Under the Lights (24 page)

“What're you gonna do about it?” I ask, getting up in his face.

He flinches like the wimp he is. “I'm not doing anything,” he mutters. “Just saying, it's not cool.”

“You know what's not cool? Showing up at my cousin's party and accusing a guy you don't even know of shit.”

“Wyatt invited me.”

“Wyatt's an idiot, then, because you're a fucking tool and you should get outta here.”

“Chill out, man.” He shakes his head at his friends, but even through my vodka-blurred eyes, I can tell he's afraid of me. It feels good.

“No, asswipe, I don't think I
will
chill out. And if your little buddy is so into his girl, then why's she always with me, anyway?”

The other guys ooh and laugh, but frankly, I think it's a pretty damn good question. She's obviously not into Zander. She spends way more time with me than she does with him. Just because I'm not hooking up with her doesn't mean I won't. And Zander's a fucking idiot for taking her for granted.

“Dude, Wilson's gonna kick your ass,” Jase warns me.

Now that cracks me up. I nearly collapse with laughter at the image of a single one of the Wonder Tools taking me on. “I'd like to see him try. Or you. Or
anyone here, really.” I push up the sleeves of my black button-down. “Anyone?”

“Chester, just take a hit and relax,” says the guy closest to TamTam. He reaches for the bong and holds it out to me, but I just push it away. Now that the promise of a fight has been thrown out, it's all I want. I can feel the adrenaline pulsing through my veins, begging me to let it out in a solidly placed punch.

“Fuck that. Man up, Taylor. You wanna fight on your douchebag friend's behalf? Fight on your douchebag friend's behalf.”

“You're the one in the wrong here,” Jase says, standing up slowly. “Just stop plowing his girl and we won't have any problems.”

“You're already my fucking problem,” I snap, letting my fist fly. I couldn't stop it if I wanted to. The feeling of solid bone against my knuckles is exactly what I need, and as I watch him stumble backward and hear the scream of some random chick watching, I realize there's still plenty of fight in me. “Get back up, asshole. I'm not done with you.”

“Yeah, you are, cuz.” I hadn't even noticed Wyatt approaching, but I hear his voice right before he starts dragging me away. I don't even look at him, my eyes fixed on Jase Taylor grabbing his stupid glass jaw, but I let Wyatt pull me, because everything's gotten really hazy and I don't think I could walk in a straight line if I tried.

“What the fuck, man?” My tongue feels thick now that the fight is draining out of me, and I kinda wanna hit Wyatt, too, but I don't even have the energy.

“You can't punch people here, Josh. What the hell is wrong with you? You'll be lucky if he doesn't sue you. His face is, like, half his job.”

“Yeah, well, maybe he should get some fucking singing talent, and then he doesn't have to rely on being pretty.”

Wyatt sighs. “Just…go home and sleep it off, man. You've had enough to put down an elephant.”

“You're seriously tossing your own cousin out of your house right now?”

“I'm seriously telling you to call Ronen and have him get your ass home. You need to take a breather.”

“‘Take a breather'?” I snort. “Christ, Wyatt. Who the hell are you?”

“Hey, you asked me to throw a party so you could chill, and I did. But if you beat the shit out of my guests, it's gonna be the last one I ever get to throw, so, yeah, I'm telling you to go home.”

I yank my arm out of his grasp, pissed as all hell. “Fine. I'll go home. Gimme your keys.”

He snorts. “Please. You're blitzed out of your skull, and you don't even know how to drive. Call Ronen.”

“And what? Sit out here on your stoop while I wait for him to come? No thanks.” I walk out into the street and hold out my thumb, hitchhiker style.

“Josh—”

“You're a fucking pain in my ass, you know that, Wyatt?”

He shakes his head. “Go inside the house and wait for Ronen.”

But I don't wanna go back in that house. I don't wanna be near Wyatt, or Jase, or Liam. I don't wanna be near anyone talking about their jobs, or random chicks who just wanna blow me to have a story to tell their friends.

