Blonde Ambition (13 page)

His mother nodded but didn’t look convinced. “Have fun.”

He held up the keys to her Saturn. “Thanks for this.” “You’re welcome—put some gas in it,” his mom said, putting her glasses back on.

Adam went outside, started her car, and slipped Beck’s
Sea Change
CD into the player. It suited his mood more than the sexy undertones of
Midnite
Vultures. Sea Change
was all about bitter breakups and broken hearts—far more appropriate.

A half hour later he was part of the long line of cars snaking into the Bowl’s parking lots, and then he felt as if he had to walk a mile through the greenery of Griffith Park before he reached the entrance to the outdoor concert space. He’d only been up to the Bowl once before, and that had been with his parents to see Sting. It had been his mom’s birthday—she was the world’s biggest Sting fan. He’d actually enjoyed the concert, except when his mom decided to sing along to “Roxanne” at the top of her lungs.

Adam had the best seat he could afford, which unfortunately meant nosebleed territory. He hadn’t thought to bring binoculars, either. As the vast outdoor amphitheater filled, he took in the amazing architecture, the signature proscenium arch that he knew offered outstanding acoustics for an outdoor arena.

He settled down, waiting for the warm-up band to start. To his left were some high-school kids in Harvard-Westlake sweatshirts, to his right a couple of men in their twenties. But Adam didn’t mind being at the concert alone; he knew he could easily have invited one of his buds from the basketball team. Or even Sam Sharpe. But it didn’t seem fair to saddle anyone with his brood over life, love, and lust. Over Anna.

While Adam was waiting for the music to begin, Cammie paced the floor of her room, cell phone in hand. As she waited for Sam to answer, she could hear strains of Christina Aguilera coming from Mia’s room. God. The girl’s taste in music was as bad as her taste in clothes.

Sam had promised that she’d call. In the olden BAP days—Before Anna Percy—a promise from Sam that she’d call meant that the phone would be ringing before noon. In the olden days Cammie would have already reminded Sam about Cammie’s upcoming sweet eighteenth birthday, at which point Sam would have jumped in and offered to do anything to help plan the blowout to end all blowouts.

That was then, this was now. Night had fallen, and Sam still hadn’t called her. So Cammie had figured out a plausible rationale for being the one to place the call. God forbid she should sound needy.

“Yuh?” Sam answered on the third ring. There was noise in the background, so Sam had to be out and about. Without Cammie. Something else that wouldn’t have happened BAP.

“Hey, girl,” Cammie greeted her. “What’s up?” She stopped in front of her three-way mirror to check out her new Jolie silk bra and matching panties.

“Not much.”

“Where are you?”

“Beauty Bar,” Sam yelled over the club’s noise.

Cammie knew the Beauty Bar, of course. Just off Hollywood Boulevard, it was done up exactly like a 1950s beauty salon and was one of the hip places of the moment. “Who’s there?” Cammie tried to sound nonchalant.

“Dee was, but she left for Stevie’s gig at the Hollywood Bowl. He’s opening for Beck, isn’t that cool?”

“Listen, about last night,” Cammie went on smoothly. “I just wanted to check and make sure you were okay that Adam kissed me.”

“You kissed him,” Sam corrected her. “I saw. And it was just a peck anyway; it’s not like it was leading to anything.”

“Whatever.”

Before she could figure out what to say next, Sam broke in. “You want to meet me at Johnny Rockets? I gotta get out of here. Three wanna-bes have already hit me up for roles in my new film.”

Roles in her new film? Cammie thought. What a pretentious crock of shit. Just because Sam had announced in class that she and Anna were doing a new project didn’t mean that anyone cared. Sometimes Sam’s pitiful attempts to step out from her father’s shadow were just so pathetic.

Instead of responding to Sam’s question, Cammie asked, “Where’s Adam?”

“Hollywood Bowl,” Sam replied. “He’s insane for Beck. Didn’t you know?”

Of course Cammie didn’t know. If she had, she would have told Adam that her father and Beck’s manager were best friends. But it wasn’t like Adam Flood confided in her.

“He didn’t ask you to go with him?” Cammie queried.

“We’re friends, that’s all,” Sam replied guilelessly. “I might be interested in him long term. But he’s kind of on the rebound from Anna now. So I don’t think he’s really up for a relationship. You know what I mean?”

