who was already
rifling through her backpack.
"You told your mom we were studying?" He looked sidelong at her as she pulled a shimmery
handful of fabric from her backpack.
"She's a little uptight. Overprotective," Amelie said, shaking out what appeared to be a teeny
dress covered in emerald green beads. "Now, turn left at Riverside and keep your eyes on the
road--and nothing but the road." She giggled, punching him playfully on the arm.
Jake concentrated, turning onto Riverside. Next to him, he heard the sound of Amelie
unzipping her hoodie. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her wriggling out of it. Then she
reached under the oversize Dodgers tee and unbuttoned her jeans as she kicked off her flipflops.
"Take this to Cahuenga and turn left," Amelie commanded. Jake stared straight ahead, as an old
man wearing an overcoat and a knitted cap rolled his shopping cart across the intersection in
front of Bob's Big Boy.
He heard the sound of Amelie's jeans unzipping. He suppressed a gulp. Then he heard the
denim fabric sliding over her skin as she removed her pants. Jake continued to stare straight
ahead, even though his peripheral vision kept picking up the tops of Amelie's thighs, the bright
blue cotton of her T-shirt cutting a line across them.
Fairy Princess, hot Fairy Princess, is half naked in my passenger seat, Jake thought, blood
rushing to places he didn't want it to rush to right now. If she took off one more item of
clothing, he was going to crash the car.
He zoomed his focus in on the taillights of the Beamer in front of him.
He was glad when he reached a red light on Cahuenga. He stared at it intently, like he was
taking an eye test. He had to. It was that moment that Amelie chose to quickly pull her shirt off,
before even more swiftly dropping the green shimmery dress over her head.
Thank God for red lights, he thought. If he hadn't been stopped, he would definitely have
careened right into the 7-Eleven across the street, totaling his Corolla.
The thing was, with the world's most gorgeous redhead undressing just inches from him, he
was really starting to like this car.
OF FOOLS AND TOOLES
"Don't forget to stop by the tennis courts, everyone. There's beer, top-shelf liquor, a bonfire,
and a live set by Goodbar--with a special guest performance from your host, Lewis Buford!"
Barnsley Toole, Lewis Buford's number one ass-kisser, was standing atop a bar stool at the
center of Lewis's rec room, one of the mansion's forty-plus rooms (not including bathrooms, of
course). The overhead lights danced on his shiny, effeminate blond hair, and made the orange
Brooks Brothers cashmere sweater tied around his neck look baby girl pink. He'd gone
overboard on the preppy pastels, and wore pale yellow pants with tiny blue whales on them.
Barnsley was even more annoying in person than when he appeared in the pages of Us Weekly,
which he inevitably did, spreading rumors about up-and-coming starlets one week and hooking
up with them by the next week's issue. A few months ago, he kept popping up on The Hills,
tagging along with Heidi and Spencer. Apparently sick of not having the spotlight to himself,
he'd convinced MTV to give him a show, Barnsley's Babes. Now cameras followed him from
club to party as he hit on unsuspecting girls. For right now, at least, female party guests were
avoiding him. Barnsley was legendary for getting girls drunk so that he'd never have an
episode where he struck out. Tonight, a cameraman was tracking Barnsley's every move, fully
expecting him to get some action.
The Everharts' driver had dropped Myla and Jojo off in the massive U-shaped driveway half an
hour ago, and Myla had promptly ditched Jojo. But that wasn't really a bad thing. Jojo had
done a self-tour of the house's main floor, winding her way through a living room with a real
Picasso and an Elton John piano, a dining room with Wedgwood place settings for twenty-four, and a kitchen with a Sub-Zero refrigerator that spanned an entire wall.
Jojo thought back to what she'd been doing this weekend of last school year: Sitting at
a booth
in Sadie's Pizza with the girls' soccer team, drinking pitchers of Diet Coke and sharing a
pepperoni pie while taking turns flirting with the one cute waiter.
Now she was sitting on a comfortable spinning stool at the bar in the Bufords' rec room. By
itself, the room was nearly the size of Sadie's Pizza. It felt like an English pub, with a dark
mahogany bar that matched the paneled walls. Overhead, Tiffany lamps--each with an English
ivy pattern surrounding a stained glass letter B at the center--dangled from chains, casting dim
glows over the bar and the various play areas. With its dartboards, pool table, foosball game,
air hockey, and even chess table, the room was like Chuck E. Cheese for adults. In the corner, a
guy from NBC's new reality show Underground was making out with the blonde who'd
recently been sent home on The Bachelor.
