Maybe that is what guys want, Anna mused. At least guys who are in high school. Maybe that's why as much as I was crushing on Scott, he never gave me a second glance and fell for Cyn instead. I don't have a wild bone in my body. I'm too proper, too well bred, too … too boring.
Damn.
The music ended and Cammie bowed to the audience, which was still going wild for her. Anna had to give Cammie credit: She had guts, and she'd—
“Anna! Anna Percy! Yo, Anna, where are you?”
Anna turned.
No.
It couldn't be
.
But it was. She stood up and waved her arms.
Her friend Cyn saw her, grinned wildly, and pushed through the crowd toward her table. Her chin-length, choppy black hair was mussed to perfection. She wore an ancient thrift-store black cashmere cardigan unbuttoned to her navel, revealing naked skin and the hammered-gold Bing Bang necklace Anna had given her for her fifteenth birthday. Below that were camouflage pants that barely cleared her bikini wax. And below the pants, red-and-white checkerboard Vans sneakers.
Anna just stood there, dumbfounded by the moment. Not only because it was as if she'd conjured Cyn up by thinking about her, but because of who was trailing behind Cyn.
Dee Young.
And Scott Spencer.
A
s Anna hugged and shrieked over what was evidently the unexpected arrival of her two friends from New York, Parker gave them a quick assessment. The chick wasn't Hollywood gorgeous, but she was definitely hot in a sexed-up Ashlee Simpson kinda way. The guy with her was very Chad Michael Murray—a guy Parker loathed. He'd been up for the same small part on
Gilmore Girls
that had gone to Chad, and from that Chad had been cast as the lead on
One Tree Hill
. Parker knew he could have played the hell out of both of those roles. He'd try not to let that color his opinion of this guy from New York. For all Parker knew, he could be someone in the business who could help Parker's career. Or he might know someone in the business.
Anna took the opportunity to introduce her friends while the judges were deliberating and the band covered Green Day's “Boulevard of Broken Dreams.”
“This is Cynthia Baltres,” Anna told the group excitedly, with her arm around Cynthia's waist.
“Please, it's Cyn,” the girl clarified, hugging Anna again.
“I still can't believe you're here!” Anna exclaimed. “Oh, and this is Scott Spencer,” she added, nodding in the direction of the Chad look-alike.
“They wouldn't be here if I hadn't brought them,” Dee pointed out with a pout. “They'd still be at the hotel waiting for you.”
“Sorry, Dee,” Anna exclaimed, her heart pounding just from being in the presence of Scott. “Thank you!”
“I missed you soooo much!” Cyn cried, throwing her arms around Anna again.
“Me too.”
Parker saw Anna's eyes fill with tears of happiness as she quickly told the group how she and Cyn had been best friends for more than a decade. As Anna spoke, Scott just stood there, the epitome of cool.
“When we heard you were coming here, we just had to come too,” Cyn declared.
“But how'd you find us?”
“Thank your friend Dee,” Cyn reported. “We'd called your dad—he knew where you were staying. And then we were knocking on the door of your suite— okay, pounding—when Dee came out to see what all the noise was about.”
“They looked harmless. I asked what they wanted; they said they were looking for you. I knew where you were,” Dee brushed her long bangs out of her eyes. “It was no biggie to bring them here. A mitzvah, really.”
Scott turned to Sam as soon as he figured out who she was. “Hey, your dad just got robbed on Oscar night, right?”
“Nah,” Sam joked. “I get confused with that girl all the time.” She gestured to her outfit. “My father is a sultan from Brunei. Hence the harem outfit.”
Cyn put her hands on her hips and stood back to scrutinize what Anna was wearing. “So what's your excuse?”
“We were having a contest,” Anna explained. “Tackiest Vegas outfit—”
“And she lost,” Cammie added, sidling up to join them. “You are?”
Her eyes flitted over Cyn, who introduced herself. So did Scott.
Cyn leaned closer to Anna to speak confidentially, but Parker could still hear her. “Cammie's the one who you told me has been such a bitch to you, right?”
“Exactly.”
“You just missed Cammie doing a serious strip thing onstage,” Adam informed the New Yorkers, as he snaked an arm around his girlfriend's waist. “You rocked, girl!”
“Yeah,” Parker agreed. “You so have this thing locked up.”
Cyn appraised Cammie from top to bottom, then met her eyes again. “You're hot shit, huh?”
