Under the Lights

by Dahlia Adler

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. Or, you know, you can just read the Wings script and call me when you’re done. You nail that audition, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Ugh, so that was her plan—blackmail me into the stupid audition. I should’ve guessed. “Yeah. Fine.”

  She heads out, but stops in the open doorway. “And Josh?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Get a publicist.”

  It’s always been one of my biggest fears that one night I’d be out at a club and realize I’m completely over this shit. I’m not quite there yet, but right now, buzzed on drinks I’ve had a billion times before, chick in my lap who looks exactly like the last three who’ve been in my lap, I’m pretty fucking bored.

  I have to adjust the girl to reach the phone in my pocket, but I’m pretty sure she’s too blitzed to care. She’s been alternating between touching my junk and tossing back shots for I don’t even know how long, and if she’s noticed that I’m not paying her any attention, I can’t tell.

  Of course, Holloway’s not even here. He’s off at James Gallagher’s in-fucking-credible estate in Napa, getting wooed for yet another huge-budget movie. Because locking in the Lassiter role wasn’t enough. For someone who hates attention, he’s getting a shit-ton of it all of a sudden; I can’t even remember the last time I saw him for more than five minutes. I know he’s just keeping himself busy to keep his mind off the fact that Ally’s gone, but fuck, where did my best friend go?

  I whip out my phone and text him. R u back yet? Bored.

  His response comes back thirty seconds later. No, I’m not back. I’m in the Gallaghers’ guest house, hiding.

  Well. Whatever’s going on there sounds more interesting than my night. “Sweetheart, time to go,” I tell the chick in my lap, pushing her up lightly. Then I flag down the waitress, tell her to surprise me, and text Liam back. Imma need more than that.

  He’s got a 25yo wife w/busy hands. Groped me @ dinner, grabbed my ass on the way out, and now she wants to meet up in the hot tub.

  Yet another thing to hashtag #LiamProblems. The guy gets more unwanted potential ass than anyone I know, and it’s completely wasted on him. She hot?

  Yup.

  So stop hiding, I write back, because I know there’s no shot in hell he’d ever screw around on Ally, and I like being a dick.

  Don’t be a dick.

  I laugh. He’s so fucking predictable.

  The waitress returns with a flaming shot of I don’t even know what. I stick a twenty in her bra, hold up the glass for her to blow out the flame, and toss it back.

  “Good?” she asks, her voice low.

  I hadn’t noticed one way or the other, but it doesn’t stop me from saying, “You tell me.” I pull her down to me and let her taste my tongue, and when I sit back, she looks a little dizzy.

  “Pretty good,” she blurts out, and even in the dark lighting of the club, I can see her blush.

  Too easy.

  “Josh Chester.” The smug way the voice says my name makes my skin crawl, and I watch a tall, skinny, vaguely familiar-looking guy make his way toward me. I have no recollection of who he is, and the drinks I’ve already put away tonight aren’t helping.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Chuck. We met at one of your parties a little while ago.”

  “If you were at one of my parties, shouldn’t I have already known you?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  He laughs. Fearless prick. “I’m the guy who works with Joe Perotti. You weren’t so thrilled to see me then. I’m hoping you’ve got better feelings about it now.”

  I’ve always been able to hold my liquor, but suddenly, I feel sick. “And why would I be any more excited to see you now? I didn’t want you or cameras in my face filming my life then, and I don’t want it now.”

  He hands me a small, sealed envelope, which I’m tempted to ignore, but have a feeling I’d be sorry about. I open it up and see one of my mother’s personal notecards. Joshua, it says. I have locksmiths set to arrive at the Malibu house at 9:00 a.m. You will not be given a copy of the new key unless Chuck returns to me with these papers—signed—tonight. Love, Mother.

  “Love?” I mutter aloud. “Really?” I look up at Chuck, wondering if he’s banging her. “What papers?”

  He reaches into a pocket on the inside of his cheap jacket and withdraws a folded-up package that I see is a contract, complete with waiver. This is so, so fucked up. “You’re serving me?” I ask as I flip through.

