“Dani?”
A big, burly man with dreadlocks tied back at the nape of his neck stomps in. His smile is one of the friendliest I’ve seen since this morning.
“Gotta get her mic’d up,” he says to Miss Limon. She waves her hand distractedly and goes back to jotting down notes.
“Hi, I’m Bill. I’m gonna put your microphone on,” dreadlocked man says. “It won’t be switched on until right before you get onstage. Just try not to hit it when you’re up there.” I nod silently and let Bill run a wire up my back before he clips a little microphone to the collar of my silk lavender blouse.
“Nice blouse. I haven’t seen anyone wear silk in a while,” Bill says.
“Really? Why not?” I ask while running my hand along the collar. It feels smooth and cool beneath my fingertips.
“Eh, the lights out there can be really hot so people sweat pretty easily. Silk doesn’t hide sweat at all, so most people go for cotton.” He smiles and gives me a cheerful “All set!”
Bill doesn’t see my horrified look; he just pats me on the back before disappearing out the door.
Pit stains? Sweaty back? Pitters and swack?!
A production assistant pops her head in and she gives me a smile. If she’s thrown off by the sight of me curled up in a ball on the couch, holding my knees to my chest, and rocking back and forth, she doesn’t show it.
“Dani? It’s time.”
I wordlessly get off the couch and follow her. The less I think about what’s about to happen and what I’m about to do, the better I’ll be.
We walk down a long and narrow hallway, past other dressing rooms and offices.
I can hear the buzz of a crowd as we approach the stage. Someone’s walkie-talkie is spitting out directions and times with rapid speed.
“Okay, Dani. She’s going to introduce you in a few minutes,” the production assistant tells me as she gives my hair and makeup a quick once-over. “When the crowd starts applauding, just exit right through these curtains and walk straight to the chairs. Wave and smile to the people! Remember, you’re on TV!”
“How could I forget,” I mutter more to myself then to her. She hears me anyway and pats me on the shoulder in what I guess is supposed to be a soothing manner. I take a deep breath in. A stagehand whips open the curtain and I spot the audience.
All those eyes on me send another wave of nerves washing over me. I stumble over to close the curtain so I can stay blissfully unaware in the dark for a few moments longer. Just long enough to catch my breath.
And then I spot someone in the crowd. Sitting in the second row, off to the side. It’s the one person I need to see before walking onstage.
Where are you? Look at me, I beg internally.
“Please welcome Danika Young!”
* * *
“Dani, you’ve been talking a lot about rules,” the host tells me with a warm smile, a smile I know she’s been practicing in the mirror since she was twelve. “What is this obsession with guidelines and parameters with you?”
I blink at her question, trying yet again to ease the harsh glare of the lights that are aimed directly at my face. There are five cameras pointed at us, with nothing but shadows operating them. I clear my throat and adjust my sitting position in the overstuffed armchair.
“Rules,” I start, trying to gather my thoughts. “Well, I don’t think I’m obsessed with rules as much as I’m obsessed with deciding when it’s worth breaking the rules.”
The host nods, expertly engaged and urging me to continue.
“Rules always have their place in every aspect of life. Your professional life. Your personal life. Your romantic life,” I explain. “But I think the best part about rules is what happens when you choose to break them. Or what happens when you choose not to break them.”
I pause and look at the audience, trying to find the face I need to keep going. I find him, smiling and urging me to just say what I need to say.
I’m not scared now. Because all I have to do is find those blue eyes in the audience and my vision stops swimming. It clears. It centers. It hones in on him.
On Tate.
One year after our first kiss and I am appearing on the most popular morning talk show on television, and while I was positively quivering with nerves before the interview, I am calm now.
I am calm as I tell the host how my short film that premiered to rave reviews at Sundance was initially written in a night. I am calm as I recount how Tate Lawrence and Vamp Camp director Lowell Weissman backed my film and helped me make it. I am calm as I describe the frustrating, exhilarating, painful, and wonderful process of writing and directing my first film.