The red felt-covered pool table was at the room's center, and Jojo recognized a few of Ash's
friends: Tucker, whom she'd met, and--was it Geoff?--playing a game with Billie and Talia,
who'd supposedly taken Myla's side in the breakup . So much for that. Jojo chuckled to herself.
Even though she was sitting at the bar alone, she felt perfectly comfortable. Some cute surfertype dudes were working the bar, and one of them had been consistently refilling her amaretto
stone sour and giving her extra maraschino cherries with each top-off. She was feeling good, in
a warm, fuzzy, slightly tipsy way. It helped that she'd put together the ultimate outfit.
Even Myla had looked at her with a glint of jealousy. Jojo carried her new bag, of course. She
couldn't resist sashaying in her fluttery celestial-blue Jovovich-Hawk dress, the wispy
peekaboo slip beneath the short petal-like skirt tickling her legs as she did so. Her owl pendant
dangled onto the dress's neckline, and her suede Tod's wedge sandals in periwinkle--Lailah had
picked them up at Barneys during a shopping trip this week--were actually comfortable. It was
the kind of slightly edgy, piecemeal outfit she'd seen Myla pull off countless times in the
tabloids. Her shoulders were bare, showing the last vestiges of her summer tan. More than
once, guys she recognized from school had given her nods of acknowledgment, even
appreciation.
Cocking her head to signal the bartender, Jojo felt like she'd been hanging out at Lewis
Buford's house her whole life.
The cute bartender presented her with another stone sour. Her third? Or fourth? He winked,
and Jojo smiled coyly in return. She took a long sip from her thin red straw and spun back to
face the room, hoping to see Ash. Some of the party guests had lit cigars, and the sickly sweet
smoke hung like a haze in front of her. Barnsley Toole kept slinking by, telling people they
could head outside to swim or catch the band. He'd paid two visits to Jojo, paying compliments
on her legs. Both times, she'd given him "get lost" eye rolls. He looked like a flat-faced blond
cat. Jojo giggled to herself, imagining him licking his paws. She felt sorry for whoever was
dumb enough to make out with him tonight.
If she made out with anyone tonight, it would be Ash, Jojo thought, enjoying the candy-flavored drink as it warmed her from the inside out. She'd texted to see if he was on his way,
but had gotten no answer. If she'd known his friends a little better, she'd have asked them, but
there was the added no-no factor of Myla's friends lurking close by.
A few more people slipped through the sliding double doors that led from the kitchen to the rec
room. Jojo recognized runners-up from both American Idol and America's Next Top Model,
and ... Ash.
He stood in the doorway for a second, looking adorable in a rumpled button-down, slightly
baggy Diesel jeans, and his beat-up Vans. He pushed back the strand of dirty blond hair falling
messily in his face, and then his eyes landed on her. He smiled slowly.
Jojo's heart was pounding in her chest. Sure, it was a bad idea to make a play for Ash. No, a
terrible idea. She was on rocky enough ground with Myla, and hooking up with Ash was sure
to bring on a full-fledged avalanche. But whatever. It wasn't like Myla was making huge efforts
at sisterly bonding . . . or even peace.
"Jojo, looking good," Ash said, sounding like he'd had a few drinks himself. "Come here
often?" His eyes twinkled at his lame joke.
Jojo shrugged flirtatiously. "Oh, you know me, I never miss a party in the Hills." She knew it
wasn't her best material, but under the circumstances, not to mention the influence, it was the
best she could come up with.
Ash sank onto the empty bar stool next to her. "Well, I gotta tell you, the guy who owns this
place? Total tool. He doesn't deserve someone as hot as you as a party guest."
Jojo watched an ice cube melt in her drink, her cheeks burning. Ash had just called her hot. He
was leaning close, so close she could smell his soap--something cucumber-y and clean--and
feel the warmth of his breath.
"I know," Jojo said, attempting a sexy whisper. "But I'm not really here for him." I'm here for
you, she willed Ash to realize.
