Rules of Seduction

by Jenna Mullins

  That gets a laugh from me, which draws the attention of his she-beast, Mohawked handler. She’s staring at Tate with one raised eyebrow. Tate gives her a little wave as if to say “it’s fine.”

  “Wow, that woman is intense,” I tell him.

  “Who, Margo? She’s my publicist. She’s harmless, for the most part.” He looks at my hand. “So, what’s with the recorder? Are you really moonlighting as a reporter?”

  “Um, yes. I write for Entertainment Weekly on the side,” I lie, but by the look of suspicion on Tate’s face, he is not buying it. I press on.

  I clear my throat and raise the recorder to my mouth. “So, Tate. What can you tell me about the upcoming episodes of Vamp Camp?”

  I hold out the recorder so he can answer my question. But Tate doesn’t say anything. He just keeps smiling at me. I’m about to repeat the question when he grabs the recorder out of my hand.

  “You know, most reporters would know how to turn their recording devices on,” he says while turning the recorder over in his hands. I blow my bangs out of my face in frustration and snatch it back.

  “Well, I don’t need a recorder. I have a very good memory.”

  “Oh, yeah? I thought you had the memory of a goldfish? That’s what you told me earlier.”

  I would be flattered that he remembered our brief conversation earlier today, but he’s got that cocky grin on his face. And it’s driving me nuts. I throw my arms up in defeat.

  “Fine, I’m not a reporter, but I was invited by Camden,” I insist.

  It might be my imagination, but I think Tate scowls a bit at Camden’s name, confirming my suspicions that they don’t like each other. But unearthing Vamp Camp drama is not tonight’s mission. The faster I get through these rules for seducing Tate, the faster I can tell Elise that all her ploys didn’t work and her boyfriend loves her and they can ride off into the sunset and yay love!

  I run through the list of rules in my head and start with number one. I smile at Tate.

  He smiles back. I smile bigger. Which means that we’re both silently smiling at each other. It’s awkward. And now my mouth hurts.

  Okay, a different rule. The hair tossing thing again, which I have down.

  I toss my perfectly styled hair over the other shoulder, hoping I look flirty.

  “Oops! Sorry,” I hear someone behind me say. I turn my head and feel something damp on my back. I reach around for the source of the wetness. It’s the ends of my hair, now dripping with some type of liquid. I notice a waiter staring at me, embarrassed, with a tray full of drinks in his hand.

  You just threw your hair into a bunch of Apple-tinis, Dani. Try another rule.

  Tate’s smile has slipped, and it looks like he’s either trying to figure out if he should run away or ask if I need a doctor. I don’t blame him; I’m acting weird.

  I think of the physical contact rule, so I reach up and put a hand on his bicep. Tate looks down at his arm and then back at me. I give him a flirty smile this time.

  I open my mouth to say something witty and charming to go with the body contact, but Tate takes a step closer to me, invading my personal space. Flustered, I drop my hand from his arm.

  “You know, Dani,” he says. “I’ve seen fans do a lot of crazy things, but stealing a recorder and posing as a reporter is by far the craziest thing I’ve ever seen. If you wanted an autograph, you could’ve just asked.” He’s clearly teasing me and enjoying every minute of it. I scoff.

  “Trust me, I’m not a fan.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I promise. Although it seems like you have your number one fan right at this party.”

  “Who?” he asks while glancing around the room.

  “Yourself.”

  “My, my. Aren’t we on the feisty side?” he asks, his blue eyes darkening with barely controlled glee. I’m sure my eyes are burning with hate, because I definitely want to punch him in his imperfect perfect teeth for acting so smug.

  And that is when I realize I broke a rule. I’m making fun of Tate—I’m going off the playbook. Time to abort!

  Tate looks over my shoulder and takes an abrupt step away from me. I turn around to see what made him change his body language. All I see are girls smiling and giggling, pressing ever closer to Tate. They also seem to be multiplying. Still, Tate is probably more than used to pretty ladies fawning over him. I face him again, suspicious.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” he says coolly. Too coolly.

  “Do you know those girls?”

