Huh
. That actually
was
interesting. Sam had a weakness for anything involving moms, since her own had taken a permanent leave of absence a long time ago. She and Jackson had divorced when Sam was nine.
“How did your mom feel about it?” Sam wondered.
Jazz twirled her hair again. “She kind of has mixed feelings. Like, on the one hand she still has disdain for, like, material possessions. But she loves me and she really wants me to be happy.”
Sam got an unexpected lump in her throat. It must be great to have a mother like that. Or maybe she was just romanticizing it. Like so much of Beverly Hills, it was an airbrushed version of reality.
Sam nudged a shoulder toward Parker; the motion was their prearranged signal for him to join the girls on camera. He moved to Jazz, lifted her hand, and kissed it. “That's beautiful, Jazz. Really.” He looked at her soulfully. “Your boyfriend must be psyched. A girl who is that romantic, that passionate …”
Sam knew how mesmerizing Parker could be up close and personal. Jazz stared at him, speechless, her hand still in his. “Who's the lucky guy?”
“Um … Jeremy Knowles. He's more like a friend, kind of. He's secretary of the student council.”
Parker was clueless—Sam was certain he didn't know who was on student council, had never known who was on the student council, and couldn't have cared less who was on the student council—but he nodded solemnly, playing his role to the hilt. “I'm not sure he's good enough for you, Jazz.”
“Who are you going with?”
“I had a relationship, but …” Parker swallowed hard, looking away as if he were about to cry.
“You can tell us,” Fee urged, leaning unconsciously toward Parker.
Parker feigned reluctance to continue. “This actress … I know … I thought she really … cared about me. But then I saw her at Au Bar, macking with—look, I'm not a name-dropper. But a certain guy on a really bad TV series.”
Fee grabbed Parker's arm. “Jesse McCartney? Chad Michael—”
“It was probably someone else,” he interrupted. “Anyway, I really thought this girl and I had something special, but now—”
“She broke your heart?” Jazz asked.
Sam was pretty sure there were actual tears in her eyes. Her first reaction was:
This is great
. Her second reaction was:
I am being a complete manipulative bitch
. She kept the camera rolling just the same.
Jazz still had her hand on Parker's arm. “I'm
so
sorry she hurt you, Parker.”
He nodded sorrowfully. “If only you didn't already have a date …”
Fee gasped. “Oh my God. Are you asking Jazz to
prom
? She's going with someone!”
“Parker!” Sam cried, pretending to be annoyed.
Parker held his hands up. “That was totally out of line. I'm sorry. I need to get some air. I'll be back.”
Parker left the pool house—the footage of Jazz and Parker would be priceless—and Sam continued to get the girls to open up. She was amazed at how they were willing to spill the most intimate details of their lives just because a camera was whirring.
At that moment, Sam got another brilliant idea: What better way to get the truth about the prom weenies than to have them film each other? It would double the number of people she'd have shooting, thus doubling the amount of footage she would have at her disposal. Prom prep, hair, makeup, meetings with caterers, the band … the possibilities would be endless. They could film their friends, too.
When she made the suggestion, Jazz and Fee were so excited, they literally ran to Sam and hugged her. They talked over each other to express their delight at not only being in the film but helping to create it.
“You'll get your names in the credits, too,” Sam promised.
After that, they couldn't throw personal information at Sam fast enough. Their loves, their heartaches, their hopes and dreams. Intimate family secrets. It was fascinating, in a twisted, voyeuristic sort of way.
“My parents fight pretty much all the time,” Fee confessed. “My mom always thinks my dad is flirting with the actresses he coaches and—”
Sam's cell phone rang, interrupting Fee's flow. Sam checked the number.
“Gotta take this. It's my dad. He calls me from the set all the time.” This was a big fat lie, of course—a phone call from her dad was a rare thing—but it would help her dazzle the prom weenies. She put the phone to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Hey, sweetie.” His warm voice boomed through the earpiece.
“Hey. How's the shoot going?”
“Really great,” Jackson exulted. “I swear, we're gonna make people forget about Heston. There's been a little glitch, though. I know I told you that you and your friends could do prom here Friday night. But we're behind schedule, gotta shoot that night. I cleared you for Saturday, though.”