“We'll let the judges decide,” Cammie replied confidently.
The sound system was pumping out the Rolling Stones classic “Honky Tonk Woman” while the judges deliberated. Before Parker knew what was happening, Anna's friend had jumped on their table. She began to do what had to be the hottest dancing Parker had ever seen. Heads in the room swiveled, guys started whistling and cat-calling, and Cyn's boyfriend seemed totally down with it. She inched her low-rise camouflage pants south, exposing a tattoo of an angel with a quiver, his arrow pointing south. Just as a waiter was rushing over to pull Cyn from the table, she spanked her own butt once, then jumped down herself. She stood in front of Cammie and blew her a “fuck you” kiss. That this was Anna's best friend opened a whole new side of Anna that Parker had never even imagined. As for Cammie, she looked ready to spit ice picks because Cyn had waltzed in and stolen her thunder.
“There's a thin line between hot and tacky,” Cammie addressed Cyn. “You might want to brush up on that.” She waggled her fingers at Adam. “ 'Scuse me, sweetie. I have to go retrieve my shoes before some fetishist gets hold of them.”
As she headed back toward the front of the club, Parker noticed that not only did Adam's eyes follow her, but so did Scott's. Parker understood, though. Cammie had the same effect on guys that Parker knew he had on girls. He hadn't asked for it, hadn't really worked for it. He just had it. He felt Cyn's eyes on him, checking him out at that very moment. He gave her his patented perfect slow grin. Meanwhile, the wheels turned rapidly in his head. The Ashlee Simpson chick and Chad Michael Murray dude were clearly a couple. But how tight were they? They'd be getting a room together, for sure. But maybe if he made a play for her, it would lead to a breakup with Scott, and then Cyn would have to change suites, and maybe she'd want to come to his suite to make Scott even more insane. Parker could forget his credit card, and she'd use hers to pay his half of the hotel bill, and no one would find out that he had exactly three dollars in his pocket.
Parker had pulled the same scheme in the past. Once on a group ski trip to South Lake Tahoe, where he'd hooked up with a woman from Georgia who'd come to the resort by herself. And another time, when he'd decided he'd better practice lest his skills atrophy, he'd taken a solo trip to Disneyland, figuring that he might as well set up a true test for himself. Even that excursion had been successful, as he'd managed to insinuate himself into the bed of a college girl from Pomona. She'd come down with a friend but had lost her for the night to one of the cartoon characters—out of costume, of course.
Parker knew full well he had to make something like that work here in Vegas. He'd already pegged which waitress at the buffet he would hit up for free food and booze.
“An amateur showgirl contest—
so
hilarious,” Cyn declared. “I gotta record this shit, because no one at home will believe it.” She pulled out her Nokia cell and started snapping pictures of the garishly dressed girls all waiting to hear who'd won. Parker knew it wasn't much of a competition; Cyn's impromptu table dance wasn't actually in the running. It was either the chick with the angel wings or Cammie.
“Oh man, there was the funniest article on showgirls in
The Onion
last month,” Scott recounted for the group. He was on his knees on his chair so he could get a better look at the stage.
“‘Showgirls and Nuns, Career Options,’” Adam quoted. “A riot.
The Onion
rocks, dude.”
“Right with you, my man,” Scott agreed. They shared a fist bump.
Parker grinned and nodded as if he shared their love of the satirical newspaper. He'd heard about it, of course, even knew it had a high hip factor. But he'd never actually read it. Well, he was gonna start the minute he got back to L.A. It was just so hard to keep up with everything. You had to watch
The Daily Show
, because everyone thought Jon Stewart was god. And you had to watch Dave Chappelle, of course, or you were totally out of it. Then there were
Daily Variety
and the
Hollywood Reporter
to read, so that you could talk about what was going on in the business. And aintitcool.com and drudgereport.com, so you could know the scuttlebutt. Then there were auditions, more auditions, going to the right parties, and chatting up the right people. At the very bottom of the list came school. Whenever a guidance counselor told him to buckle down and work harder, Parker would point to the diploma on the counselor's wall and ask, “Dude, do you have any idea where Jackson Sharpe went to college?” Of course, the counselor never had a clue. Which, Parker always said, was the whole point. No one gave a damn. Jackson hadn't become America's favorite movie star by pulling a 3.5 average in sociology. He'd done it the old-fashioned way—by getting a small part in a police drama twenty years ago and stealing the show. That had led to a bigger role, and then to a bigger role, and it hadn't been long before Jackson was on top on the world.
