Under the Lights (5 page)

“Oh, shut up.”

I let them bicker like little kids and scan the club to see if the hot waitress who blew me in the bathroom last time we were here is around. I don't see her, but the waitress who was giving Royce her cherry when we walked in returns, carrying neon-green shots that are apparently on the house. She drapes herself back over Royce and we toast to I don't even know what before drinking them down.

I glance at Liam as we toss the empty glasses back on her tray. He still looks pissed. Stressed. The other guys are distracted by the waitress, so I lean in. “Dude, what's wrong with you?”

He grabs the vodka I hadn't realized I was still holding and tosses it back. “Nothing. I'm fine.” He's lying; it doesn't take a PhD to guess he's not taking Ally's leaving as well as he wants to be. “How was the audition?”

“Shitty.” The bottle's nearing empty, and the waitress is busy making out with Hudson. “Hey, Hill, you guys got any more booze?”

He looks up from his phone. “We had Patrón… somewhere. Might be under Hudson.”

Hudson reaches under what's a little too close to his ass for comfort and pulls out a bottle without breaking mouth-to-mouth suction. I wipe the whole thing off on the corner of his shirt before uncapping it to pour shots for Liam and me.

“Sorry, man,” he says with a frown. “Got any more lined up?”

We clink shots and toss ‘em back. “Not yet. Going down to Miami for an Aspen shoot this weekend. Having dinner with Holly when I get back. And I have to figure out this shit with my parents.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You've been talking to your parents? About
what
?”

I forget how seriously Ally takes the whole discretion part of client privilege. “My mom got canned,” I mutter, taking a swig straight from the tequila bottle. “Now she wants to do some reality shit so she can pretend she was ever relevant.”

Liam barks out a laugh. “Your family. In a reality show. Seriously? And your dad is cool with this?”

“My dad was paying attention for approximately five seconds of the conversation. Anyway, he's not the one that network gives a shit about. Lucky me.”

“I don't get it. Just say no.”

“She's blackmailing me with my house.” Man, talking about this shit is really ruining the buzz I've spent all day building. “Fuck this.” I yank Royce away from the waitress. “Hey,” I say to her. “Is Gia working tonight?”

“You mean Gina?” she asks, wiping her mouth.

“Yeah. Yeah, Gina. Right. She here?” I need a serious distraction, and the bottled variety just isn't cutting it right now.

“I think she's around. I'll check. Can I get you boys anything else?”

Liam holds up the empty vodka bottle. “Another one of these, please.”

“Hey, is that Scott Lassiter?” Jeremy asks, keeping his voice low. We all look up, and see that it is indeed. Lassiter's the fastest-rising young director in Hollywood right now, but he's also picky and neurotic as balls. Getting an audition with him is next to impossible. The other guys all sit up a little straighter, like that'll suddenly give them a shot in hell of getting noticed.

“Any of you guys auditioning for his Iraq movie?” Royce asks.

Jeremy snorts. “My agent's been trying to get a meeting with him for months. No luck. He's such a dick.”

“What about you, Chester?”

Royce's mouth is curved up just enough for me to know he's actively trying to be an asshole right now; he knows there's no chance Holly could score me an audition. Lassiter's impossible enough, and Holly's a junior agent. If I could've gone with anyone else—and I mean,
anyone
—after getting dropped by Calvin, I probably would have.

“There's not a single hot chick in that movie,” I say flatly. “No chance I'm going to sweat my balls off in the desert for that shit.”

“The asshole doesn't even return my agent's calls,” mutters Paz. “Self-righteous prick.”

“Paz, you've got like nine inches to grow in every fucking direction—including your dick—before you can play a soldier,” says Royce. “I'm perfect for that shit.”

“You'd look like an
actual
dick in a uniform,” Paz shoots back. “But Holloway…fuck, man, you'd be perfect. You auditioning?”

Liam doesn't get a chance to answer, because suddenly, the man himself is standing before us.

“Mr. Lassiter.” Jeremy jumps up, sticking out his hand like an overeager tool. “Jeremy Hill. I'm a big fan.”

Lassiter looks at Jeremy's hand, ignores it, glances around at all of us. His gaze settles on Liam. “You. You look familiar. Who are you?”

“Liam Holloway.” I swear, the way he says it, you'd think he was about to tack a “Sir” on the end. He really
is
kinda perfect to play a soldier, all respectful and disciplined and shit. “I was in James Gallagher's last movie,
The History of Us
.”
Sir.

“Oh yeah. Fuckin' Jim. That movie was all right. Who's your agent?”

“Evan Cooper, Sir.”

I knew it.

The rest of us laugh, and so does Lassiter, but he's not walking away. “Lift up your shirt.”

Liam's so stunned, he doesn't even respond. Fortunately, I have no such problem with my reaction time, and at least one of us recognizes this for the opportunity it is. I yank up Liam's shirt as far as I can, revealing his eight-pack to the entirety of Circuit.

Half the fucking club stops and whistles, and I grin as some girl calls out “Nice body!” from the front.

“I'm inclined to agree,” Lassiter says wryly. “Here,
Sir.
Tell Evan Cooper to give me a call.” He hands over a card, gives Liam's abs another quick glance, then walks off toward the bar.

Liam whirls around to see us all gaping at him. “Did that shit seriously just happen?” he asks me.

“That shit
seriously
just happened,” I confirm, giving him a bro-five that nearly breaks my palm in two. “Scott fucking
Lassiter
! That's a Fourth of July movie, man!”

Just like that, the goofy, bewildered smile on his face falls. “Right. A Fourth of July movie. Which means filming starts soon.”

“So?” asks Paz.

“So it overlaps with
Daylight Falls
,” he says miserably.

Which means there's no chance in hell he'll be able to do it.