Sam gripped the phone hard. This was awful news. Everything was arranged for Friday night, and she'd pulled every string she could to arrange it. What about the limo rentals and the caterers and the hotel suites? But showing Jazz and Fee any sign of panic would be the worst thing she could do.
“Perfect, Dad.”
“Great, sweetie. Okay, gotta get to makeup. 'Bye.”
Sam hung up and sparkled in the direction of her company. “I've got the best possible news. We have to postpone prom by twenty-four hours.”
This was the kind of crisis that brought out the best in Sam. For any other high school senior, changing the night of prom with four days to go would have been a reason to join Dee at the Ojai Psychiatric Institute and not come out until Thanksgiving. Making the change would require the precision and detail necessary to undertake a hostage rescue mission in a dangerous rogue nation. Fortunately, Brigadier General Samantha Sharpe had the finances and the firepower to carry out the mission. She issued orders to the prom weenies, who issued orders to the sub–prom weenies:
Do it. Whatever it takes.
A detailed e-mail went to every ticket buyer. Photographers, florists, videographers, caterers, limo drivers, parking attendants, cleaning crews, hotels, and security were informed and offered whatever was necessary to change their services to Saturday night. If they were already booked for Saturday night—say, for the Reseda High School prom in the lovely Reseda High School gym—they were encouraged to subcontract that job and come to the Colosseum. Sam reminded them all that they did not want to get on the wrong side of someone as powerful as Jackson Sharpe.
There were only two things that didn't work. One was the after party; there just wasn't a cool-enough locale available. People would have to fend for themselves, except for Sam and her friends—Cammie had offered the stretch of Hermosa Beach where her father's television drama was shot.
The other problem was Eduardo. She called him as soon as she got the prom weenies out the door. Sadly, he said, there wasn't much he could do. It wasn't like his family could change the date of the anniversary party for his parents. He'd still come to Los Angeles on Thursday to spend a couple days with Sam, but he would have to leave on Saturday morning as scheduled. He was so apologetic that Sam actually felt bad for him.
When the depressing transatlantic phone call was done, she headed out to the redwood back deck to finish off the bottle of Cristal that had gone toward the major portion of Fee and Jazz's mimosas. She was surprised to find Parker there, taking in the view.
“You're still here?”
“I thought you might need a friend after that phone call.”
She and Parker had talked briefly before she'd called Eduardo; there was no need to fill him in.
“What the hell,” she sighed, raising the champagne bottle to her lips. “I knew it was going too well.”
“He's still coming, but can't come to prom?”
Sam nodded.
“That isn't enough?”
Sam offered him the half-empty champagne bottle. He took it. “No. It's not. I want everything. And so do you.” She sighed as he chugged the Cristal. “You kicked ass with the prom weenies.”
“Thanks.” He wiped his lips.
She regarding him carefully. “I used to think you were a sucky actor.”
His lips tugged into a half-smile. “Oh, really?”
“The truth is, you're so good that you fooled everyone into thinking you're someone you aren't. Hard to do.”
He passed the Cristal back to her. “You know, if Eduardo can't take you, you should go with me.”
Go to prom with Parker? It was indecent, really, how handsome he was; those eyes, those lips … Sam had read somewhere that humans had a nearly impossible time separating good looks from internal goodness. Looking into Parker's eyes, she could easily understand why that was true. She had to lean back to get her bearings.
“Are you playing me, Pinelli?”
“You're about the only one I'm
not
playing, Sharpe. Come on. You just lost your date, and I don't have a date.”
Sam thought for a moment. She'd heard worse ideas. She'd have to be there for her documentary anyway, and Parker was helping her. It sort of made perfect sense. Plus, she didn't mind being seen with a guy as hot as Parker. Let the prom weenies wonder.
“We go as friends. Right?” she offered cautiously.
Parker casually looped an arm around her shoulder. “Absolutely. You in?”
Sam nodded. “I'm in. Come on, we've got work to do.”
B
y the time Ben came home from his shift at Trieste, his head was pounding. The work wasn't hard, but he'd had the relentless beat of techno dance music in his ear for the past eight hours. They'd put him on the door, which struck Ben as ironic, since he wasn't even old enough to get in without a fake ID himself. Ben was supposed to be a management trainee, and the manager had decided that giving Ben a taste of the many different jobs at the club was the best way for Ben to learn.
