Hollyweird

  “You know, Dakota told Jameson he was just trying to divert Missy’s attention when she caught us so we wouldn’t get in too much trouble with her,” I told Des. “And it worked. Not only did he save us from her wrath, but he felt bad enough about ditching us that he wanted to make things up. And look!” I elbowed her in the side. “We’re here, on the freakin’ set of Paranormal PI. That was not in the prize package.”

  Her frown slowly tilted upside down. “I know. I’m just overtired for some reason and in this weird paradox of gidread.”

  “I get that.”

  And I did understand her mix of giddiness and dread. Dakota had kissed her. What would things be like for her now? How would he act around her? Plus, knowing Des, I’m sure she was worried something happened between Dakota and Missy, even though my sis swore on her head shots nothing did, because “I’m not sprawling on any casting couch.” I, for one, tend to believe her because (1) she looked this morning more like a woman who’d exhausted all her energy putting on a good face than a girl who’d gotten down with Dakota Danvers, and (2) when she swears on herself, that holds the kind of significance swearing on a Bible does for most other people.

  “But, Des … ” I squeezed her hand. “Whatever happens between you and Dakota, promise you won’t let anything spoil this. How many times have we fantasized about coming here? Never in a million, trillion years did I really think it would happen.” I unzipped my Betseyville tote and yanked out my digital camera. “I’m going to take pics of everything so we can live this over and over again when we get home. You in?”

  “In!” Des said, getting caught up in my exuberance. Then she snatched the camera, leaned her head against mine, stuck her taquito in her mouth like a cigar, which I mirrored, and captured our first memory.

  “Think we could filch a few souvenirs?” she asked, waggling her brows.

  “No!”

  “I know, you goody-goody.” She rolled her eyes at me and I felt glad to see her back to her usual self. “I’ll keep my sticky fingers to myself.”

  “Sticky fingers?” Jameson said. Smart boy that he is, he’d sensed I needed a moment with Des and hung back with some of the crew while hoovering half of craft services. But clearly he’d been keeping a close eye on us and, seeing the shift in Des’s mood, felt it was safe to approach.

  I stood, brushing crumbs off my denim shorts. “I don’t suppose there’s a souvenir shop on-set?”

  “Not exactly, but I don’t think you’ll go home empty handed.”

  Boy, was he right!

  Our behind-the-scenes tour, which totally beat any of the DVD special features we’d watched from previous seasons, started off in the makeup trailer where Nat was adding a few scratches and contusions to Dakota’s otherwise sigh-worthy face. While she did her cosmetic conjury, Dakota personally apologized for leaving us last night. He asked if we’d gotten in trouble with Missy, and when we said no, he grinned. “Then that part of my plan worked. And I was able to get Missy some auditions today—”

  “That explains why she didn’t invite herself along with us,” Des said under her breath.

  “So hopefully this will lead to her big break,” Dakota continued, “and you can really forgive me. It’s just when I see raw, fresh talent like that, I tend to forget myself. All that energy and excitement feeds me, you know?”

  Who could stay mad in the face of such generous earnestness?

  I certainly couldn’t, especially not after the star-list, pinch-me-this-can’t-possibly-be-real treatment we received. Nat gave us a couple old costume sketches she had pinned to her wall, and from there we toured the art department, looking at their designs for upcoming episodes and inspirational photos they’d gathered for ideas. Then we visited the visual f/x geniuses, who flabbergasted us with their computer skills. It completely blew our minds to learn just how much of the show they digitally engineered. Computer geeks rock! Next we met Tricia, the fan coordinator for the show. Her entire office was covered with art, postcards, and pics. It was her job to screen and sort all of Dakota’s mail, from letters to panties to even—eep!—nude photos. She said her job is never boring. (I bet!) From there, a still-blushing Dakota introduced us to Jeremy, the stunt coordinator, who choreographed a quick fight scene between me and Des. We learned how to throw fake punches and take body hits. (I totally kicked Des’s arse!) And finally, my fave part, we toured the sound stages and prop department where we took pics of ourselves—in the show’s infamous muscle car, wearing monster masks, hiding behind tombstones in an ominous cemetery, and sitting in Dakota’s director chair.

