"I'd like that," she answered.
He leaned in, kissing her hard and wet on the mouth. So much saliva, Jojo thought, her
stomach lurching. Her mouth tasted sour, and she tried to pull away. Was he this gross or was
she about to-Three Long Islands and two amaretto stone sours burst from Jojo like a ruptured dam.
Barnsley jumped back, a look of disgust and malice all over his catlike face. "Barbar's daughter
just puked in my mouth!" he squealed, spitting on the floor and reaching for a pile of bar
napkins. "That fucking bitch just puked in my mouth."
The rec room went silent, as all faces turned to look at Jojo. Her outfit, shoes and bag had
miraculously been spared. Barnsley's stool was the major casualty, covered in what were
previously cocktails and the In-N-Out burger she'd had for dinner.
Jojo looked around at the shocked, horrified faces of Hollywood's tanned and beautiful best.
She felt disgusting. She felt like a loser. She'd spent two years in high school in Sacramento
without making this big a fool out of herself.
Barnsley wiped up the mess on his green polo shirt and turned to his camera crew.
"Did you get all that?" he asked, sounding excited now. "That shit is going to kill on YouTube.
Barbar? Can you say BarfBarf?"
Jojo, feeling instantly sober, realized that her descent into loserdom wouldn't just be known at
BHH, but in Sacramento and the world over. She ran from the rec room to the sound of
laughter.
Greenland was looking pretty good right about now.
THIS IS AWKWARD
Amelie was bouncing halfheartedly to Goodbar's cover of the White Stripes' "Seven Nation
Army." A small stage had been set up at the far end of the Bufords' three tennis courts, and a
few hundred bodies had crammed into the space to see the band play. Goodbar was the latest
L.A. band Lewis Buford had taken under his wing, and after appearing on Gossip Girl, they
were on fire.
Amelie was freezing, but kept resisting Jake's frequent and generous offers of his jacket. The
last thing she needed was to finally run into Hunter wearing her math tutor's clothes. Besides,
she'd selected her ABS emerald sequin minidress expressly for the skin it tastefully showed
off. Covering it up would defeat the purpose.
She and Jake had been through the entire main house, and the two-thousand-square-foot
guesthouse, which Lewis had set up as the VIP lounge. They'd also seen most of the hilly
grounds where makeshift railings provided support for girls in heels and those too intoxicated
to stand up straight. That left the tennis court turned concert hall. But with the throngs of bodies
dancing, Amelie could barely see the stage, let alone spot Hunter in the huge crowd.
Jake hadn't left Amelie's side the whole night, and she was grateful not to be entirely alone. As
she watched other girls do shots and travel in packs, she felt out of place, like she and Jake
were the new kids in school, loners at the shitty lunch table. She half wished she would bump
into Kady or anyone else from set. She wished she'd gotten more details from Hunter, so she'd
know where to meet him. She'd be disappointed if she spent her whole first date with Hunter
just looking for him.
Jake was bobbing his head sort of self-consciously to the music, and Amelie felt a wash of
affection for the guy. Maybe once she found Hunter and they were happily hanging out, they
could find a girl for Jake.
"Thanks for driving tonight," Amelie said.
Jake smiled goofily, his face surrounded by his unruly curls. "No problem."
She swayed a little more vigorously to the music as the band wound down with a flourish and
announced they'd be taking a quick break, before returning with Lewis Buford himself as a
guest vocalist.
The crowd instantly thinned, as guys and girls left the tennis court and headed across the yard
in pursuit of fresh drinks. What seemed like a hundred guests formed a line in front of the
makeshift tiki bar.
"So, um, did you want a drink or anything?"
Amelie shook her head politely. "No thanks, I'm good." Even in her four-inch D&G patent
pumps, Amelie still wasn't Jake's height.
Over Jake's shoulder, she caught sight of Hunter's back. Finally! She felt like a little kid on
Christmas morning. He'd probably been looking for her all night too. She waited where she
stood, hoping he'd turn and see her.
Pushing a lock of red hair from her face, she stared at Hunter's back, chanting in her head,
Turn around. Turn around. She couldn't wait until he saw her in this dress. She hoped she
wasn't turning blue from the cold. Maybe he'd take her someplace quiet inside the house, so
they could talk and be alone. Amelie felt jittery as Hunter half turned, revealing his strong
chiseled chin and that perfect aquiline nose. But then Amelie saw who he was talking to: a
pretty brunette, in a dress that revealed more limbs than the magnolia trees in Lewis's backyard.
They were talking and laughing, the brunette's hand on Hunter's arm. But that was no big deal,
right? Amelie was here with Jake, and that was purely a friends thing. Or, Amelie thought,
mildly ashamed, a using-your-friends thing.
She took a few tentative steps toward Hunter. She could cut in and introduce herself to his
friend. She had nothing to be nervous about. Hunter had asked her here, to be his date to the
party.
She clacked across the tennis court, nearing Hunter just as he leaned down and planted a long,
deep kiss on the brunette's lips. Amelie stopped dead in her tracks.
Her knees buckled. She felt like the tennis court was going to crumble out from underneath her.
