Sunset Boulevard (14 page)

She hopped away from the bar, holding two bottles of Budweiser. "Sorry, they don't have

anything fancy here," she said, handing one to Ash with an unstudied shrug. She was so

unposed, so natural about everything, that he kind of got why guys stared. There was

something about a girl who didn't announce to the world how hot she was. And yet when you

looked at her, you wanted to keep looking.

Daisy gestured with her beer bottle to the stage as a pretty girl, with red curls and a short

flowered babydoll dress, strode out. "This is who I came to see," she whispered to Ash, her

eyes scanning the singer.

Ash relaxed as they got settled in a spot by the bar. If babysitting Daisy meant an evening of

checking out some good live music, he could handle this. It was actually a pretty decent way to

spend a school night, minus the bar's down-and-out décor.

The girl picked up a guitar and started to strum a slow and somber medley. "I wrote this when I

was feeling a little broken," she said. As she began to sing, the guys in the room shifted their

stares from Daisy to the redhead.

"You think I'm just a feather in your cap

Just a pin upon your map

That I'm just a number, in this urban jungle.

But when... will... you... realize...

I... will... cut... you... down... to... size

You're a lowdown dirty shame

Promised you'd be different...

But you're a different kind of same

Ain't no way you'll get me back

Not this feather in your cap..."

"Do you hear this bollocks?" Daisy said, grabbing Ash's forearm more tightly with each word.

Ash knew the song was one of Daisy's, though her version was a faster rock number, and the

girl was playing it in a bluesy way. It was a pretty good song. Not that he'd ever tell Daisy that.

Or Gordon. Still, it was really shitty of the girl to try to claim it as her own.

"You fucking bitchhole!" Daisy suddenly screamed, the anger morphing her face from stoned

Raggedy Ann to American Gladiator.

Before Ash realized what was happening, Daisy ran and lunged at the girl, instantly grabbing a

fistful of her hair. "Hey," the redhead squealed. She reeled backward and then lashed back,

grabbing for Daisy's T-shirt. The mic stand toppled, wailing feedback. The mostly male crowd

watched the girls grab for each other, seeming to do nothing more than yank at each other's hair

and clothing. A deep voice in back bellowed, "Catfight!" as an excited murmur floated through

the crowd, like the five-dollar cover charge had just become a great deal.

"Who do you think you are?" Daisy cried out. "You don't just play my fucking music, my

fucking heartbreak, like it happened to you, you little, nothing phony!"

Ash could barely hear the girl's terrified whimper of a reply. He jogged to the stage to break

them apart just as a giant paw of a hand came down on his shoulder.

A guy with a bald head and a jet-black goatee towered over Ash. His arms, bared in his

sleeveless black muscle tee, were huge. "Get her back to whatever methadone clinic she came

from," he bellowed coldly. "This is my place, and we don't tolerate low-class behavior here.

These are good people."

Ash looked at the lascivious stares of the crowd watching Daisy chase the girl around the

stage, one shoulder of her T-shirt ripped, exposing her red bra strap. "I'm gonna sue you, you

intellectual property-stealing whore!" shrieked Daisy. In response, the redhead spit at Daisy's

slippers.

"Yeah, good people," he said, sarcastically.

"What did you say, sonny?" Huge Arms said.

"Nothing. But that's Daisy Morton, and that's her song that girl was singing. She's just

protecting herself." He sort of got where she was coming from. A cover was one thing.

Claiming someone's song as your own was another.

The owner grabbed Ash by the collar, yanked him to the stage, and, with his other giant arm,

grabbed Daisy around the waist and pulled her down from the stage.

He stomped, still dragging Ash and carrying Daisy, to the door. "Stay the fuck out," he said,

kicking the door open with his combat boot. He dropped Daisy onto the sidewalk and shoved

Ash so hard he almost landed in the middle of Highland.

Daisy instantly sprang up, almost gleeful. Slinging an arm around Ash, she leaned her head on

his shoulder and guided him across the street. "I bet you've never been treated like a common

nobody before, eh, Mr. Bigshot?" She burst out laughing, her tiny frame quaking against his

side. The vibrato of Daisy's giggle almost tickled, and soon Ash was cracking up, too. The

tourists taking pictures along the Walk of Fame stopped and stared, whispering, "Is that Daisy

Morton?"

Before the crowd could descend on Daisy for autographs and photos, she took Ash's hand and

broke into a run, zipping through the throngs to his Camaro. They finally caught their breath as

he started the car.

"I hope I didn't ruin your evening," Daisy said, smirking, her gray eyes still twinkling.

Ash shook his head. It wasn't the night he'd planned, but Daisy Morton was definitely more

interesting than pizza.

CHECK, MATE

"'We are the champions, my friend....'" Miles tried to mimic Freddie Mercury, as he swayed in

the passenger seat of Jake's Corolla. "'We'll keep on fighting till the end....'"

Jake lowered the volume on the Queen tape. The Corolla's stereo wasn't exactly modern, and he

and Miles only had about three cassette tapes that they could play in the car without seeming

like two guys in a musical time machine. Miles had unearthed Queen, Tom Petty, and Billy Idol

from his dad's collection. Jake had hidden the shoe box his mom had given him of her old

favorites: Duran Duran, Air Supply, and Flock of Seagulls.