  The first actual set we visited was a tavern called Buckeye, where Dakota’s character and his paranormal private eye cohorts hung out. The oversized cabin was dark, mountain-man tacky, and oddly homey. Walking across the scuffed wooden floors and seeing the fine details, from matchbook covers with handwritten notes posted on the walls to the ripped vinyl bar seats, and breathing in the musty scent of the taxidermied mascot grizzly bear named Sasquatch, was both surreal and familiar. Kind of like our charming host, who regaled us with inside stories.

  Through it all, in my fangirl excitement, I kept getting these random shivers of euphoria, little “holy shit” tremors. I wanted that feeling to last forever, so I clicked, clicked, clicked pictures until I gave myself a repetitive stress injury in my pointer finger. When Tanya Allee, director extraordinaire, gave us official Crew T-shirts, I thought for sure nothing could pry off the perma-grin plastered on my face. Throughout it all, Jameson watched me with this fond smile, as if he took joy from my silly, fannish delight. I should’ve been self conscious, but I was too caught up tattooing every detail on my brain cells so I wouldn’t forget anything.

  “Best. Day. Ever. Ever!” Des shouted as we headed back to the makeup trailer where we’d started.

  “Number one,” I agreed, hugging my souvenirs to my chest.

  “That was the most fun I’ve had doing a tour,” Dakota said with a grin. “Thank you for spending the day with me.”

  Nat stuck her head out of the trailer. “Come on, Dakota,” she said, then flashed us an apologetic smile and a quick wave.

  “I hate to cut and run,” Dakota said, “but I’ve got to be on set again and she needs to do a quick touch-up, so … ”

  My mood sagged, like a balloon losing helium.

  All good things must come to an end.

  I refused to look at Des because I didn’t want either one of us to bust into tears. “Dakota, we can’t thank you enough. This has seriously been—”

  “Mega-memorable,” Des appropriately finished, with a watery smile.

  Each of us hugged Dakota and watched him climb the trailer stairs. He flashed the peace sign and gave us a quick wink before he disappeared inside and our tour came to a sad stop.

  Jameson put an arm around each of us and guided us toward his car. “How ’bout I take you out for dinner? Those taquitos couldn’t have lasted.”

  My stomach gave a loud growl at the suggestion. Laughing, I said, “My tummy is happy to take you up on that offer.”

  “Oh crap!” Des said.

  “Wha—”

  “I left my Gucci sunglasses—”

  “Knock-offs.”

  “In the makeup trailer this morning.”

  “Des … ” I said in warning. Clearly she’d left her glasses there accidentally-on-purpose in order to steal a private moment with Dakota. There hadn’t been time for anything other than flirting during our tour.

  “Be right back,” she shouted as she ran off.

  “Want me to go after her?” Jameson asked, already taking a few steps away.

  I thought about it. How much trouble could she get in when Nat was there?

  “Naw,” I finally said. “I’m sure she’ll grab her shades and come right back.”

  We leaned against Jameson’s BMW to wait. My body felt buzzy with leftover adrenaline and sudden exhaustion. Definitely needed food.

  “You really enjoyed yourself, didn’t
you?” Jameson asked, with an affectionate smile that made me feel even dizzier.

  I smiled back but didn’t say anything. He knew the answer.

  “I liked seeing things through your eyes,” he said.

  My heart surged in my chest. “Is that why you kept watching me?” I asked in surprise. Then my cheeks heated at my forward question. I’d certainly felt his stare throughout the day, but never knew what to make of it. Only that his avid attention made me warm and antsy.

  “Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I couldn’t help but watch you.”

  I knew he didn’t mean it in a stalkery way. Sometimes seeing an experience through someone else’s eyes can make you appreciate it in a way you wouldn’t with your own. “Today,” I said. “All this—it’s everything I imagined and so much more.” I peered at him sideways. “You’ve quit seeing the magic.” It wasn’t an accusation or question, just my own observation.