But the biggest reason I am calm is because of that person in the audience. The one who made all this possible, and the one person I have to look at to find the strength to talk on camera in front of millions of people about my life.
He’s the one in the second row with blue eyes I can see as clear as if he were standing in front of me. And he’s smiling at me.
And his smile is almost, just almost, too big for his face.
Rules of Being in Love
Find a person who wants to share your life, not a person who wants to become your life.
Listen to your heart. It knows what your head is lying about.
Listen to your head. It knows what your heart is hiding from.
The only person who needs to accept you is you. Love yourself first.
Actually, there are no rules. Love is unpredictable, unrelenting, and uncontrollable. Just hang on and enjoy the ride.
Acknowledgments
First of all, if you read this book, I wish I could jump through the pages and give you an uncomfortably long hug. Thank you for allowing my characters and story into your amazing brain for a while. I hope you enjoyed them and I hope you come back again.
I have to thank my amazing team of editors at Paper Lantern Lit for relentlessly and constantly pushing this story and pushing me to keep getting better. And for talking me off the ledge more than a few times. For so many reasons, I definitely would not have made it to the end without you guys.
To the team and readers of JBFA, who made this story a sensation when I was still finding my voice as a writer, thank you for your unwavering support.
To my wonderful friends, who inspire me every single day without even trying to, thank you. From New York City to Los Angeles, you are always on my team.
Thank you to my wonderful boyfriend, Kyle, who would often find me defeated, slumped over with my head on the keyboard, convinced I couldn’t do it. You always knew I could, and you told me so every day. You make my life better.
Glenn and Zelda, thank you for walking all over my keyboard and putting your fluffy tails in my face when I really needed a break.
So much love to my incredible sisters, who never think of me as anything less than brilliant, even when I feel the exact opposite of that.
To my babies Isla, Lucy, Nora, and Grant, and my future nieces and nephews, you light up my entire world. I love and miss you so much every single day.
Thank you to readers everywhere, reading whatever they damn well please. Never stop falling in love with books.
To my daddy, who always told me to go after that “letterman’s jacket.” I finally got mine, Dad. This one is for you.
Finally, thank you, Mom. Even back when I was writing R.L. Stine knock-offs on our old Apple computer, you always knew I’d be a writer. You were right. It turns out, you always are.
About the Author
In fourth grade, Jenna Mullins put her classmates into a story about fire safety, and they laughed the entire time she read it aloud. Since then, she’s been writing with the sole purpose to entertain other people. Fire safety, however, fell to the wayside when she accidentally set her grandmother’s bathroom on fire when she was 12.
In 2010, she moved from Indiana to Los Angeles to intern at E!, and she is now a writer/editor/pop culture gatekeeper at E! Online. A Midwest girl who pref
ers Southern California weather, Jenna loves the Indianapolis Colts, saving Hyrule, and training for her backup dream career: deciding what goes into the baskets on Food Network’s Chopped. She currently resides in LA with her nerdy, handsome boyfriend Kyle and their two fluffier-than-normal cats, Glenn and Zelda. To learn more about Rules of Seduction, follow Jenna on Twitter. photo © Kyle Quigley
Read a special excerpt of Eternal Night by Carina Adly MacKenzie!
Carina Adly MacKenzie, a writer for The CW’s hit series The Originals, has penned a steamy, romantic, and ultimately redemptive story of forgotten gods, the persistence of hope, and the power of love to save us.