Ash leaned in closer. "So then what are you here for?" His amber-flecked eyes twinkled
beneath his long lashes. "You came to show us Hollywood kids how to have a good party?"
"Not exactly." Jojo felt like she'd break into a million pieces if he didn't kiss her. Right. Now.
She edged ever so slightly closer, so that their knees were touching. A trace of a smile played
on Ash's lips, like he thought she might tell him a really juicy secret. He didn't back away. Jojo
saw her chance and leaned in, brushing her lips against his. Every nerve in her candy-coated
lips buzzed as she felt Ash's soft lips.
Ash pulled away like he'd been burned.
"What are you doing?" He studied Jojo's face.
She felt heat searing beneath her skin. Embarrassed heat. So hot, she thought her face would
surely melt.
Ash looked stricken. He bit his lip thoughtfully, like he was doing long division in his head.
Jojo watched as understanding washed over his perfect features. "Oh my God . . . I'm, I--Jojo,
I think you're really cool but our whole thing, it was to make Myla jealous. You make an
awesome friend but--"
He didn't need to say anything else. He was still in love with Myla. He and Jojo were just the f word. She felt like she was having an out-of-body experience, watching the whole scene play
out from above. Ash regarding her with his pitying gaze. Her staring back at him,
openmouthed, her face flushed beyond the alcohol. She was an idiot.
"I better go," Ash said, hopping off the bar stool. He touched Jojo's shoulder and muttered a
bland apology before disappearing through the sliding doors to the backyard.
As she spun back to face the bar, the bartender slid another stone sour toward Jojo. "That's
rough," he drawled in his laid-back voice. "He's not worth it, though."
Jojo tried to nod, but she was lying to herself and the bartender. Of course Ash was worth it.
He was gorgeous. Funny. Sweet. And those eyes. No way would Myla have dated him for
three years if he wasn't worthwhile.
She took a sip of her drink, wishing it could make her forget what had just happened. She
could feel eyes on her back, but she didn't want to turn around. She decided not to move from
her stool until every guest had left, so that she didn't have to make eye contact wit
h anyone
who'd just witnessed Ash rejecting her.
"Hey, look up," the hot bartender beckoned. She forced herself to look into his Pacific blue
eyes. He leaned across the bar and whispered in her ear. "Don't get hung up on something you
can't have. Fuck it, you know? You're not the first person in the world to get blown off by
someone who doesn't know a good thing when it's right in front of them."
"I know," Jojo said. And actually . . . he was right. She didn't want her sister's leftovers. She
was Barbar's real kid, she was beautiful, and she was getting hotter by the day. She could have
someone way better than Ash Gilmour.
"Actually, can you give me something stronger?" She eyed the bartender cockily, daring him to
refuse her.
He winked again. "I like your style," he said. "I've got just the thing."
Three Long Island iced teas later, Jojo could barely remember who Ash was, let alone where
she was. Tomorrow, she'd tell Willa in full about her evening among Hollywood's finest. She'd
had conversations with everyone from Hayden Panettierre to one of the Jonas Brothers, and all
of them had been more interested in her than she'd been in them. Being Barbar's daughter meant
everyone wanted to suck up to you.
She leaned forward on her stool, slurping down her drink like it was Kool-Aid. The rec room
was now overflowing with people.
Barnsley Toole sidled up, sitting down in the stool next to her. "Feeling good?"
She turned and looked into his face. He had a nice smile, and his eyes seemed friendly. She felt
bad for thinking of him as a flat-faced cat earlier.
"Very much so," Jojo said, feeling cool and confident.
"Must be nice being Barbar's daughter," he continued. "Having all that surplus hotness to
throw around."
Jojo swung around on her stool, the movement making her feel a little seasick. "Yeah, it's
working out for me."
Barnsley pushed a curled lock of her hair out from in front of her eyes. "I'll say," he said.
"You're the most amazing-looking girl I've seen in a long time."
"Thanks," Jojo demurred, liking the way his fingertips felt against her skin. Who needed Ash?
"I'd like to kiss you," Barnsley said, his other hand lightly brushing her shoulder.
Jojo smiled to herself. This was part of her new life, right? The life of the irresponsible, hardpartying glitterati.