“The word’s out, huh?”
“It’s all over MySpace. Also aintitcool.com. And then there was the full-page thingie in the
Hollywood Reporter,”
she joked.
Ben stretched and rubbed the back of his neck, which made his biceps bulge nicely. “I forgot about the Beverly Hills gossip line. The underground railroad had nothing on you guys.” For a moment, Cammie bristled. Just what did he mean by “you guys”? She wasn’t that big of a gossip. She was too busy being the star to spend that much time on other people. But she decided to let it go. She wasn’t here to bitch. She was here to make nice. Very, very nice.
“Everyone saw you at graduation,” Cammie replied strategically, stretching out her legs for maximum visual impact. “Everyone saw Anna get into that guy’s—” “Caine. His name is Caine.” “How biblical. Yeah, I met him at Sam’s party out on the
Look Sharpe
. Tattoo Guy. Pretty odd for Anna, but whatever. She blew you off for him?” Cammie was careful to sound as incredulous as possible.
Ben shrugged. “Maybe you ought to ask her.” Cammie took another sip of her coconut smoothie.
She felt some coat the skin above her plump upper lip and licked it off slowly, knowing that he was watching. “It’s not like she and I are the best of friends, Ben.” He shrugged again. “You’re doing community service with her. Which, incidentally, is hilarious. Don’t you talk?” “Two ex-girlfriends comparing notes. I can’t think of anything more banal. Except maybe some Penny Marshall movie I’d never see.” “I wouldn’t put Anna in the ‘ex’ column. I’d put her in the ‘we’re taking a breather’ column.” Cammie playfully nudged the toe of her boot into his calf. “Get over it, Ben. I doubt very much that she’s tooling around with Tattoo Guy and telling him that she’s taking a ‘breather’ from you.” She watched that zinger cause a flicker of doubt to cross Ben’s face.
“She’s pissed at me,” he admitted. “She pisses off easily. Where’s the love?”
He swung his legs off the chair. “She’ll either get over it or not. I’m not dwelling on it, if that’s what you mean.” “How long are you planning to wait?” Cammie looked at him closely.
“Till I get sick of waiting, I guess.”
“That’s almost frighteningly mature,” Cammie mused. “Is that what happens after a year at Princeton? Because if it is, I’m
never
going to college.” He laughed; Cammie could always make him laugh. That was what kept them together when they were a couple, back when he was a senior and she was a junior. Well, that and physical chemistry so hot it made her feel dizzy.
“Well, I just wanted to say that if you need a shoulder to cry on, I’m here,” Cammie continued intimately. “Adam’s in Michigan, so I’ve got the time. And even if you tie me up, tie me down, and kiss me all over, I’m not fooling around with you.” Ben cracked up. “Liar.” “You know, the bizarre thing is . . . I really do love Adam. But what can I tell you, Ben? I’ll always have a weakness for you. So don’t tempt me, and I’ll try not to tempt you. Deal?” He nodded, regarding her with something that seemed to approach respect. “Deal.” “If I break my promise, the smoothie gods will strike me down with a bolt of liquid lightning.” “Then I’d say you’re the one who’s almost frighteningly mature,” Ben observed. “Hanging out with Adam did that for you, huh?” “He’s a great guy. He’s deep and kind and . . .” She shrugged. “Probably way too good for me.” “Ah, Cammie. There is no one else quite like you.” Ben leaned forward in his lawn chair and enveloped her in a quick hug.
She let it go at that. She wasn’t about to let on that her mind wasn’t nearly as faithful as her body.
S
am took her usual table at the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel and waited for the latest petite and dimwitted waitress to wait on her.
Sam had been coming to the Beverly Hills Hotel since she was a little kid, first with her father, and then—by the time she was in middle school—with her friends. Even as middle-schoolers, Sam and her buds didn’t have to wait for Mommy or Daddy to drive them. Most were even spared the ignominious humiliation of trailing some nanny or au pair. They simply called the family chauffeur and got dropped off. Then, when they were ready to come home, they’d press speed dial and the driver would be at the hotel there within thirty minutes.
It was a nice tradition for the junior division of Hollywood showbiz royalty.
“Hey, there. Care to see the menu?” asked a waitress with long, wavy chestnut hair, the curves of a Barbie doll, and a sweet Southern accent. She was naturally gorgeous. Sam
hated
that in a waitress.