Praise for
ETERNAL NIGHT
By Carina Adly MacKenzie
“All the fun of Gossip Girl, but the fabulous New Yorkers happen to be immortal gods tasked with saving the world. An emotional, sexy adventure.” —Julie Plec, executive producer of The CW’s hit shows The Vampire Diaries and The Originals
“Seductive, smart, and beautifully paced. A must read for anyone who loves mythology.” —Josie Angelini, internationally bestselling author of the STARCROSSED trilogy
“…A real page turner with a chilling opening and epic end...” —Joseph Morgan, star of The CW’s hit series, The Originals
“Compelling…She will no doubt be one of the voices of the next generation of YA storytellers.” —Phoebe Tonkin, star of The CW’s hit series, The Originals
“Eternal Night offers up a fresh, young, and sexy take on the classic mythology.” —Kathy Coe, A Glass of Wine
[Eternal Night is] definitely a fresh new take on the world of youth’s elites in a big city, but with... glamour, magic, and world domination-type chaos coming into play. This book will keep you riveted!” —Zee Monodee, Author’s Corner
PROLOGUE
Late on a Saturday night in June, three buzzed teen girls will sneak a bottle of Grey Goose up to the roof of the Jefferson Hotel, a grand establishment boasting 360-degree views of Manhattan from its sparkling roof-deck pool. The roof is normally locked after ten, so the kids will plan to use a credit card to open the latch, but they won’t have to. To their surprise, the door will swing open easily. They’ll assume some lazy staff member forgot to lock it.
Laughing and singing an old favorite pop song, they will be unafraid of getting caught. One of them will fling herself dramatically onto one of the chaise longues. The other two will link arms and skip along the dark deck, dancing, putting on a show. They’ll pass the bottle between them; they’ll wince and shudder at the bite of the vodka. For a moment, they will believe that everything is perfect. The night is young. They are rich and beautiful and careless.
And then a bolt of heat lightning will crack open the sky, illuminating the pool, and all three girls will scream.
Submerged in the pool will be the body of a girl, not much older than they, her wrists gouged open. Her hair will float around her face in water turned sickly pink, and her thin dress will have gone so transparent that they can see straight through it to the large white-ink butterfly wings tattooed on her back.
There will be a copper doorstop in the shape of a young cherub, an angel, tied to one of her bare feet, weighing her body down under the water.
Suddenly, the rain will start, torrential and unforgiving. One of the girls will vomit. The other will wail. One will run, yelling, for a security guard. The next day, the New York Night will run the headline—“‘Angel’ commits suicide in hotel pool: Jane Doe found dead by traumatized youths.”
But that hasn’t happened yet.
I
Lola
Lola has spent a hundred summers in New York City, but she can’t remember a June as relentlessly hot as this one. The air conditioning in her little jewelry shop gave up days ago, sputtering out one last dry, dusty cough of cool air before grinding to a halt. If she were a different kind of girl, she’d have stripped down by now. All the customers who have stopped in over the last month have been clad in short cut-offs and lacy camisoles, sundresses and strappy heels. But Lola stubbornly swelters in her ripped tights and leather combat boots, hunched over her worktable in the back of the shop, wielding a soldering iron in one sweaty hand and smudging her eyeliner with the other.
It’s past closing time, so the door is shut despite the sweltering heat. Usually, around six, she’s got to start nudging mortals out of the shop. It’s become something of a hangout over the last couple of years. Hipsters, artists, wannabes, and hangers-on stop in frequently to admire her work… and, in some cases to admire her while she works. They pick up iced coffees at the bodega next door and then linger over the display cases, humming over the twisted metal and rare stones. Lola’s boss encourages the crowd—last week, she let a street artist cover one of her walls with a neon mural, depicting Manhattan as the center of the entire chaotic universe, and it’s drawn even more patrons through her door.
Tonight, though, the store is surprisingly quiet. The heat is keeping people inside, shut up in their air-conditioned apartments.
Lola relishes in the silence, humming an old melody to herself as she melts down the yellow-gold engagement ring (forever and always engraved on the band) she bought from a cheating man’s ex-fiancée. She heats it carefully, trying to keep the words intact as she lets the gold edges envelop part of a large black onyx stone to make a one-of-a-kind pendant.
The bell above the door chimes. Lola sets down her tools as a breath of fresh air ruffles her blonde bangs.