He sighs and drops back down to his seat. I don't really know what to say him now—none of us do—but it doesn't matter. He pulls out his phone, and I know we've lost him to Ally for the night.

“Chester, this place looks absurd,” Liam observes as he walks around the pool area, taking in the last few weeks' worth of planning. “Hasn't Ally told you a million times, no fire?”

“She said no fire
works
. Or fire dancers. She's never said anything about setting the hot tub on fire.” I watch one of the burlesque dancers touch up another's makeup, and I wonder how badly it'll stain my pillowcase later.

“And don't you think a Gray's Papaya cart is a little excessive? I didn't even know they
had
carts.”

“It's vintage.” I was particularly proud of that find. “And this party's for
your
girlfriend. You'd think you'd be a little more appreciative. Especially since you insisted on being painfully boring for your birthday. Which, by the way, if you think you're getting away with for your twenty-first…”

He rolls his eyes. “Don't worry—you've already made it plenty clear that next year we'll be acting out the
Grand Theft Auto
edition of your choice.”

“Excellent.” We head over to the bar and help ourselves to a couple of bottles of Stella while the guys set up. “How'd the Lassiter audition go?”

“Not sure.” He takes a long drink, and I realize this might be the first time Liam's actually looked nervous over a movie role. Even last year, when he scored the James Gallagher part Jeremy Hill had a total hard-on for, he didn't really give a shit. “They said I'd need to gain like ten, fifteen pounds of muscle.” He side-eyes the bottle. “This probably isn't helping.”

“They always say that shit. Anyway, a little protein powder and you're golden.”

“Patchett was there, though. And Gray. And Valenti. Valenti almost beat me out last year for
History
.”

“Yeah, but he didn't. Dude, you've gotta get a little more of an ego, or little dicks like Valenti and Hudson are gonna walk all over you. You've got this shit. Trust.”

“Doesn't even matter if I do. There's no way I can work it out with the show.”

“Man, you really love excuses. Isn't it filming mostly in Imperial Valley? If you got a reduced storyline on the show and basically busted your ass, you could do it. You get a callback?”

“Yeah.” He takes another long drink. “Friday.”

Ah, fuck.
So that's the real problem; he's gotta act his ass off the day after he sends Ally off to New York. “So, that could be cool, right? Channel your pain into some sort of war-torn PTSD shit?”

He snorts. “Yeah, maybe.” Then he pulls out his phone. “Still no text from Van. Guess they're still shopping.”

“Hey, Josh Chester!” a voice calls out from behind us. We turn, but I don't recognize the guy coming toward us.

“Who are you?” I raise my sunglasses, but I've definitely never seen this guy before in my life. “Are you one of the bartenders?”

He laughs and holds out a hand. “I'm Chuck. Joe Perotti sent me.”

Joe Perotti…
Why does that name sound so familiar?

“The reality show guy?” asks Liam.

Motherf—

“I didn't realize you decided to do it,” Liam says slowly.

“That's because I didn't.” I turn back to Chuck, who's finally figured out I won't be touching his slimy hand. “This is a private party. Invited guests only.”

“Your mother
did
invite me,” says Chuck, his stupid sleazy smile not wavering for a second. “Said this would be a great opportunity for some preliminary footage. Joe loved the idea.”

“How did my mother even
know
about it?” I ask Liam, ignoring Chuck completely.

“Um, look at this place, Chester. They can probably see that light-up ice sculpture of the Empire State Building from space. Doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure out you're doing
something
here tonight.”

“Well, what I'm
doing
,” I spit, half-looking at Chuck now, half-hoping he'll just disappear if I ignore him long enough, “is throwing a party for a friend, and I'd really like for everyone who shouldn't have gotten past security to get the hell out.”

“Like I said”—Chuck grins like an asshole—“your mom set this up. And seeing as apparently this is her house…”

“Don't kid yourself, Chucky. I earn more in a fucking day of modeling than my mother earns in six months as a has-been drama queen. If she weren't holding on
to this place as tightly as humanly possible in her little ferret paws—”

“Oooookay.” I feel a hand on my arm and look down to see Liam pulling me away. “Chester, how many times have we discussed the fact that you cannot just say whatever the hell you feel like?” he mutters under his breath. “Guys like him live to rile you up to get footage like this.”

“Well, I'm not signing a damn thing, so good luck to him if he's got a creep filming me from somewhere.” I realize right then that I'm still holding a half-f bottle of Stella, and I chug the rest, hoping it'll calm me down, because I know Liam's right.

Of course, it's warm by now, so I basically just drank piss.

I put the bottle down before I can hurl it at the concrete.

“I fucking hate her,” I say quietly. “I hate them both.”

He frowns. “I know. Trust me, I know all about parental douchebags. But you've got a kickass party set up, and people are gonna get here soon, and that guy's just gonna get lost in the crowd. Let's let the fact that Ally's leaving be the only thing that blows about tonight, okay?”

It's such a childish, Liam pep talk, but it works; his Yoda shit always does. I take a deep breath and look around. “Yeah, let's go get another beer.”

It's so weird to be looking at sweaters,” Ally muses for the third or fourth time that afternoon. “I can't believe I'm gonna need
sweaters
.” She says it as if it's awful, but there's a reason I'm the actor of the two of us. She can't wait to wear itchy wool and cashmere cable-knit. And she eyed eight billion pairs of boots when we were in the shoe department. Girl's clearly already an East Coaster in her mind.

“That one's cute,” I say, trying to get excited about it. It
is
cute—a gray thing with a black Peter Pan collar that'll probably look nice with jeans—but it's hard to get psyched about
why
she'll need sweaters. Not that we don't wear sweaters and boots plenty here in LA, but they're not exactly the wardrobe staples my jean cutoffs or cropped tops are.