  “No,” he says. “I just saw some people I need to talk to before the end of the party.”

  I want to press him further on it, but I need to get some answers from him and acting bitchy will not speed that along.

  “Like who? Vice president of the fan club?”

  Shit, making fun of Tate is almost as automatic as breathing.

  “Just people,” he says, staring somewhere over my shoulder. “Look, I just came over to say hi because we got off to an awkward start. But never mind, I should definitely go,” he says quickly, brushing me off like I’m an overzealous fan girl. I open my mouth, hoping for a witty comeback to roll off my tongue, but I just stammer a quick “see ya.”

  I sigh and dab at my liquor-soaked hair, realizing that I can’t really report anything back to Elise. I couldn’t tell if he was flirting with those girls or not. But he did seem annoyed that I was keeping him from them. I think. Regardless, I don’t want to tell Elise anything that’s not concrete. But if I go back with nothing, she’ll make me do this all over again.

  No thank you to that.

  I grab a drink from a roving waiter, take a long sip, and grit my teeth to prepare for another talk with Tate “Cocky” Lawrence and walk back to him. He’s smiling again, but this smile says: “I knew you’d be back.”

  The smile I want to give him would say, “I’m going to kick you in the nuts,” but I try to play nice for just a few more seconds.

  “So, did you come with your girlfriend?” I blurt out as soon as I get within earshot. Real smooth, Dani.

  Tate looks surprised. Good. At least it wiped the smirk off his face for a bit.

  “No, she couldn’t make it,” he says carefully.

  Hm. He admits to having a girlfriend. That’s a plus. I just need a couple more questions and then I’m out.

  “How long have you guys been together?”

  “Um, like a month or so.”

  Wrong. It’s been three months. But that’s a minor slip. A lot of guys don’t know when they started “officially” dating their girlfriends. I’ll give him a pass on that.

  “Why do you ask?” Tate wonders out loud, catching me off guard. “Are you interested in sending a girlfriend application like everyone else? I’m a taken man, Dani.”

  I gape. “What? No! I just . . .” but I can’t think of anything to say. But it doesn’t matter because two girls wearing almost identical dresses that look like giant bandages wrapped around their bodies descend on us. They begin chatting up Tate about his “amazing” and “breathtaking” performance in the mid-season finale. He answers their questions politely, albeit stiffly. I watch them interact for a moment to confirm that Tate does not have a wandering eye, and then slip away down the stairs, toward the restaurant’s exit.

  Relief rushes through me as I realize I can report to Elise that Tate is plenty faithful. Even though I didn’t get a chance to network at the party, the fact that I don’t have to flirt with Tate ever again saves this evening from completely sucking.

  It would have been so much better if I had seen Camden. He’s someone I can actually talk to. He gets me. If only I had seen him the moment I got to the VIP area . . . but with my hair smelling of mixer and my ankle hurting, it’s just as well I haven’t seen him in this crush of humanity. Now I can go home and maybe look over my Tower outline.

  I pull a rubber band from my wrist and wrap my “beach-waves” up in a bun to get my hair out of my
face. Hoping the sidewalk is not too disease-ridden, I take off the awful heels from hell, sighing happily in the process. A couple of girls glamorously wrinkle their noses at me, but I don’t care. My toes have never felt so free.

  “Leaving already?” a voice calls out from behind me.

  I turn around and see Camden standing on the sidewalk, phone in one hand and cigarette in the other. He has yet another hat shoved over his hair, this time a charcoal gray one, and he’s wearing a really expensive-looking black leather jacket over a white tee. He looks like the guy cast in movies to play the troubled, misunderstood bad boy. A guy he would cast in his own movie, because he’s an insanely talented showrunner. I feel a flutter in the pit of my stomach at the sight of him and I instinctively dart my hand up and take my bun out, letting my hair tumble back over my shoulders.

  Maybe these rules will work for me after all.

  “Um, yeah, I think so,” I answer, hoping he’ll convince me to stay.

  “Tough night?” he asks before taking a drag of his cigarette. I usually don’t like smokers, but Camden somehow looks sexy doing it.