  Chuck grins, his crooked teeth flashing neon colors in the light of the club. “See it however you like. But sign them.”

  “Are you doing my mother?”

  His smile doesn’t falter; he just waits patiently. I decide he probably isn’t. Even my mother would never bang a lowly hired hand.

  “I have an agent,” I tell him. “I can’t just sign these without her taking a look.”

  “So call her,” he suggests.

  This is getting exhausting. I love my house, and a reality show would be easy money, and it’d be nice to stop having this guy ambush me every second. Plus, then I could skip that stupid Wings of Phoenix audition I have no desire to go to. But Holly would probably chop off my balls, and she’s already my fourth agent. I’m not sure I’ll get a chance at a fifth.

  “There’s no way she’d agree to me signing this without her seeing it,” I say flatly.

  “Then don’t call her.”

  “You’ve got really stellar business sense.” Shit. What do I do? If I don’t sign on and then I don’t get the movie, Holly’s gonna drop me. “Give me a minute.”

  I hop off my chair and storm out back, which is quieter and decently well hidden. Liam’s clearly a little too busy for me right now, so I call Ally for advice instead.

  She picks up immediately, her voice hushed. “Liam?”

  “Your caller ID sucks, Duncan.”

  She exhales slowly. “Sorry, Josh. I didn’t even look. What’s the big emergency? Is Liam okay?”

  “He’s fine, as far as I know.” If you don’t count that he’s trying to fend off a hot older woman at a private estate, which apparently you don’t know and I’m not going to tell you. “I just needed your opinion on something.”

  “Josh. It is 4:00 a.m. in New York. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Whoops. “Well, you answered.”

  “Yeah, because I was waiting—never mind.” She sighs. “What is it?”

  “Remember that reality show my mom wanted me to do?”

  She laughs. “Seriously? You’re still thinking about it?”

  “You’ve seen my house, right?”

  I know she’s rolling her eyes, but I also know she hears what I’m not saying, which is that I don’t have anything else lined up. And it’s not like I’ve got a ton of savings. Yes, my parents own my house, but they’re also the ones who pay the bill on my black AmEx.

  I’d last maybe a month on my personal finances without it.

  Not to mention that I’m on my last-chance agent.

  Ally’s quiet for a few seconds and then says, “Okay, I have an idea. What if you don’t let them follow you around to film, but you agree to appear for your mom’s filming once an episode? Like, sign the waiver and drop in while…what would they even film your mom doing?”

  “Well, there’s the million-dollar question.” I turn her idea over in my head. It does make me look a little less like a raging tool, but it creates the new problem of having to see my mother way too often. Still, it might buy me some time. “But yeah, I think I can do that.”

  “Anyway, they’re probably just gonna cancel it after, like, three episodes, right?”

  “It’d be a fucking miracle if she actually managed to last that long.” Suddenly, my chest feels a little lighter. “And it’s not like she can hold it against me if the show tanks. I just have to keep her on the air long enough to get her to sign the house over. Once she does that…”

  “Yup.”


  I can do this. A few episodes of a stupid show, done on my terms, if it gets me my house, keeps me in the lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed, and retains Holly whether or not I land the Wings part? Ally’s right—no chance this show’s gonna last a minute longer than I want it to. All I need is the deed to the house in my hand, and then I’m free. “All right, I’mma go deal with this now. Thanks.”

  “I’d say ‘anytime,’ but apparently you’re already well aware of that.”

  “Glad to see the Ivy League hasn’t made you any less of a ball-buster. Now go to sleep.”

  I hang up—I’ve never been much for good-byes—and text Liam. Call your girlfriend, you asshole.

  Then I go back inside, sign the waiver, and somehow find myself with plans for yet another family dinner tomorrow night.

  Chapter Eight

  Vanessa

  Come on, Bailey. Monroe’s too much of a douche for you anyway, and you know it.”

  “Cut!” I yell and slam my fists into my hips as I turn to Josh. “The line is, ‘Monroe’s not right for you anyway.’ Will you stop with your stupid frat boy adlibs?”

