Sunset Boulevard (18 page)

of soft fabric separating them.

"So what's up with your friends?" Ash asked, his playful smile teasing her. "Did you hear

about the stalker cookies?"

"Yeah." Myla sighed, rolling her eyes at him. Her friends' ardor for Grant Isaacson had

showed no signs of waning, and they hadn't even consulted her about their cookie plan, which,

frankly, made her look bad by association. Rumor was, they'd used secret camera phone shots

they'd taken of Grant during the football game scene and had them iced onto cookies.
If
they'd

even bothered to ask, she'd have told them they were veering into restraining-order territory.

But they'd hatched the plan without her, probably after the game. They'd invited her to go to

dinner with them that night, but almost seemed relieved when she declined. Much as she

wanted nothing to do with their plan, she couldn't believe how distracted they'd been acting

toward her. "But I had nothing to do with it," she quickly added.

"I kinda figured," Ash said, making eye contact, still laughing. "Not your style. You can tell

them it's the lamest and creepiest thing I've heard in a while."

Myla giggled, feeling like she was with the old Ash. Before her trip, before the breakup, before

Lewis Buford. "At least my friends wouldn't forget my birthday," she retorted, before realizing

what she'd said. Her eyes got wide, and she brought her fingertips to cover her mouth. "I'm

sorry, I didn't mean--"

Ash waved it off. "My friends? Come on. Could you see Tucker and Geoff out getting a

hundred red velvet cupcakes with my name spelled out in little candy guitars?"

Myla blushed. The cupcakes were something she'd served at Ash's birthday bash last year at

Big Bear. "I'd think they could manage at least a taquito or something."

Ash smirked. "Not those guys. Unluckily for me, they don't have a Myla Everhart bone in their

bodies. Jake Porter-Goldsmith remembered, though. Weird, huh?"

What's with everyone's obsession with PG?
Myla wondered. She didn't want to talk about

Ash's birthday anymore, because she didn't want to think about the party she'd planned to

throw. She'd had the idea to rent out Club 33, a top secret New Orleans--style honky-tonk

hidden in Disneyland. Ash secretly loved the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, which was right

below it. She'd wanted to close it down so the two of them could ride through the "seas" as if

on their own private love boat.

Saddened by the things they'd already missed in just the short time they'd been broken up,

Myla changed the subject. "So your dad asked you to an investor party for Daisy Morton? Are

you sure it wasn't a surprise birthday party?" she asked, leaning closer to Ash on the plush

cushions. At dinner, he'd told Lailah and Barkley that Gordon was busy with the fête. Much as

her own parents got on her nerves, she felt grateful to not have a father as completely

unavailable as Gordon. She also knew she was probably the only person in the world, besides

his sister, with whom Ash would discuss his relationship with his dad.

Ash shook his head. "Definitely not," he monotoned. "The worst of it is, she's staying in

Beverly Hills, and he appointed me her babysitter. I had to go to the shittiest bar in Hollywood

so she could try to kick this poor girl's ass last night."

"So she's really as nuts as they say?" Myla said. She was hoping the answer was yes. Even

though Daisy Morton was a complete and utter mess, she was also hot in that completely

ungroomed way that a lot of guys found sexy.

Ash shrugged. "I guess. But I hate that shit. I mean, my dad's label used to stand for

something. Integrity. Quality. Actual musical skills. But even if you cleaned her up, she's still

not that talented. People are just interested in seeing a train wreck. And I'm stuck with her

against my will."

Myla leaned back a little into the couch, relieved. When they'd been dating, Myla sometimes

had creeping insecurities. Every time Ash got hooked on some new female singer-songwriter,

or a girl band, Myla worried he'd start to wish she played guitar, or wrote songs, or some other

hippie, soulful stuff. "It can't last forever. She's probably a one-hit wonder," Myla reasoned.

"But I think your dad has a long career as an asshole ahead of him." She straightened herself

up into her
Gordon Gilmour, I'm so awesome
pose--shoulders back, chin jutting out, eyes

squinting, and her hand tucked into an invisible blazer like a tiny Asian Napoleon. Then she

spoke in an approximation of Gordon's booming voice. "Ash Gibson Gilmour, are you trying

to tell me that you're sixteen and rich and good-looking and don't want to follow around a

hygiene-hating head case like some entry-level nursing home employee? What's wrong with

you? You should appreciate these things I let you do for me." Myla watched as Ash's frown

tugged upward in a smile. "Are you smiling?" she continued in the Gordon voice. "The

celebrity lunatic market is booming. And it's
serious business.
If you walk around
smiling

when you're getting Daisy's tutus dry-cleaned, you're going to cost me years of future profits."

Ash burst out laughing. Myla cracked up too, and they collided in the kind of exertive laughter

that felt like a heavy make-out session, leaving them barely able to breathe. Just as they came

up for air, Myla looked into Ash's eyes and couldn't take the temptation.

She leaned in and kissed him. It was like those old movies. Fireworks burst behind her eyelids;

a symphony played in her ears. If they'd been standing up, Myla's leg would have involuntarily

bent at the knee, the heel of her bootie pointing heavenward.