  “More like tough week,” I tell him.

  He gives me a sympathetic smile.

  “Do you want a ride home?”

  And like something out of a movie, a shiny black BMW roars to the curb. A valet driver gets out and hands the keys to Camden, who pats him on the back and slides a twenty into his hand.

  A ride back to my place in a nice car with a guy I’m seriously into? How can I pass that up? How can anyone pass that up? I accept gratefully and slide into the passenger seat.

  Camden’s car is the nicest I’ve ever been in. He shows me some of the special features, which I don’t absorb at all because his hand keeps brushing my knee. I’d probably be more attentive if I knew anything about cars, but I don’t. So I just nod and say “uh-huh” when I think it’s appropriate.

  “Hey, do you mind if we stop at this thing?” he asks as he steers the car in the opposite direction of my house.

  “Um, no. That’s fine. What is it?” I ask hesitantly. I want to spend more time with Camden, but I also don’t know him that well. For all I know, his “thing” is a party filled with people who like to dress up as animals and have sex with each other. Seriously. I saw a movie about that once.

  Plus, the stack of scripts in Camden’s backseat reminds me how eager I am to write more. After three days in Los Angeles and almost two hours at a Hollywood party, I have so many details to add. The moving masses from the party gave me an idea for a mob scene of Hollywood excess that literally carries my main character deeper into the tower. I can’t slack off now.

  “It’s just a thing,” Camden presses. “It’ll be fun. Besides, it’s too early to go home, right?” he says. I watch him grab a curl that’s escaped from under his hat and shove it back under. The move is so endearing and boyish that I know Camden couldn’t be into weird stuff. It’s probably a fun party filled with people like him. People I would like to talk to. People I could talk to, not like the other party.

  “Look, if you hate it we can leave and get In-and-Out,” he offers. “How about that?”

  That seals the deal for me. Newfound energy shoots through me, and I stuff my feet back into the demon heels.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go.”

  Rules of Attending a Hollywood Party

  Just accept that almost everyone will be better looking than you.

  If you see an older guy surrounded by younger women, he is probably important. The more hot women around him, the more important he is.

  Be nice to the caterers and waitstaff. They may one day be the next big thing. Plus, they will bring you food more often.

  Accept that people will mistake you for the waitstaff.

  If you run out of things to talk about it, ask the person: “What project are you working on now?”

  Easy on the booze. Everyone will remember the girl who threw up in the hall closet, and not in a good way.

  It’s okay if you are bored. Hollywood parties are not as exciting as they seem in movies. Just keep mingling until there is no one left to mingle with.

  There is no greater feeling than taking off your heels, Spanx, and strapless bra after a long night of Hollywood gallivanting. Savor it. If that feeling ever manifests into a human being, make love to it.

  Chapter Nine

  Everything is glass. Everything is white. Everything—everyone—is beautiful.

  The “thing” Camden needed to stop at turns out to be a lavish house party in the Hollywood Hills, packed full of gorgeous, happy people. It’s the biggest, nicest, and most exquisitely decorated home I’ve ever stepped foot in, and I’m afraid to take a single step in the wrong direction, lest I end up knocking over a waiter carrying deep amber-colored drinks. It’s hard to watch where I’m going when all I want to do is gawk at how perfect everything looks.

  I see at least two Oscar-nominated directors, one of whom is talking to a Grammy-winning rapper. I wonder what on earth they have to talk about, but am quickly distracted by two Victoria’s Secret Angels flanking the star of CBS’s uber-popular sitcom on a giant white couch.

  But what’s really sending a shiver down my spine is Camden’s hand, which he’s placed on the exposed top of my back to lead me through the party. He doesn’t take his hand away even when he stops to greet some people. Everyone seems to be smiling at me, and I feel like I’m floating into and through a world that I’ve only seen in movies.

  This would be where my main character in Tower gets dragged off by that mob, I think, connecting with my idea from earlier. A party full of beautiful people that have horrible, rotting insides. Metaphorically speaking. Unless I actually make them zombies . . .