  Becky Kempler, who’s directing that week’s episode, sighs. “Vanessa, it’s fine. We’re allowed to say douche on network TV. Can you please stop yelling ‘cut’? That’s for Bryce to do.”

  Of course I’m the one who gets yelled at when Josh screws up. He’s been doing this for weeks, just inserting whatever he feels like, whenever he feels like it. He did an entire scene shirtless that wasn’t supposed to be that way at all, and he’s somehow found a way to get Liam cut out of even more than the few meager scenes he was already.

  I exhale sharply. “Fine. Sorry.”

  “All right, everyone, back to your places!” yells Bryce, the first assistant director and an inexplicable Josh fan. “Scene twenty-four-A, take twelve. Action!”

  “I said I wasn’t interested,” I say to Josh’s character, Luke. He’s cornered me at Layton’s Surf Shop, one of the main sets on the show and the spot where Liam’s character, Tristan Monroe, works. “I tried, Luke, but I’m just not over Tristan.”

  “Come on, Bailey. Monroe’s a dick, and you know it.”

  My entire body bristles when Josh changes the line again, but I think Becky’s probably going to kill me if I say a word about it, so I don’t. Unfortunately, my line is, “He’s right because he feels right,” which of course makes no sense with the way Josh has reworded it, and all that comes to mind in that moment is, “No, he isn’t. You are.”

  I expect Becky to scream “Cut!” but she doesn’t, instead letting us play out the scene with our new, nastier ad-libs. I can’t decide if it’s because she wants to bang Josh or just likes the added layer of drama that comes with us sniping at each other, but neither one would surprise me.

  “Then how come I’m here and he’s giving Grace private surf lessons at the beach club?”

  Finally, we’re back on track. We go back and forth for the rest of the scene, snapping at each other in a way that doesn’t feel all that much like acting. It feels good to get some rage out and to know that it’s making my performance better. When we actually wrap the scene, it’s such a relief I can literally feel my shoulders getting lighter.

  I march off to get a water bottle and a makeup touchup without so much as a glance in Josh’s direction, but as Toya swirls on more bronzer, I can feel someone watching us.

  “Nice job over there,” says Brianna.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, being careful not to get a mouthful of brown dust. She and I have plans to go shopping, but not for another few hours.

  “Fun fact about Jade: she doesn’t believe in formal higher education. She thinks I just need to see more aspects of the industry to find what I wanna do and then jump right in. Apparently, Hollywood’s in my future, because it’s in my blood.” She sighs heavily and drops into the chair next to me. “After two days of fighting about it, she finally convinced me I might enjoy an afternoon of watching a cute girl bitchslap Josh Chester.”

  In the mirror, my cheeks are reddening, and it’s not the same shade of golden brown Toya’s sweeping onto my skin. I wouldn’t have thought twice about “cute girl” before that “ex-girlfriend” mention she dropped at yoga. Now I can’t help but wonder if she means… something by it.

  But no, of course she doesn’t. She knows I’m with Zander, not to mention the far more important fact that I’m straight. I mean, it’s totally cool that she’s bi. But I’m not, and she knows that.

  The flush goes down, and Toya grunts in a way that lets me know she didn’t miss it. I swallow, hard, then realize I’ve been silent a little too long. “So, was it everything you dreamed it would be?” I ask her.

  “And more,” she says with a grin. Then her face grows serious. “Listen, I’m really sorry to do this, but is it okay if we reschedule our shopping trip? My friend got us tickets to tonight’s Foo Fighters show months ago, and I didn’t realize I’d double-booked.”

  I hadn’t realized I was particularly looking forward to going out until just now, but after a day of dealing with Josh, the idea of having nothing to do but sulk on my treadmill tonight is beyond depressing. “Yeah, of course,” I lie. Unfortunately, I say it as Toya’s patting on more lip gloss, and she makes an annoyed noise at me.

  “Zander’s probably getting tired of me monopolizing your time, anyway,” she says with a laugh, and I force a smile, too, even though it comes out kinda grimace-like. If Zander minds that we haven’t been spending much time together, he hasn’t said a word. And I certainly haven’t been missing him.