  “Some,” he agreed. “But I think the magic you see comes from your perspective.”

  I felt like I was standing on a precipice of discovery, one that could explain this baffling boy. Losing myself in his guarded green eyes, I dared to say, “And your perspective shows you something different than I see?”

  He licked his lips and then gave a little huff of laughter. “Yeah, ’fraid so.”

  “Tell me,” I beseeched.

  Jameson shook his head. “Uh uh.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to ruin your—”

  We both looked up at the sound of someone running hell-bent toward us. Des’s face was stricken, no, terrified. Her pupils eclipsed the brown of her irises and her breath came in asthmatic pants.

  I grabbed her by the arms. “Desi, what’s wrong?”

  She shook her head, unable to form words.

  “Tell me,” I ordered. “You’re scaring me.”

  She swallowed and her gaze darted between me and Jameson.

  “His eyes,” she whispered in a scared, little girl voice.

  “Who’s eyes?” I asked. “Des, what happened?”

  Finally her focus locked on me. “Oh, God, Aly. His eyes. Dakota’s eyes were glowing demon-dog red.”

  My throat tightened. Red. Just like I’d seen at the photo shoot yesterday. I’d chalked it up to a trick of the light, my own bad vision, exhaustion, even an over-active imagination. But if Des had seen it …

  “Show me,” I ordered.

  “No,” Jameson said, and moved to block our path.

  I searched his eyes and knew this had to do with his perspective. He had been hiding the truth all along, protecting us from it, whatever it was. This wasn’t a shared hallucination between Des and me. So what was it?

  “Oh my God,” Des screeched as she stared over Jameson’s shoulder. When he whirled around to look, she grabbed my hand and we dashed past him.

  As diversions went, it was weak, but it gave us the head start we needed to reach the makeup trailer and sneak in. Thankfully, Nat was nowhere to be seen. Taking cover behind a rack of clothes, I peered between an oxford shirt and hoodie to watch Dakota. He looked perfectly normal, if a bit narcissistic, as he chatted on his cell phone while studying himself in the makeup mirror. As he leaned forward to toy with the waves in his hair, I started to think both Des and I had lost it. What were we thinking? That the front page of The National Enquirer would read Paranormal PI Star Possessed ? Yeah, right!

  Then Dakota blinked, and the mocha eyes that made me melt when I watched him on TV were suddenly blood red. We’re talking not a speck of white or black anywhere, just scary, scarlet orbs.

  I bit my tongue to keep from gasping and Des gripped my hand in a death clutch. What the hell?

  “I know,” he was saying, his normal-sounding voice not matching the evil visual before me. “Talk about luck. Missy just fell into my lap.”

  I straightened at the mention of my sister and strained to listen.

  “She’s gorgeous, talented, and desperate. My three favorite things. I can’t wait to trash that piece of fresh meat until she’s putrid enough to please dear ole Dad.”

  A hot flush of fear seared up my spine and I blindly backed up from the clothing rack toward the door. Once we were outside, a grim-looking Jameson took us firmly by the arms and quick-stepped us toward his car.

  Numb. Shocked. Scared. Des and I meekly let him lead us. Once inside the vehicle, I looked at Des. “Did you hear—”

  She nodded, but didn’t say a word.

  “What happened?” Jameson demanded.

  “He, he,” I rambled. “His eyes were red and he threatened Missy.”

  “Sounds about right.” Jameson jabbed his fingers through the spikes of his hair.

  I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”

  Jameson turned the key in the ignition. “Come on—it’s time you learn the real reason why they call it Hell-A.”

  Jameson

  “Did you know it originally said Hollywoodland?” I pointed to the fifty-foot letters perched atop Mt. Lee. “It was a real estate ploy to attract rich buyers, built in 1924 for twenty-one grand and lit up with four thousand 20-watt bulbs. This is as close as I can get you to the sign because it’s fenced off.” I leaned back against the windshield, tucking my arms behind my head. We were parked on Beachwood Drive, me lying sandwiched between the two of them on the sun-warmed hood of the BMW and Tourette’s-ing some trivia with rattled nerves. “The security system is meant to keep away vandals, and jumpers like Peg Entwistle who plummeted off the H in 1932. The sign’s been refurbished twice, once in ’49 when it became Hollywood and again in ’78. Alice Cooper paid to replace an O in honor of his favorite comedian, Groucho Marx. In 2010, Hugh Hefner donated $900,000 to save it from developers, and—”

  “And this has nothing to do with Dakota’s red eyes,” Aly said in exasperation. “Pleeease, stop with the avoidance already.”