And then it hit her: She'd set herself up for this very disappointment. If this had been a date,
wouldn't Hunter have picked her up? Or made sure she knew where to meet him? Or asked for
her phone number? Amelie felt her face flush red with embarrassment, disappointment, and
rejection.
So they'd hung out at Area. He'd given her a kiss on the cheek, even after she'd sent multiple
signals that he could have gone for a full-on kiss--like the one he continued to share with the
brunette. Hunter didn't have feelings for her. He was friendly, professional, and about as flirty
as she'd been with poor Jake.
Feeling tears prick at the corner of her eyes, Amelie did a three-sixty from the sight of Hunter
and the girl. She fled in the direction of a terrace along the side of the mansion.
Jake watched Amelie run off. Oh my God, he thought. What did I do? He cursed himself and
his un-smooth ways. He should have asked her to dance. Or maybe she'd wanted him to take
her somewhere to talk. He'd taken her out to hear the band play, because he'd thought the
crowded tennis court was the most low-pressure spot he could choose. But clearly, Amelie was
not having a good time.
He followed her to the terrace, feeling determined. He would tell Amelie that he liked her and
that he hadn't meant to be so quiet. He tried to muster as much manliness as he could, given that
his Battlestar Galactica-obsessed friend had dressed him tonight.
The terrace was nearly empty, save for a couple making out behind a potted palm in one corner.
Amelie stood in the other corner, staring into space as she leaned over the railing. The corners
of her turquoise eyes were wet.
Jake
hopped up the terrace's small, shallow steps and quietly approached Amelie.
"Hey," he murmured. Just do this, he told himself. Tell her not to cry. Tell her she's amazing.
Tell her you like her.
He could feel the words at the top of his throat, ready to float their way to Amelie's ears. He
pictured her sad expression replaced by a happy one as each word reached her. She'd lift her
chin, her eyelids widening from their half-mast state. A smile would turn her lips up in a curve
of pleasure. He took her hand, producing a cocktail napkin from his pocket.
Amelie took the napkin with a weak smile and turned to him. She was staring at him . . .
expectantly? Curiously? He wasn't really sure. Jake cleared his throat. He wasn't going to make
the first romantic overture of his life with a cracking voice.
The door from the house to the terrace swung open behind him with a creak. So what if
someone else was here? Let them listen. He was crazy about this girl and had nothing to hide.
"Don't cry," he began, pausing when he saw that Amelie was no longer looking at him. She
peered over his shoulder, her tiny hand still loosely gripping his.
A hint of a smile, or something like relief, took over the rest of her face.
"Hunter," she said.
Jake turned to look behind him. Awesome. Hunter "Hottest Under 25" Sparks had joined them
on the terrace. He might as well have ridden up on a majestic steed or something, he looked so
heroic in his plain green T-shirt under a gray military-style jacket and jeans. Were those regular
old Levi's? Jake felt like an idiot with his artfully frayed back pockets.
Hunter stepped toward Amelie, ignoring Jake as though he were just one of the terrace's
weatherproof ottomans.
"Are you okay?" Hunter asked, placing a hand on Amelie's bare shoulder. "I saw you run off
from the tennis courts." He still hadn't acknowledged Jake. "Why don't I take you home?"
Amelie nodded. Without ceremony, she dropped Jake's hand.
"See you on Monday, okay, Jake?" Amelie turned to face him, her eyes glimmering a darker
blue with the remainder of her tears.
Jake fought his urge to yell, But I like you. I'd do anything for you. Don't go with him! Instead,
he uttered an "Okay."
Hunter took off his jacket, draped it over Amelie's shoulders, and--his arm around her waist-steered her from the terrace with only a curt nod to Jake. Like Jake had been the one taking
Amelie away from him.
The couple making out on the terrace paused, taking in the show. Jake heard the guy murmur,
"Was that Amelie Adams with Hunter Sparks?"
Jake deflated. Of course it was. How had he been stupid enough to believe this was a date?
Amelie had used him to get to the party, and he'd fallen under her spell as easily as if she'd
enchanted him with her Fairy Princess wand.
Things really had changed for Jake this school year. They'd gotten much, much worse.
DEADLY KISS
Ash sat alone on a Mod Abode teak sun lounger, guzzling a Stella as he looked blankly across
the empty, still pool. It was past midnight, and he still hadn't found Myla. A few seats away,
his friend Tucker groped a UCLA coed whose long dirty blond waves disturbingly reminded
Ash of his sister, Tessa. The girl kept running her hand over Tucker's recently shaved Downysoft head.
The Goodbar performance was in full swing, and Ash could see the stage clearly from where
he sat. Lewis Buford was guest singing for Goodbar. He strutted around the stage cockily,
holding the mike between two hands, every so often pumping his fist like a demented, sweaty
Bono.
"My name is Lewis Buford, and I'm a rockaholic."
Ash scoffed, rolling his eyes at a group of girls in front of the stage in matching halter tops
mooning up at Lewis. The whole tennis court was filled with writhing bodies, eager to catch
Lewis's performance. How they could dance to Lewis's off-pitch vocals was beyond Ash.