  No. But how about . . .

  All this up close and personal experience with a Hollywood story is giving me one idea after another for Tower. My thoughts are coming so quickly, one after another. I reach into my purse and grab my phone to type them down in my notepad.

  “Hey, you’re here to relax!” Camden says, gently nudging me.

  “Ha, right, um—I was just finishing up,” I mumble and quickly slide my phone back into my clutch.

  “You better be!” he says with a wicked smile. “Here, I think I can show you something that will distract you from your phone.” Camden puts his hand on my lower back and guides me through a sliding glass door onto a balcony.

  Los Angeles sprawls before me. From here, it’s all twinkling lights and shimmering landscapes. It’s not at all like the expanse I crossed via the bus odyssey. Is this the real Hollywood?

  Camden hands me an icy-cold glass of pink champagne just as the soft wind moves through my hair, causing wisps to brush across my cheek. I know I must look windswept and dazzled because Camden is smiling down at me proudly, as if he created the view himself—just for me.

  “Cheers. To you,” he says smoothly as we clink glasses. I nod and take a sip, trying not to let my gaze leave Camden’s.

  It’s both tart and sweet on my tongue. I’m so giddy that I empty it in minutes. The bubbles tickle the back of my throat and I giggle at the absurdity of me, Danika Young, at this elite party. I turn to thank Camden, but my laugh is silenced. He’s standing so close to me.

  Camden softly presses his lips to mine. He pulls back, but only for a moment, and then kisses me again, still gently. Still sweetly. I reach up and place my hand on the back of his neck, pulling him closer to me as his hands tangle in my waves, his thumb pressing gentle circles into my skin. I sigh against his lips, intensely aware of his heat as a strong gust of cold wind pushes against us. The wind is strong up here on the roof. The roof, a thousand feet from the ground.

  I am suddenly aware that I’m very high up in the Hollywood Hills, and my throat tightens.

  Perfect timing, Dani.

  I break the kiss. “Um, actually . . . can we go back inside?” I croak. “I think the champagne just hit me.”

  “I’m sorry, Dani. Do you want some w
ater?” Camden asks, an adorable pout flitting over his face as he starts to lead me back into the party.

  “No, I’ll be fine once we get off the balcony.”

  He leads me back to the party with his hand on my back again, but this time tracing those small circles on my skin with his thumb. All night, he makes sure my champagne flute is filled and he’s so good at snatching hors d’oeuvres from the roving caterers’ trays that I have to think there is a college course I missed called Locating and Ingesting Mini Quiches, a Thorough Investigation followed by Pigs in a Blanket, the Study in Pork.

  Camden introduces me to directors, producers, and editors, all of whom have a list of credentials that I would sell my soul to the devil to talk to, even if it meant I had to listen to Justin Bieber on an endless loop. Camden enjoys his own bit of name-dropping. Usually this would turn me off, but another glass of champagne and I really don’t care.

  Two more glasses of champagne, and I’ve never felt more glamorous. And after the stressful first three days I’ve had in Los Angeles, I feel like I’ve earned a little indulgence. So what if that indulgence comes with blurry vision?

  Eventually, we find ourselves on a couch in the corner talking about our favorite movies, and I’m not surprised to discover that we have very similar taste.

  “You saw In Bruges four times in theaters?!” he says, slapping the back of the couch in disbelief.

  “It’s my favorite Martin McDonagh film by far. But when it comes to dark comedy, nothing beats Dr. Strangelove.”

  “Hon, you are speaking my language. I want to make something that redefines a genre. Or you know, just gets people talking.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t have guessed, you know, considering your work on Vamp Camp,” I say, and immediately regret it. The champagne is making my tongue loose.

  But Camden nods knowingly, as if he gets that comment all the time. “Vamp Camp is a stepping stone. I’m shoveling commercial gold into viewers’ homes each week and it’s building up my reputation and giving me some real money. Soon I can hand that show off to someone else and start working on my own films. Everyone on that set is so into themselves. They’re just going through the motions,” he says, pushing his hand roughly through his dark curly hair.