  “Yeah, Jameson,” Des said. “You’ve been playing dodge ball long enough.”

  They were right, of course. I’d taken them to In and Out Burger for dinner, wanting to replenish their energy before I clubbed them over the head with the unthinkable, and managed to stall by saying it wasn’t something we could discuss in public. Now it was nearly seven o’clock and we were staring at California’s most iconic image, but instead of them enjoying it the way tourists should, I had to tell them that, like the sign, the devil was in the details.

  Hell, he was in everything.

  I blew out a heavy breath. Did I go for a slow build-up, or just blurt it out?

  “Is he possessed?” Des asked. “ ’Cause I’ve been thinking about it and thinking about it, and he wasn’t spewing pea soup or anything, but maybe something, someone is inside him—”

  “He’s not possessed,” I interrupted, sliding off the front of the car.

  “Then he’s a demon,” she said matter-of-factly. “Like on the show.”

  I closed my eyes in gratitude. Maybe this would be easier than I thought. Bracing my hands on the hood, I leaned toward her. “You’re right. Only he’s worse. Way worse.”

  “What?” Aly said. Her incredulous gaze slid from Des to me. “Get real. I know you don’t like the guy, but—”

  “Al!” Des cut her off. “Let Jameson talk. Maybe there’s a reason why he doesn’t like Dakota.”

  “Yeah,” Aly said under her breath. “Jealousy.”

  “I. Am. Not. Jealous,” I said through gritted teeth, “of Satan’s son.”

  “Satan’s son!” Des shrieked, leaping off the right side of the car. “You mean, he’s not your garden variety demon, but Lucifer’s actual offspring? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Jaw locked, I jerked my head in a tight nod. Not exactly how I wanted to reveal Dakota’s true identity.

  “Holy shit!” Desi spun around, hands clutching her hair. “Ho-oh-ly freak-in’ shit!”

  “Des!” Aly snapped. “You can’t really believe—”

  “You saw his eyes,” Des argued. “Same
as me. That’s not normal.”

  Aly shook her head. “That hardly means—”

  “He’s talking about destroying your sister,” Des reminded Aly. “Why else would he do that?”

  Aly pressed her lips together and turned to me, silently echoing the question.

  Here went nothing.

  “Satan’s got a slew of kids creating havoc, all over—sons and daughters who do his bidding and thrive on destruction. Mara’s in New Orleans, Zep’s raising hell in New York, Selene’s in your Colorado mountains, Lois prefers toying with small towns like Kismet, Kansas … the list goes on and on. Here”—I jerked my thumb toward the Hollywood sign—“Dakota can take a promising singer and turn her into a wino, yank a self-protective actor out of the closet in front of the paparazzi and ruin his life, and make the latest wholesome ‘it’ girl a sleazy, two-timing, psychotic has-been. He manufactures scandals, rips the veil off secrets, and waves temptation around like catnip. The headlines that top Page Six and The Insider are usually his doing, and the more devastation he causes, the more gleeful and powerful he becomes. But he doesn’t just get off on ruination, he feeds off it—literally draws the goodness out of people and funnels it into himself. You know how tired you’ve been?”

  They both nodded numbly.

  “Yeah, it’s not entirely because you’ve been busy and excited. It’s because he’s been tasting your vitality, sipping your virtue. Not enough to truly taint you,” I rushed to assure them when I saw panic in their eyes, “but enough to give him a high, to make him want more. Since you’re only here for a short visit, you’re a drive-by for him, a delicious diversion. He’s been known to take those too far”—I gave Des a knowing look—“but then Missy walked in. She’s a prime target.”