To Ash, great kisses were like great music. You felt a good song with your whole body, and

you felt a great song with your whole body and something more. A great kiss brought to life

parts of you that could never be detailed or diagramed in any textbook. The glow around your

heart. That tickle in the back of your brain. The starburst just behind your eyes. He and Myla

were kissing. Great kissing. Kissing like they needed each other, wanted each other, could

never be torn apart. Until, unbidden, his mind flashed to Myla kissing Lewis. Myla curled next

to Lewis, his hands all over her.

Ash pulled away, hearing in his mind the familiar ripping sound of a needle being pulled

abruptly from a vinyl record. The Myla-Lewis scene sent waves of pain through his body, like

he was getting kicked in the balls while his heart was being stomped on.

"What's wrong?" Myla said, her lush green eyes glittering and wet at the corners. She leaned in

again, putting her hands on his chest.

Ash sprang back from the couch, standing above her. Nothing and everything was wrong. He

wanted more than anything to kiss her again. But his vision stood between them like an

invisible force field. Kisses like his and Myla's were supposed to be all theirs. But she'd kissed

Lewis, and maybe that kiss had been just as great. "I can't do this," he said, looking at Myla but

feeling half-blind, like he could only see the bad things. "Every time I see you, I see... that

night."

Myla hastily wiped away a tear. She pressed her eyes closed, and when she opened them again,

all signs of tears were gone. "The thing with Lewis, it meant nothing," she said, sounding

businesslike, rational, even though there was a telltale quaver under the words.

"Doesn't matter," Ash said, grabbing his Paul Smith jacket off her bed. Of course she would

tell him it meant nothing. What else would she say? That it was a great, amazing kiss and she'd

never forget that night with Lewis?

Myla rose, striding silently over to Ash. He was right. How could he believe her? She'd

scrubbed her mind, and her lips, dozens of times to forget the sliminess of Lewis's mouth on

hers, and the way Ash had looked at her when he saw it happen. But for all Ash knew, the kiss

with Lewis might have been her idea of everything a kiss should be--the symphony. She left a

gap between them, staying close enough that he could feel her warm breath on his neck. She

didn't know what she was going to say. She just knew she wanted to be between Ash and the

door. "How can I make you believe me?" she uttered, more to herself than to him.

Ash shrugged, pulling his coat tight around his shoulders. Even behind the stubborn lock of

hair that fell in front of them, Myla could see his eyes were glistening. She hated that she'd hurt

him. Knowing she'd betrayed him hurt worse than if she'd been the one to catch him in the act.

Which gave her an idea...

"Kiss someone else," she blurted out.

A small, sad chuckle broke free from Ash's lips. "Why, to make you feel better?'

Myla shook her head, regaining her strength. "No. Because it's the only way you could ever

understand." Myla grabbed for his hand with urgency, locking her green eyes onto his. "I want

you to. Kiss someone else, and see that the only kisses that matter are the ones between you

and me."

Ash looked at her like she was Crazy Daisy. Wouldn't another kiss be another scar on their

relationship? More irreparable damage?

"That's ridiculous, Myla," he said, ambling toward the door. "Look, I need to go. I'll see you...

at school."

And then he left.

Myla folded herself into a corner of the couch, her knees pressed to her chest, and let the tears

fall.

SPARKS WILL FLY

"Are you at all freaked out by those three girls who are following Grant around?" Kady said,

tearing off a piece of her pretzel croissant and "mmm"-ing in ecstasy as she took a bite. It was

Wednesday afternoon, and Amelie was sharing a table with Kady and Jake at the City Bakery

in Brentwood. She'd finally gotten Jake to talk to her long enough to schedule a tutoring

session. She'd agreed to meet him here, at the only Western outpost of the famous New York

bakery, before realizing it was the spot where he and Kady would be filming a scene without

her later that day.

So much for tutoring. Kady never shut up, and Jake had lazily checked Amelie's worksheet,

but seemed distracted as he listened to Kady. The three of them were crammed around a small

circular table only meant for two. Kady had pulled up a chair and smushed herself between

Jake and Amelie.

The place was packed to the point where three teenage celebrities could skate by unnoticed. Not

that Brentwood's rich denizens didn't see celebrities every day. A dozen or so trophy wives

clustered around the salad bar, competing to see who could make the smallest salad. A honeytressed woman, baring her slim but defined upper arms in a sleeveless tank, placed three

roasted brussels sprouts on her otherwise empty plate. Her narrow-waisted brunette friend

added just one to a plate that contained four small tufts of arugula.

"I never thought we'd find groupies at a Beverly Hills high school. We were doing his big

speech about how he, well, Knox, used to be in love with me," Kady continued, tearing off

another piece of pretzel croissant and hastily chewing it. "Oh my God, this is so good.

Anyway, Grant's fan club were all staring at me so hard, like they wanted to switch bodies with

me. I got this freaky chill. They're like cute versions of Macbeth's witches."

Jake laughed, catching Kady's eye over a forkful of his tofu salad. "I've been trying to tell

people that for years," he said, emptying his second bottle of Smart Water.

Amelie giggled, feeling a little guilty as she did. "They're harmless, though," she protested.

Amelie had had lunch with Billie, Talia, and Fortune again yesterday, and she'd had a blast,