Trieste was the club of the moment. By ten o'clock there'd been a line of hipsters and wanna-bes all the way down Hollywood Boulevard, hoping for the nod from Ben that would admit them to the inner sanctum. Anyone who was anyone didn't have to wait, of course. Part of the job description was to know the difference.
This wasn't always easy. Film directors notoriously looked like shit. Even some movie and TV stars looked like shit without professional makeup. Fortunately the doorman with him, Lenny Lucci, nearly seven feet of bald Italian steel who'd been working the doors of the top Hollywood clubs for two decades, knew everyone. Lenny bounced full time and did movie stunts part-time. If Ben had a question about whether or not to admit someone, he'd subtly catch Lenny's eye. Lenny would barely nod or shake his head, and Ben would proceed accordingly. Like God, Lenny never made mistakes.
Otherwise, admittance was completely at Ben's discretion, though Lenny had laid out God's rules with great clarity. Always admit hot single women. Sometimes admit hot single guys. Couples were boring, so only let in fifty percent. Ben had to admit that the power to make or break the evenings of the cute girls—long hair, short skirts, tight tops—was a heady experience before it got a little bit disturbing, reminding him too much of Beverly Hills High's social pecking order. Take Maddy, for example. If he hadn't known her and she was in line, she wouldn't have been able to get in. The long frizzy hair, pale innocent face, zero style sense. Even after her weight loss, she'd be left on the outside looking in. He was so over that shit.
He let himself in the front door. Thinking about Maddy made him think about Jack—and his good mood was instantly ruined. Jack was running a game on Maddy, he was sure of it. If Jack hurt her, Ben would feel responsible. He hadn't even had a chance to speak to Anna today about talking to her.
When Ben padded up the stairs and down the hall to his room, he saw that Maddy's door was wide open and the lights were on. He stuck his head in to say a brief hello, but she wasn't there. There was definitely something on her computer screen, though: an image of Maddy lolling in bed, obviously naked save for a strategically deployed bathrobe. Ben's robe.
Jack had taken the photo; he felt sure of it.
“Hi.”
Ben whirled to find Maddy smiling at him in the hall-way. For once, she wasn't wearing his clothes, just an oversize blue-and-gold University of Michigan sweat suit.
“You're mad at me,” she surmised. “Because of the pictures.”
“Nah. I am teed off at Jack, though. He's being a real dick—pardon my language.”
“No, he isn't!” Maddy insisted, wide-eyed. “He's really sweet to me.”
Because he wants something. How can I get this across to her so she'll believe me?
Buying time, he suggested they go downstairs, get a drink, and hang out on the back deck. Five minutes later they were sitting outside on two handmade oak rockers that Ben's parents had had shipped back from a medical conference in Nashville. It was so quiet, they could hear crickets chirping.
“It's so nice here,” Maddy murmured. She took a sip of her Diet Coke. “I wish I could live here forever.”
Geez. He took a swig of his Corona. “Mad, I don't want to hurt your feelings. But … things between you and Jack might not be what you think they are.”
“He's
your
friend,” Maddy said earnestly. “That's why I know I can trust him.”
Ben swiped a weary hand across his face. Geez, this sucked. What a cliché. The innocent girl from the Midwest getting taken advantage of in Hollywood by the older calculating guy. The only twist here was that Maddy wasn't an aspiring actress.
“Tell me the truth, Mad. How many photos did Jack take of you?”
“A few,” she muttered self-consciously, staring at the redwood floor of the deck.
Maybe there was still time to stop this runaway train.
“I know you already invited him to your prom Saturday night, Mad. I don't think it's a very good idea.”
“
What
? Then I wouldn't have a date!”
“That might be a better idea than going with Jack,” Ben opined, a bit stiffly. “You could … go with some girlfriends, maybe.”
“That's what I used to do when I weighed three hundred pounds. And it sucked, okay? It really, really sucked. I pretended that it was fine, you know? Like I really wanted to just hang out with my friends, but inside I was dying. I used to dream of being with a cute guy. Now the dream can come true.”