That was just what Parker planned to do. He had the looks, he had the charm, and he was willing to do
anything
. He knew that wasn't all it took; you had to be smart and good as well as willing. There was no way he was going to fail, not in the long run.
The drummer gave a brief flourish, and Monty returned to the stage. Parker watched Cammie scurry back to their table, having reclaimed her shoes. She plopped down directly in Adam's lap.
“Drum roll, please,” Monty told the drummer. “Lush is proud to announce its showgirl of the week. And the showgirl of this week is … Daphne Whitestone!”
The hot girl with the long platinum blond hair and the angel showgirl outfit climbed onto the stage to claim her crown and the check for five hundred dollars.
The redhead at the next table shot Cammie a nasty look. “No costume, disqualified, and the other chick at your table dances better than you do, anyway.”
Cammie's face clouded. Cammie's face never clouded. She gave the redhead the finger.
The girl stood and got in Cammie's face. “You want a piece o' this, bitch? Bring it on.”
“Girl-on-girl action, I love this shit!” a drunk frat-looking guy at the next table crowed to his friend.
“Let's get out of here.” Adam rolled his eyes, pulling some money out of his wallet and tossing it on the table. “This'll cover everyone.”
“Nah, I took care of it.”
Parker turned—a middle-aged man with a ruddy complexion, and clad in Texas-style clothes tipped his cow-boy hat to Cammie. “Hey, you are one sweet peach, little lady. I'd like to eat you with some whipped cream.”
“Well, you aren't going to get the chance to—” Adam began to protest, but Cammie slipped a hand over his mouth.
“Aren't you sweet,” Cammie purred to the oversized Texan. “You could be Jessica Simpson's sugar daddy with that accent.”
“I'd rather be your sugar daddy, sweet thang,” he drawled, winking at her. “I already picked up the tab for your table, little lady. And I'll be seeing you in my dreams. I'm staying at the Bellagio. You can find me in the poker room there. Texas Hold 'Em is my game.” He tipped his cowboy hat one more time and moseyed out of the club.
Parker could see that Adam was pissed, but Cammie was reveling in the good ol' boy's attention. Not that Parker cared much how either of them felt. He was just grateful that the cowboy had picked up the check.
Anna leaned against the side of the hot tub and closed her eyes, the steamy water loosening her muscles and relaxing her until she felt as liquid as the water itself. Was there any bliss quite like the first five minutes in a hot tub?
Well, yes, actually. Ben. Sex with Ben had been that kind of bliss. It amazed her how much she'd loved sex, right from the very start. She'd heard horror stories from friends about their first time having sex: pain or embarrassment or a “that was
it
?” moment of disappointment.
For Anna, none of the above had occurred. It had pretty much fulfilled every fantasy she'd ever had of what sex would be like. And then some. Evidently Ben didn't share her opinion, though, or her phone would have rung by now. Anna reminded herself: Ben had done the horizontal with Cammie (also probably the vertical, the hanging from chandeliers, etc.). Cammie was very experienced and had no inhibitions. No way Anna could compete with
that
.
Now she wondered: Would sex with Scott offer that kind of bliss? According to Cyn, definitely. Cyn hadn't paid any attention to the part of the
This Is How We Do Things
Big Book that underscored how discretion was the better part of living. Not that such a book literally existed. But Anna and every other old-money rich girl from Manhattan's Upper East Side had been raised on the same metaphorical tome. Cyn loved to share. In detail. Her steamy confessions of how amazing Scott was in bed could be … well, overwhelming.
Not that Cyn had a clue about Anna's feelings for Scott. Of course, Scott didn't know anything about them, either. Anna had vowed that neither one would ever know. She could never, ever do that to her best friend— what Sturm und Drang that could unleash. Boys might come and go, but best friends were forever, so—
“Fucking Scott,” Cyn was saying.
Anna opened her eyes and popped out of her stream of consciousness. She, Sam, Dee, and Cyn were all in the hot tub at the Palms' spa. It was just the four of them, Cammie having taken off for parts unknown. They'd come back to the hotel to chill out and dress before going out for the night. Their destination would be Rain, the hottest nightclub in Las Vegas, located right downstairs in its own wing of the hotel. Even as they'd come to the spa, they could see the long line for the nightclub. But they knew that since they were hotel guests, they wouldn't have to wait to get in.