He took another swig of beer, wishing Myla would materialize next to him. Since he'd gotten
her invitation yesterday, he'd been resisting the urge to just call her--she'd accused him of being
needy, and he wanted to show her that he could survive without her for a day. He'd already
done it for five. He'd looked for her in the house and on the tennis courts with no luck. He
really didn't want to circle the party again. He feared bumping into Jojo, whom he'd left
dejected and angry an hour before. He really felt crappy about the situation. Why couldn't you
hang with your ex's new sister to make your ex jealous without it getting all emotional?
And how had things gotten so complicated?
Myla would probably know where he'd gone wrong. Once they'd happily gotten back together,
he'd tell her to treat Jojo a little better. Maybe they could hang out, the three of them. Tucker
thought Jojo was totally cute, so maybe he could do a little matchmaking or something. Myla
was good at that stuff, when she was feeling generous.
Squinting across the water, Ash rescanned the crowd. Even with the prospect of running into
an angry Jojo, he knew he'd eventually have to continue roaming the party in search of Myla.
Unless she wasn't here?
He slowly swallowed a fresh gulp of the cold beer. That was a possibility he refused to
Myla involuntarily played with the gold chain that once had held her Green Lantern ring. She'd
replaced the ring with a delicate hummingbird charm of no particular significance, except that it
didn't remind her of Ash. But she still couldn't break the habit of touching the chain.
Instead of going the minidress-up-to-there-with-heels route, which was becoming de rigueur at
these events, Myla had worn her dark denim Rock & Republic jeans that made her butt look
amazing with a simple American Apparel cami in royal blue. She topped it off with a fitted gray
hoodie that was actually Mahalo's and wore her slightly weathered Frye boots. Her hair
tumbled over her shoulders in a way that looked effortless but had taken hours. For makeup,
she'd opted for her creamy Stila highlighter with a touch of shimmer, and golden eye shadow
that made her green eyes pop. Glamour didn't have to mean excess glitz. Try telling that to
Fortune Weathers, Myla thought. Her friend's Swarovski crystal-encrusted shift dress looked
like it weighed about two thousand pounds, and made her walk like a caveman.
Myla was standing next to a makeshift tiki bar alongside the tennis court, tapping her boot
soundlessly against the verdant, high-maintenance lawn. She was waiting on her third Grey
Goose and tonic as she watched Lewis Buford perform, while hoping to catch Ash in her
peripheral vision.
The last time she'd been here, almost two years ago, Ash and Lewis had been working on a
new song together with Myla as their muse. She remembered how they'd gone from rhyming
words with "dark" to arguing about who would be the lead singer. Ash had stormed out and
Myla had followed. She'd left behind her new Vince bomber jacket and had returned to the
house to get it. Lewis had backed her into a corner of his foyer, trying to kiss her, telling her he
was better than Ash in every way. Ash had rescued her in the nick of time, charging through
the door, punching Lewis in the jaw, and leading Myla to safety. It was one of Myla's best
memories, not least of all because that day was the first time Ash told her he loved her.
"Thank you, and good morning, bitches!" Lewis was wrapping up the band's set with a
flourish, raising his arms in the air to command more applause for his performance. His face in
a satisfied rock-god grin, he leapt off the stage and made a beeline for Myla.
He beamed at her, his whitened teeth bordering on glow-in-the-dark. She couldn't have paid
Lewis to look this happy to see her.
Myla loved when she had a plan. Even better was when everything started to fall into place.
After she'd sent Ash the invite to Lewis's party yesterday, she'd called Lewis and engaged him
in some flirty banter. When she mentioned his party, she could practically hear him salivating at
the prospect of having her in his house. He'd had a thing for her for ages.
Lewis had told her to come see his set with Goodbar, starting at midnight. Now all she had to
do was flirt like crazy in Ash's sight line, and he'd know exactly how she'd felt the other day in
Jojo's room. These days, "an eye for an eye" was practically Myla's mantra.
Lewis grabbed her by the arm, his grip uncomfortably tight. "Hey, hotness," he said, leading
her away from the crowd. "Let's hit VIP. Did you hear some chick barfed on Barnsley? I have
got to get that story."
Myla smiled, picturing that loser Barnsley getting puked on. Lewis led her behind the stage
toward the guesthouse. "You were great onstage," she lied.
"I know," Lewis said, turning back to grin at her as he pushed through the door of the
guesthouse. Myla smirked to herself. Ash would definitely know to look for her here. Beyond
it being where they used to hang out when Ash and Lewis were friends, Ash knew she'd
always choose the most exclusive section of any social event. "I can't wait till I get my own
band together again. You'll come to all our shows, right?"
She tossed her long hair over her shoulder, giving Lewis her sexiest stare. "Hell, yeah," she
said. "I can't wait." Flirting with Lewis should technically have been easy, because he was
ridiculously good looking. His thick, dark hair was always slightly mussed, and he had a
dimple in his left cheek. But he was so full of himself. Tonight, he wore a shirt screen-printed
with his baby photo: Lewis on a bearskin rug, naked.