Cammie smiled. “That’s frighteningly mature of you.” “I guess. We’ll see what happens. Anyway, Adam knows, like, every lyric Beck ever wrote,” Sam went on. “He’s got a shitty seat, though. Nosebleed section. So, you want to meet for a burger?”

The hamsters in Cammie’s mind started spinning their little metal wheels. Sam was backing off from Adam. Adam had gone to see Beck alone. He had a crap seat. She had the ability to make all his little I-love-Beck dreams come true. He’d be sooo grateful. This time he’d kiss her. And then she’d find out if what she thought she’d felt the night before was really something more than PMS cramps.

Suddenly Sam forgetting about her upcoming birthday had fallen off her list of priorities.

“I’ve got plans,” Cammie said coolly. “Call me tomorrow.”

Cammie leaned forward on the gray Italian leather seat to speak to her father’s driver. “Pull up to ‘will call.’”

It hadn’t taken Cammie more than a half hour to set her plan in motion. One cell phone call to her father’s assistant was all it took. (“My father needs two backstage passes to Beck. And pronto.”) Fifteen minutes later the passes were arranged, waiting at the box office. Meanwhile Cammie applied three coats of MAC mascara, brushed on some Nars blush in Orgasm, and finished with some baby pink Stila lip gloss. She decided to go with a casual look Adam was likely to appreciate— jeans she’d paid two hundred dollars for at the Beverly Center that were faded and patched to Woodstock-era vintage perfection, a wife-beater sleeveless man’s T-shirt through which her red Jolie silk bra was plainly visible, and a vintage jean jacket. Yes, the jacket was lined in mink, and yes, it was conceivable that Adam was one of those PETA lunatics, but fuck it. A girl could only go so far to make herself over for a guy.

Outside the Hollywood Bowl box office the driver opened the door for Cammie; she hopped out. After issuing him instructions as to where he should wait, she went to will call for her backstage passes. With the laminated card dangling from her neck, she’d have the run of the place. Plus she’d arrived at the perfect time. Border Cross was just finishing their opening set, waving to the crowd before running from the stage. Dee’s squeeze was wearing black leather pants. How excruciating was that? It could mean one of two things. Either Stevie Nova-whatever-his-name-was was gunning for the Harry Shearer role in a remake of
Spinal Tap
or Dee had fallen once again for a closeted gay boy.

While onstage a dozen roadies were doing a quick changeover for Beck, Cammie headed for the upper-tier section where she knew Adam was sitting. She herself had never been anywhere besides tenth row center at the Hollywood Bowl. It was almost like a foreign country up here, so far from the action. Why bother to come at all?

Okay. She was up top. Now how to find him? Cammie decided to let him find her. She went down the first row of upper-tier seats and started to make her way across from left to right. If Adam was in his seat, he’d be sure to see her. He was such a polite guy that he’d call out to her. And if he was taking a bathroom break, she’d just repeat the process from right to left. She walked extra slowly and tossed around her red curls as much as possible. They were as bright and eye-catching as anything else Adam might notice.

“Cammie!”

Cammie hadn’t moved more than thirty feet from where she started when she heard Adam’s voice. That was even easier than expected.

Feigning surprise, she scanned the seats up above her. There was Adam, in the worst possible seat— second-to-last row from the top at the extreme right side. After an appropriately long moment she made eye contact with him and waved. Then she took her time making her way up to his row, half wishing that she had an oxygen mask. What was the point of going to a concert and sitting in a seat so far from the stage that the feature act looked like a paramecium?

“Hi there,” she said. She slid into the temporarily unoccupied seat next to his.

“Cammie Sheppard. Will wonders never cease? The serfs and the underlings sit up here. The pissant peasants. The little people. Are you telling me that you were hanging with the unwashed masses?”

She lifted his arm playfully and inspected it. Taut.

Tan. Nice.

“
Au contraire.
It appears that you do wash.” She let his arm go but rested her hand lightly on his forearm. “Not everyone I know is rich. I don’t judge people based on money.”

“But what are you doing all the way up here?” Cammie thought quickly. “Dee said that Stevie’s cousin’s girlfriend was in the upper tier. She asked me to bring her a pass to the post-show party at the Century City Plaza Hotel.”

He didn’t look convinced, so she playfully nudged his shoulder with her own. “Oh, come on. Lighten up. Sam mentioned you’d be here, so I thought I’d come over and say hi. Who are you here with?”

“Came alone, actually.”