And for some reason, I decide the brilliant thing to do is just to run.

So I do.

I have no idea what time I actually fell asleep last night. I do know, however, that I did it while staring at my phone, wishing I could call Bri, or that she'd call me. Not that there was anything for either of us to say. Regardless, my cell is definitely still next to my head when it blasts in my ear the next morning, startling me awake.

Groaning, I lift my head from the pool of drool on my blanket and squint at the screen. I don't recognize the number, which is usually an auto-ignore sign to me, but I'm so wrapped up in the hope that it might be Bri that against all my better judgment, I answer it anyway. “Hello?”

“Oh, thank fuck you answered, K-drama. I need you to come get me.”

I rub the sleep out of my eyes and pull the phone away to check the number again. What the hell is happening right now? “Josh?”

“I'm at the Burbank PD. They made me sleep in the fucking drunk tank. Can you get me?”

“The drunk tank? Are you kidding me?”

He sighs exasperatedly, like I'm the one who stuck an IV of tequila into his veins. “I don't get a lot of time here, K-drama. One call, and Ronen's got the day off
for his sister's wedding, so I made you it. Will you come or not?”

As if I'm not in hot enough water with everyone imaginable, I don't even know what would happen if I showed up at a freaking
police station
to gather Josh. It's only by the grace of my parents visiting my aunt this week that I've managed to avoid their wrath after all that publicity. “I can't, Josh. I'm screwed enough as it is. But I'll call Liam—”

“Do
not
call Liam. Trust me—he's not up for doing me any favors right now.”

“And you think
I
am?”

“Hey, I think I did pretty good by you in that stupid fucking interview, didn't I?” I hear someone yelling in the background, and then Josh says, “I gotta go. Stop making excuses and come get me.” He hangs up.

I stare at the phone for a full minute, trying to decide how much I care that Josh needs me. Of
course
he'd put this on me without a second thought, and of course he just assumes I'll do whatever he wants. I'm sort of dying to teach him a lesson by ignoring him and going back to sleep. Plus, I'm just dying for more sleep, period.

But I know I won't screw him over like that, no matter how badly I want to. If I really was his one call… It's not like I want to call his parents—even if I knew how to reach them—and he made it pretty clear Liam wasn't an option. I don't know how to contact Holly on a weekend, and
ugh
, Ally,
how
could you leave me alone with this idiot?

Groaning, I pull myself out of bed and drag my butt into the shower, but even washing off the grime of last night doesn't make me feel better about this whole thing. I can't just roll up to a freaking police station,
and definitely not to pick up the guy who's already the center of a billion rumors about me now.

I throw on an incognito outfit of jeans, a plaid shirt, and sunglasses, but I still can't make myself move out the door. I can't do this alone, and I can only think of one person who might help me. Much as she might hate me right now, there's no one else I can call. I take a deep breath and dial Bri.

The phone rings three times, and I'm sure she's screening my call. But just as I'm about to hang up, I hear the tail end of a weary sigh and then, “Hey.”

“I need to ask you a favor,” I blurt, hating myself for even saying the words.

“Vanessa—”

“As my publicist,” I add quickly, even though what I really need is hand-holding more than anything else. I quickly fill her in on my current predicament. “You know the shit will hit the fan even worse if I go myself. Plus, I just…I can't.”

“This is really messed up, you know that?”

“I do know that. I promise, if I had anyone else to ask, I would.”

She sighs again. “Lemme shower and get dressed, and I'll come pick you up.”

“Thank you, Bri. Seriously. I owe you.”

But she hangs up before the words are even out of my mouth.

I spend the time while I wait for her studying my lines, but I can't go more than a couple of minutes without glancing at my phone or out the front picture window. Finally, her Jeep pulls up, and I go out to meet her with all the anticipation I usually reserve for a full leg wax.

The ride to the police department is almost completely silent, minus the music blasting from the
speakers, which her iPod identifies as Rage Against the Machine. I don't know any of the songs, and she doesn't so much as absently tap her fingers along to any.