“I haven’t looked at a menu in here since I was six.” Sam wore oversize round black Chanel sunglasses along with her Eve of Destruction jeans and her latest acquisitions from Scoop boutique: a green silk tank top under a Versace black jacket just long enough to cover the widest part of her hips and ass.
Sam whipped off the sunglasses, knowing exactly what would happen. The waitress-actress wanna-be would realize who Sam was and then suck up to her in an effort to gain access to Sam’s father and then, hopefully, a role in one of Jackson’s films.
“Well, dang, why buck a trend?” the waitress asked with a sparkling smile. “Now, tell me what I can get you. Unless you want to wait.” She motioned to the empty chair across the table.
Was it really possible that she didn’t know who Sam was?
“The house salad with dressing on the side, the onion soup, no cheese, and an iced cappuccino, no whipped cream,” Sam ordered. She had planned on a cheeseburger and fries but had come down with a bad case of size-two-waitress envy. “And you’re right, I’m meeting someone. Put the whole thing on my dad’s tab.”
The waitress’s eyebrows headed north as she finished jotting down the order. “Sorry?”
“Tab. Bill. Balance sheet. Account. Signing privileges. My father. Do it.”
“Oh, they haven’t told me about that yet. I’m new. First day here, in fact. Whose account would that be?”
“Jackson Sharpe.”
“Jackson Sharpe,” the girl repeated. “Okay, I’ll ask my manager. Anything else?” Sam shook her head. Very odd.
The waitress was just leaving as Sam spotted Parker near the bar, heading for her table. He wore his usual jeans, a white T-shirt, and a red windbreaker, which only prompted more people to make the obvious comparison to James Dean. Sam saw her tarry long enough to flash him a dazzling smile as he slid into the empty seat at her table.
“Damn, that waitress is a knockout.”
“The operative term being
waitress,
Parker. Meaning she’s not your type.” Okay. That was sort of uncalled for, but it never hurt to remind Parker who had the power at this table. He was always on the lookout for girlfriends with money, which was fine. The thing was, Sam knew that Parker would never describe
her
as a knockout. No one would. Oh, she was no bowser, though she sometimes felt like one, compared to her friends. Pear-shaped. Size ten—and that was only when she was dieting. Thighs that screamed, “Cellulite as gross as cottage cheese!” across a room, even when artfully draped in thousand-dollar pants.
“I saw Cammie at Faux,” Parker said, naming a club on Sunset where everything was made to look deliberately kitsch. “Late last night. She told me about getting arrested with Anna. What a hoot.” “Who was she there with?”
“No one. Or everyone, depending on how you look at it. She danced with every guy in the place and half the girls, too.” “Hello?” The Barbie-doll-curves waitress was back at their table, pad at the ready, her eyes fixed on Parker. “Would you like to see a menu, or have you not had to look at it since you were six, too?” Sam looked at her closely. She had an actual small laugh line near her left eye. Forget Botox. Damn. Her tits were probably real as well.
“I know just what I want,” he responded slowly, making serious eye contact.
“Do you?” She smiled like a beauty pageant contestant who knew she’d just nailed the talent portion of the competition. “And what would that be?” “What’s your name?” Parker asked.
“Citron. Yours?”
“Parker.” He held out a hand. “It’s a pleasure, Citron.” The waitress took it and they started chatting like she didn’t have another table to look after, he was eating alone, and Sam was a department store mannequin. Citron turned out to be a recent arrival from Louisiana. She’d bummed around for a few years but would start at Loyola-Marymount in the fall and was waitressing to pay the rent.
“Someone who looks like you has to be a performer,” Parker decided, his tone flirty. “Actress? Model?” Citron smiled. There was another laugh line. “Neither. Singer. Kind of in the Alicia Keyes vein—”
“Excuse me,” Sam interrupted. “Did I turn on my invisibility cloak?” “Oh, so sorry. Is your boyfriend hitting on me?” Citron looked neither guilty nor ashamed.