“Really?” she purred, all innocent. “I’m with Dee, but she’s probably backstage worshiping at the shrine of Stevie Novellino’s leather pants by now while he pretends that her name is Dick. Anyway, I’m a huge Beck fan.”

Adam showed the first sign of interest. “Yeah? Me too. So what’s your favorite?”

Shit. Cammie’s brain went on overdrive. Beck. Beck. Alt god of girls who don’t wash their hair. No, wait. Hadn’t she overheard her dad talking to his manager about some benefit thing for Willie Nelson? Well, it was worth a shot.

“I have to tell you … I do kind of like the country stuff,” Cammie ventured. “But don’t let it get around.”

“No kidding?” Adam marveled, his eyes lighting up. “Me too! Did you hear him do Hank Williams’s ‘Lonesome Whistle’? So awesome.”

Cammie nodded. “I totally agree.”

“What else?” Adam asked eagerly.

Double shit. She’d have to pull an answer out of her butt. “The one he did at Farm Aid? You know. The one everyone loved …” She snapped her fingers like she was trying to remember.

“‘Rowboat’?” Adam asked. “That’s killer!” He seemed to be appraising her with new eyes. “So, Cammie Sheppard. You like Beck. Cool.”

“More than cool.” She casually exposed the laminated backstage pass that she’d tucked under the mink lining of her jacket.

Adam’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “How’d you score that?”

“I told you, my dad and his manager have a professional relationship,” Cammie said truthfully, and followed it with a hell of a whopper. “You see, I have Dee’s pass, too. I guess Stevie got her in with his band.” She extracted the extra pass from her jeans pocket. “Why don’t we watch Beck from downstairs? Afterward I’ll take you into his dressing room and introduce you.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not… .”

He held his palms up and grinned in a way that lit up his entire face. “I’m your man.”

Oh, Adam, Cammie thought, you have no idea.

Watching Beck perform from orchestra-level, tenth-row center seats was fantastic enough. But going backstage to watch the two encores from the wings of the stage and then being a part of the post-show party at the Century City Plaza blew Adam away.

First of all, he and Cammie arrived at the famous elliptically shaped hotel by limo, which had been waiting for them right outside the gates to the Hollywood Bowl—Cammie assured Adam that they could easily return for his car later, when there wasn’t a gargantuan traffic jam waiting to get out of the arena. He’d seen the wide-eyed, jealous stares from the guys and girls streaming past them to return to the parking lot—the girls jealous that they didn’t have to fight the traffic, the guys jealous that he was with a girl as stunning as Cammie Sheppard.

At the hotel’s semi-circular driveway, valets practically did battle for the right to open the doors to the limo. Once they were inside the expansive lobby, a representative from Beck’s record label saw their backstage passes and corralled them—the post-show party was being held out back of the hotel, alongside the enormous heated swimming pool. The pool was closed to the general public for the night; a phalanx of security guards made sure that the riffraff was kept out and the beautiful people allowed in. But the magic backstage passes around their necks gave them easy access; within seconds they were inside the purple velvet ropes.

Adam felt Cammie slip one arm through his. “How about a drink?” she asked.

He spotted the open bar and a lavish buffet table at the far end of the pool. “Sure. What would you like?”

“Champagne. Join me?”

Adam shook his head. “Coach would kill me if he found out I was drinking champagne while I was in training.”

Cammie threw her head back and laughed, her strawberry blond curls shaking seductively on her shoulders as she did. “Adam Flood, what do you think the chances are that your basketball coach is going to be at the after-show party for
Beck?
”

Now it was Adam’s turn to laugh. He ordered orange juice to Cammie’s Moët & Chandon and thought he saw a look of respect in Cammie’s eyes when they clinked glasses.

“I thought there’d be a lot more people,” he said, surveying the pool area. It wasn’t empty, but it wasn’t crowded, either. The atmosphere was, if anything, subdued.

“I’ve been to a lot of these; it depends on the musician. Kid Rock and P. Diddy’s post parties were pretty raucous. But sometimes it’s just a bunch of people up in a hotel suite doing drugs and—”

“Cammie! Cammie Sheppard!”

Adam and Cammie turned in the direction of a moon-faced guy in his thirties, wearing a Funk Daddy baseball cap, who was hustling in their direction.

“Who the hell is he?” Cammie murmured. As for Adam, the moon-faced guy looked somewhat familiar, but he couldn’t remember where he’d seen him before.