  Maybe that’s the problem. I’ve been so desperate to find a new friend to make up for the fact that Ally’s gone, I haven’t been paying any attention to the boyfriend right in front of me. Making plans with Zander is exactly what I should be doing for tonight. And tomorrow night. And maybe the night after that.

  So what if we didn’t exactly get together because of “feelings”? Doesn’t mean we can’t start working on it now.

  “Zander’s been a trooper,” I say, “but you’re right—he’ll definitely be happy to have a little more ‘us’ time. And actually, one of his bandmates is having a party tonight”—one I’d made a zillion excuses to avoid because they always turn into really cheesy a capella sing-alongs—“and he’ll be happy to hear I can make it now.”

  “Perfect! Well, we’ll just do it another time then.” She glances at her watch. “Actually, I should probably head out now. If Jade asks, I was here until four.” She readjusts her messenger bag, then meets my eyes in the mirror. “Will I see you at Bikram on Thursday night?”

  I debate saying I might be busy with Zander then, too, just to show her how much I don’t care about her blowing me off, but lying feels a little pathetic. “I never miss it,” I say neutrally instead.

  “Well, then, I’ll see you there.”

  I watch her wave in the makeup mirror, and then I watch her walk away.

  “Well, somebody’s in a sunshine-y mood,” Josh observes when I return to set to try the scene again.

  Trust Josh to observe my crankiness the second I drop the fake smile I’d pasted on for Brianna’s sake. “Somebody wishes she didn’t have Hollywood’s biggest sociopath trying to move in on her show,” I correct him. “And if you think I’m okay with the fact that I have to subject myself to your diseased mouth for this next scene, you’re out of your freaking mind. I hope you at least had the courtesy to gargle mouthwash during this break.”

  “Funny, I didn’t see you gargling anything but your drool over me,” Josh says casually, “so let’s call it even.”

  Have I mentioned I loathe Josh Chester?

  “All right, everyone, places!” I force myself to re-inhabit Bailey’s body and let her inhabit mine as we get into places for the next scene, an infuriating one in which Josh’s natural smugness will be quite the asset. In fact, he’s pretty spot on with his character, Luke—an egomaniacal jackass who gets everything he wants. The di
fference is, Luke and Bailey are totally into each other.

  Josh and I would rather die.

  I practiced these lines a thousand times on my treadmill at home last night, and they come back to me with ease now. “You need to stop chasing me, Luke. Accept that I’m not yours and I’m never gonna be yours.”

  “Accept that?” Josh-as-Luke spits, his amber eyes flashing. “Why should I accept that when deep down, you haven’t?”

  For some reason, Brianna pops in my head just then. I quickly replace the image with Zander, and realize that’s no better. I just need to clear my mind and stop letting Josh get to me.

  “You have no idea what I think,” I return, letting my voice quiver a little. Bailey’s a bit of a drama queen—nothing like me in real life. “You have no idea how I feel.”

  “Oh, I know how you feel,” Josh-as-Luke says, stepping closer, close enough that I can smell the cinnamon gum on his breath that proves he did prepare for this scene, at least a little bit. He reaches out and strokes my cheek, his fingertips caressing my jaw. “I know exactly how you feel.”

  And then he pulls me close and kisses me, just as the script demands. I tell myself to imagine it’s Zander’s mouth on mine, but that’s not helping me muster up the enthusiasm I need. Especially since I’m all too aware of Brianna’s laser-green eyes on me, imagining those lips in their naturally smug curve—

  I don’t even realize I’ve opened my mouth until I get the strong, sharp taste of cinnamon on my tongue, and I shove him away. I’m grateful we’re still in mid-scene, because I know Josh would be grinning at me like a wolf if we weren’t, sure I’d succumbed to his charms, ignorant of the fact that I’d forgotten I was kissing him at all. But he’s Luke now, not Josh, and his face flashes with hurt and confusion and heat instead.

  “You want me,” he says determinedly. “I know you do. And you may think you want Monroe, but he’ll never kiss you like I do. So before you decide to toss me aside for that surf bum, you better be sure you’re okay with losing what you’re giving up.” One more hard kiss, and then he walks out.