Sam smiled thinly. “He’s not my—look, could you just take his order, bring food, and give us the privacy that we so richly deserve?” Parker ordered a toasted bagel, fries, and coffee, and then turned his attention to Sam as Citron hustled off to the kitchen. “Sorry about that. Did you ask me to lunch because you miss seeing me at school every day?” “No, Parker. I invited you because I wanted to watch you hit on the waitress.” “That wasn’t hitting—” Sam waved her hand to cut him off. “I know, I know. If you were really hitting on her, she’d be on a break with you now in one of the empty bungalows. Forget it. Actually, I wanted to thank you again for what you did with Eduardo. I owe you. Big-time.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Forget it. You two are back together?” “Better than together. He took me to Peru for graduation. To meet his family. I am a woman in love. And I owe it to you.” “Excellent.” Parker laced his fingers together. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer girl.” Sam frowned. Nice? Her? She should take it as a compliment, she supposed. But the truth was, she’d asked him to lunch to offer him more than just a thank-you. And the reason was definitely not one a “nice” girl would come up with. But there was time enough to get to that.
“Thanks. So what’s up with work for you?” she inquired.
Parker talked about his so-called career for a while. It was more of the usual. He was auditioning for a whole bunch of roles, none of which he would get. He was thinking about getting a crap job to help his mom pay the rent, but the thought of working as a waiter at some place where his friends might eat was incredibly depressing and would confuse everyone since Sam was his only friend who knew his real financial situation. Which made it the perfect time for Sam to pounce.
“So listen. You know my dad is remaking
Ben-Hur,
right?” Parker gave her a quizzical look and edged his chair closer to the table. “Of course I know. We had our prom on the chariot race set. Lay off the wacky weed.” “Here you go, Parker.” Citron carefully set his bagel and fries in front of him and then poured coffee into his cup.
“Thanks, Citron. What brought you to Los Angeles, anyway?” “Katrina,” she answered, with not a little sadness in her voice. “I’m from New Orleans. I stayed with my grandparents in Memphis for a while. Then with friends in Baton Rouge. And now . . . here I am.” When it appeared that they were about two conversational steps from the traditional swapping of cell phone numbers, Sam shooed the waitress away once again. To bring her her lunch. Which she had ordered before Parker even showed up.
“Get the digits after,” Sam suggested when she took off. “Is that too much to ask?” Parker watched Citron at another table. “Damn, there is just something about her—” “Yeah, great.
Focus!
I want to talk to you about something infinitely more important. Namely, a role in my father’s movie.” Parker actually froze with his bagel halfway to his lips.
“Did you say—?”
“Yeah. Next week. Tom Hanks is coming in to do a small part as a favor to my dad. They go way back. You’d be up for the role of Tom Hanks’s son. And you’d have a brief scene with my father.” Down to the white china plate went the bagel, and Parker’s eyes widened to the size of its rim. “Tom Hanks’s son. And a scene with your father.” Sam nodded and sipped her water. Now that she had his attention, she could take her time. Served him right.
“Tell me more,” Parker demanded.
“Oh, so
now
I get your attention,” Sam groused. “You’d play a Roman teen. You’d have three scenes: one little one, one where you get into a fight with your father, and one where you help prepare my father for the chariot race. It’s not insignificant.” “Damn, I would kill for a screen test.”
“You don’t actually have to test. I can get you an audition where you’d go up against two other guys. I’ve already talked to the casting director, and I’d say those are pretty decent odds. Of course, if you don’t want to bet on yourself—” “Are you shitting me? I always bet on myself. When? Where? And can I get sides?” Citron waltzed over with Sam’s order and set it down in front of her. Sam frowned. “Did I not say
dressing on the side
?” “Did you?” Citron asked, looking neither apologetic nor concerned.
“Forget it. Just take the salad away.”
“Fair enough.” Citron took the salad with her. “Sides?” Parker asked again.
“Got ’em right here.” Sam opened her oversized Be & D camel suede ruffled shoulder bag and took out several stapled sets of script pages she’d been given by her father’s assistant, Kiki Coors. “This is what you need to work on for the audition. I’ll call you with the time and place. Sound good?” Parker looked suspiciously like he had tears in his eyes when she handed him the sides. “Sam, this is really . . . I really . . .” Sam waved away his thanks and waited for him to take a sip of coffee. This was going to be fun.
“You’re the one who has to nail the gig. And in return, I only ask one thing.” She smiled sweetly. “That you also nail my stepmother.”
Parker nearly snorted coffee out to the hotel tennis courts and had to wipe his nose before talking. Sam desperately hoped that Citron had been watching.
“You want me to— Did you just say what I think you said?” “She’s cheating on my father. I’m pretty sure of it.” “So it’s just a suspicion.” “Well, I didn’t watch the act,” Sam admitted. “But I did see her with her yoga instructor, whose eyes—and probably his hands—know every curve of her ass.” “So you think she’s doing him,” Parker surmised.