“It’s past closing,” she starts to say, before looking up.
It’s Nadia.
She’s dressed in a gauzy halter dress that reveals the white ink tattoos curling like wings over her shoulders. Nadia is as tall and graceful as ever, but since Lola last saw her, she’s changed, hollowed out, collapsed in on herself. She’s downright gaunt, cloudy-eyed, as ragged and aged as someone forever trapped in the body of a teenage beauty can be.
“Hi,” Nadia says. Her voice sounds different, too, but maybe that’s just because it’s been years since she and Lola spoke. “Sorry to just stop by unannounced. I was in the neighborhood.”
“It’s okay,” Lola says. She steps out from behind her work bench. “It’s… nice to see you.” The words sound obligatory, cordial. More polite than she and Nadia ever were together in the past, when they laughed and whispered like best friends. When they were best friends.
“It’s been a long time.”
Lola smiles, despite herself. “Relative to what?”
Nadia sinks down onto the worn, comfortable Victorian settee by the window. “I know we haven’t spent much time together lately”—she pauses, as though she knows the words are an understatement—“but I have a favor to ask you. You know I’ve been working at the youth center for the last few decades, on and off.” She stops, looking at Lola expectantly.
Lola nods, all at once remembering why she and Nadia haven’t talked in so long. If this is going to be another speech about how they’re gods and they have responsibilities to the mortals, Lola isn’t particularly interested. She’s got enough on her plate without taking on all of Nadia’s second-hand guilt.
After the gods gave up on getting their powers back and started to live amongst the mortals, Nadia remained steadfastly hopeful. At first, it was kind of sweet. After a while, it just grew exhausting, which is why Lola is downright startled to see her as she is now, folded up on the sofa, looking like a strong breeze could blow her to dust.
“There’s this girl at the youth center who seems to be having a rough time,” Nadia says. “She’s been coming in for a couple of years now, but recently she’s really struggled. I’ve done my best to convince her to see Dr. Samson, but she just keeps talking about the darkness.”
“Nadia—”
“Maybe you could come to the shelter with me one day? You’ve always been good at lifting people’s spirits.”
“I work long hours here,” Lola finds herself saying automatically. “Besides, I might go upstate for a
while.” She hadn’t been planning to; but as soon as she says it, she thinks maybe she will. Get out of the city. Get away from the heat.
Get away from everyone.
Nadia presses her lips together, her face looking even more drawn and tired. “If you would just talk to her…”
“I can’t help, Nadia.” Lola tries to keep her expression neutral, fights the painful memory from showing up on her face, but it’s always there, just below the surface. With Nadia here, now, it feels even fresher. I couldn’t even help Calliope.
It’s as though Nadia has read her mind. Who knows? She might have. “That was a long time ago, Lola,” she says softly. “You can’t blame yourself for that.”
She’s about to speak when the bell above the door interrupts her.
“Hello?” a male voice calls.
Lola turns, and suddenly, she can’t remember the words for we’re closed.
She has encountered her fair share of beautiful men, and, laughing, sent them away to nurse their shattered hearts. Maybe it’s the heat driving her crazy, or the way the light pours in through the door and brightens his edges, but this guy catches her off guard in a way she can’t remember ever experiencing before or, at least not in a long, long time. He’s tall and lean, with his crisp white shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal the strong curve of his forearms, an artfully messy mop of dark hair, and a glint of white teeth where he was biting his lip.
Even his dog, a sleek golden retriever hovering obediently at his side, is handsome.
“We’re closed?” Lola says, barely recovering her voice.
His mouth quirks into a playful smile. Dark sunglasses keep his eyes hidden, but somehow, instinctively, she can tell that he’s staring at her—staring through her, almost. Despite her sweater, she feels suddenly naked. “You sound less than sure about that,” he says.
“I—no, we’re definitely closed.”
Rules of Seduction Page 28