"Dude, why are you turning that off? We are the champions, my friend!" Miles hadn't stopped

grinning from ear to ear the whole ride to school. "I'm not trying to ride on your coattails, but I

am totally riding on your coattails. This is the best thing that ever happened to us."

Jake drained his Starbucks cup as he made a sloppy left turn. He was exhausted after a long

weekend of filming. This movie star-high school student dual role was taking its toll. His mom,

Gigi, had treated the news of his
Class Angel
role with the same kind of horror she'd shown in

fifth grade when Jake had come home with Twinkie, the classroom's pet rat, to take care of for

the summer. She'd wanted him to quit immediately, and had only reluctantly come around when

Jake had played the
Don't you want me to be happy?
card. But Jake could only stay Tommy

Archer if he kept his grades up. So whenever he wasn't shooting, he was trying to cram in

assignments for his classes, and it seemed like he was always shooting, or reciting and rereciting his lines in hopes of not making a total ass of himself. He hadn't slept for more than

four hours a night, and his body felt leaden. And Miles, in hyper-enthusiasm mode, wasn't

making it any easier.

"Maybe," Jake finally answered, pulling into the BHH parking lot behind a pink Range Rover.

"But I won't be a student here much longer if I don't finish my homework. I was up till three

last night working on that Golden Gate Bridge case study for physics. My paper's a half-page

short. And calc, I'm behind. English, I haven't started
Crime and Punishment
. Or that essay on

health care as a right or a responsibility for civics."

Jake parked in his usual spot, his whole body weak just from thinking about his to-do list.

Miles grabbed his backpack and Jake's, hefting one on each shoulder. "I got it, dude."

"Thanks, Miles," Jake muttered, not even remotely concerned about being teased for Miles

carrying his bag. What, was Rod Stegerson gonna say they were gay lovers? Big deal.

"So, okay," Miles said, his voice in battle-plan pitch. "You've got physic, calc, English, civics.

I can help. I'll talk to your teachers for you. Get you extra time. I'll tell them I'll get them on the

AV squad priority list for equipment." BHH teachers frequently fought over the school's flatscreens, to show their classes high-definition documentaries.

Jake grimaced. "What priority list?"

"Exactly," Miles said, nodding assuredly, like a politician selling a fiscal plan the public didn't

understand. "AV has keys even teachers don't get; they'll believe whatever I tell them. Think of

me as your personal manager. What else do you need?"

Jake grinned. It was a goofy plan, pure Miles. No way would Jake make his best friend some

servant/errand boy. But at least he could help with the homework situation. Priority list?

Classic.

"Dude, just talk to the teachers, that would be awesome," Jake said. "I have to hurry if I'm

going to make physics between scenes. First, let's stop by the production trailer for my check."

Miles's eyes widened. "Sweet. The inner sanctum."

Class Angel
's production trailer was at the edge of the school's courtyard, a site long ago

claimed by the coolest kids at BHH. Jake and Miles normally had no occasion to walk through

it. The courtyard, a sunny, red-bricked area surrounded by benches, a low stone wall, and an

array of rosebushes in the school colors, red and white, was like a micro-paradise where Jake

wouldn't have been shocked to see Greek gods lounging as loincloth-clad women fed them

grapes.

Today, it thrummed with people who were not BHH students. It was payday, and the hundreds

of workers it took to film even a midlevel-budget movie had come out of the woodwork. Jake

knew he'd be getting something for his part, but he wasn't exactly sure what.

The trailer was long and white, like the actors' trailers, but instead of being a metal box, it had a

long row of windows along one side. He could see Kady Parker inside, talking to the line

producer, as the woman handed her an envelope. Jake felt a nervous tingle rush through his

body. He hadn't talked to Kady since before yesterday's scene, when he'd told her about his

fake ACL injury. Miles knew about his
What Would Justin Klatch Do?
mantra, but not the lie,

and now he prayed silently that Miles wouldn't blow his cover.

Jake clattered up the steps and into the trailer. Kady stood near the Arrowhead water cooler,

chatting with a PA about the new David Fincher movie.

Jake cleared his throat. "I'm here to pick up my check, um, Lorraine."

Miles extended his hand. "Lorraine, it's a pleasure. Miles Abelson, Jake's manager."

Lorraine eyed Miles, who was straining under the weight of two filled-to-brimming backpacks,

but didn't laugh. "Nice to meet you," She pulled an envelope from her stack. "Should I give this

to you, or to your manager?" she said, looking back at Jake.

Jake was about to say she could hand it to him, since the Miles-as-assistant thing was just a

joke. But Miles spoke first. "I'll take care of it," he said, all business, politely taking the check

and nodding to Lorraine. He turned and tore it open, and Jake could read it over Miles's

shoulder.

Ten thousand dollars?

Ten. Thousand. Dollars!

"Holy crap," Miles said with hushed reverence as they moved to an empty corner of the trailer.

"This is a lot of money. This is lease-an-Escalade money."

Jake chuckled. Yeah, right. If most of that money didn't go directly into his college savings

account, his mom would have a fit. He didn't want to say that here, though. And he couldn't