By the time we pull up to the Burbank PD, I'm actually excited to walk into jail, if it means getting out of the cold prison cell that is Bri's car.

Inside, the process of waiting for Josh to deal with his paperwork and hand over the fine he
swears
he'll pay back seems to take for-freaking-ever, especially with Bri ignoring me the entire time. She doesn't even stand with me as I deal with everything, opting instead to sit in the waiting area with a dog-eared copy of a creepy-looking book that says
The Secret History
on it in black block letters.

When Josh finally emerges, he looks like complete and total crap, and I'm curious just how much he partied the night before. After years of living like this, he's got sky-high tolerance, so it must've been pretty epic. But judging by the scowl on his face, along with his muttered “Thanks, K-drama,” I'm guessing he doesn't wanna talk about it. And he only gets more sour-looking when he spots Bri, who looks up from her book and sighs as she folds back her page and slowly stands to join us.

“What's Mini-Jade doing here?”

“I didn't wanna come myself,” I say defensively. “I think I'm in enough hot water without everyone seeing me showing up at a freaking prison to pick up the guy they think I'm cheating on my boyfriend with, thank you very much.”

“It's a police station, not a prison.” He ignores the rest, though. Then he picks up his stuff and follows us back out to the Jeep.

The ride home is even quieter than the way there. Josh is so obviously in painful-hangover mode that Bri takes pity on him and leaves the radio off, which means we're stuck listening to him moan in pain from where he's stretched out on the back seat. It's an hour ride to Malibu, and I keep glancing over at Bri's white knuckles, her hands clenching on the wheel in annoyance every time he emits a sound.

By the time we get to his house, I'm reasonably sure she wants to kill me.

I expect we'll just drop Josh off, especially when he announces he needs to go inside and pass out. But when he says, “K-drama, walk me in?” I'm so surprised I can't even say no. I shoot Bri a quick glance and hop out of the car while she rolls her eyes and turns on her music.

He waits until we're out of earshot, then says, “Listen, whatever shit is going on between the two of you, fix it.”

“There's nothing going on,” I lie.

“Oh, please. I haven't seen this much passive aggression since my parents' last anniversary. If this little falling-out has anything to do with me—”

“It doesn't,” I say, then realize I've just admitted to the fact that there
is
a falling out. He doesn't seem triumphant, though; I've obviously only confirmed what he already knew.

“Whatever. Just fix it. She's clearly the good friend you've needed since Ally left, and you need to work out your shit.” He yawns, not bothering to cover his mouth. “You can even use my guest house. I know you're a fan of it.” He reaches into his pocket, twists a key off his chain, and hands it to me. “Don't leave here angry.”

Then he lets himself into the main house and closes the door behind him.

When I turn back, I see Bri watching us through the windshield. I sigh and walk over, and wait for her to roll down her window. “Can we talk?” I ask.

She purses her lips. “Okay. Talk.”

“Not here.” I nod toward the paparazzi who've been following us since Burbank. “Guest house?” I hold up the key.

Sighing, she lets herself out of the car and follows me back to the same place we shamelessly flirted what feels like a million years ago. It's a long time before either one of us talks, even after I close the doors.

But she stays, which means she wants to talk. Or at least it means she doesn't hate me. At this point, I'll happily take that.

“Thanks for coming,” I say for probably the millionth time. It sounds just as inadequate as it did the first.

“No sweat.” She adjusts the messenger bag on her shoulder uncomfortably, her eyes on the toes of the maroon Pumas she often wears to yoga. “I'll see you—”

“Bri, wait. Please.”

She sighs, sounding utterly exhausted, and forces her eyes up to meet mine. They look so pained it makes my heart ache. “Why, Vanessa?”

The sound of my full name coming out in her voice just feels…wrong. We're not acquaintances. The mouth enunciating those three syllables has been on mine. This isn't how people who've had the talks we've had and done what we've done should be communicating.

And yet, I don't have an answer for her. No good reason why she should wait. Only the selfish truth. “Because I miss you. And I hate this.”