California Dreaming (8 page)
“That's Cammie Sheppard!” she heard a girl in line exclaim to her friend, pointing a fake nail in Cammie's direction. “Oh my God, she is so hot!”
“She certainly is,” a male voice intoned from behind her. Cammie turned to see Parker Pinelli coming toward her, hand in hand with a beautiful girl with fabulous chestnut hair that fell like a waterfall around her face. Cammie remembered her from last night—Citron, his apparent new girlfriend. She was happy to see them. Parker added a hot quotient to any crowd, with his ghost-of-James-Dean chiseled good looks. He was currently shooting a Showtime original movie called
Boot
, about a group of young men brought together for Marine basic training at Camp Pendleton who kill the smallest guy in a prank gone wrong.
“Aren't you just the ‘It’ girl of the moment,” Parker teased, kissing Cammie's tan cheek.
“Hey, I'm the girl of the millennium,” Cammie corrected. Parker laughed and hugged her, and she realized all over again just how incredibly hot he was; he had been the only guy at Beverly Hills High who was, objectively speaking, probably better looking than Ben. Tonight he wore a distressed black T-shirt with angel wings on it, and even more distressed jeans—already rocking the uniform of the movie star he hoped to become. She extended a hand to Citron. “Hey, I'm Cammie. I'm sorry I didn't get to talk to you more last night. Let me buy you a drink later.”
“That'd be grand,” Citron replied, with a charming Southern accent. “I don't know too many people out here yet. Parker's been introducing me to some of his friends.” She looked around, shaking her head. “This is out of control, huh?”
Cammie checked the girl out more closely. There were flecks of gold in her amber eyes. She wore a white Nina Ricci pencil skirt and layered white and cream tank tops that perfectly complimented her skin tone—hip, but not trying too hard. “So, what brought you to L.A.?” Cammie asked.
“She's a singer. Jazz. She's fantastic,” Parker answered eagerly before Citron could get a word out. He smiled at her proudly.
“Jazz? That's unusual,” Cammie commented. She stepped closer to the front door, motioning for Citron and Parker to follow. There were only ten minutes until the club opened up. The security and door people in their official Bye, Bye Love jackets would be taking up their positions any moment. “This town is all about rock and roll.”
“My brother and I—we grew up on jazz,” Citron explained. “I came out because he's here. He plays piano. I'm living with him in a guesthouse in Beverly Hills.”
“Who's your brother?” Cammie asked idly, as the chief of club security—a beefy Latino guy with the nickname Chief—opened the door and came outside. There was a roar from the crowd that Chief acknowledged with a quick wave, and then groans as he closed the main door behind him again. Cammie, Parker, and Citron moved so he could pass. He gave Cammie a little thumbs-up, which Cammie acknowledged with a chuck of her chin. She was, after all, still working.
“Django Simms. He works for a guy named Jonathan Percy?”
Cammie's mind raced. “Anna Percy's father?” she asked, surprised.
“Bingo,” Parker put in. “Small world and all that.”
“I met Anna,” Citron went on. “She's so nice! Did you know she was on that plane—?”
“Yeah, I heard.” Cammie nodded coolly. Anna, Anna, Anna. Why did everything in Cammie's life seem to lead back to that freaking girl? She was glad she had survived and all, but take last night for example. Just when she was
finally
kissing Ben—which had taken weeks of work and some serious maneuvering on Cammie's part—in walked Anna to witness it. Actually, Cammie had enjoyed that part, but it had turned out to be the beginning of the end of a plan involving her and Ben very naked under high-thread-count imported sheets. Anna had probably engineered the LAX crash landing a few hours later just so she could foil the evening and be the center of attention again.
Okay. That was mean. She'd nearly died. But still.
Last night—actually, earlier today—she and Adam had stayed at the bar inside and watched the plane make its successful return to LAX. She'd found herself actually concerned that Anna would make it out okay, which was annoying. Then she couldn't help but be happy when everyone walked away from the stricken jet. That was even more annoying.
She and Adam watched the coverage until sunrise. They had little to say to each other, and that made things easier. It was like confirmation that their relationship was officially and completely over. Sitting at the bar, Adam had seemed distant, even cold. Whatever. She'd moved on to something hotter: Ben. They hadn't had the chance to hook up last night, but there was always tonight.
“Did you watch the coverage?” Citron asked.
“It was hard to avoid.” Cammie heard the door behind her open again and a small group of security personnel took up positions in front of them. When the club opened, the last thing anyone wanted was a mad rush to enter.
“I was glued to the TV, man,” Parker said. “It was like a movie.”
“With a happy ending,” Citron added, as Parker took her arm. Again, Cammie caught the faintest of drawls and wondered where she was from. Mississippi? Louisiana? She had to admit it was cute.
“I'm just so glad that Anna's all right,” Citron breathed. “She's so lucky.”
“Yeah, me too.” Cammie craned her head around. Where was Ben? Already in the club?
As if Parker had been reading her mind, he asked, “What's up with Anna and the B-man?”
“Toast,” Cammie declared with satisfaction.
Parker grinned. “Then I'd say
you're
the lucky one. Me too.”
He looked like he had news. “Do tell.”
“I just got a call for a new project.” He punched the air. “You've heard of something called
Lifeboat?
”
“No shit?” Cammie was impressed.
“One of the leads,” he said proudly.
She knew all about the movie. Her father, Clark, represented two of the producers. If Parker was cast in it, it would be a huge break, as he'd play one of seven people who had to abandon their yacht and drift at sea in a rubber lifeboat, hoping to be rescued. Kevin Bacon was directing. Rumor was everyone from Jack White from the White Stripes to Natalie Portman was signed. Whichever of those tiny blond twins was still acting—Cammie could never remember—couldn't even get a screen test.
“Well, congratulations. Go celebrate.” Cammie reached into her Kooba Charlie silver-panel disco clutch and took out a few laminated cards that would be good for free drinks inside. “Take these.” She pressed them into Citron's hand. “Drinks tonight are on me.”
“Thanks!”
Citron's gratitude was genuine, and Cammie smiled. She got one of her door guys’ attention and motioned for him to let Parker and Citron inside. The door opened, and they headed into the club to hoots and catcalls from the waiting masses. No. Not
the
club.
Her
club. Well, hers and Ben's. Theirs.
“Cammie! Over here!”
Cammie turned. Several photographers had moved into position, the better to snap pictures of clubgoers coming and going. Of course, the VIP entrance was around the back and no photographers were permitted in that area. But many celebrities liked to be photographed and chose to come in the front way.
Cammie struck a pose for the paparazzi as flashbulbs went off. A hand on her hip. A toss of her hair. She spun around and gave them a coquettish look over one shoulder. All of this came as naturally to her as breathing.
“So you're the teen queen who owns this place, right?” one guy with bleached spiky hair and an overeager smile called out.
“With my partner, Ben Birnbaum,” Cammie answered, posing some more as people yelled, “Hey, Cammie!” and, “Over here!” She pursed her lips, cocked her head. Laughed. The photo op went on and on.
“Hey, Cammie,
Entertainment Tonight
! A few words before things get hopping tonight?” The body attached to the voice was surprisingly cute. He couldn't have been a day over twenty-five and looked like he'd just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad, with his close-cropped rusty gold hair and tennis player arms. A portly camera guy hovered behind him.
Entertainment Tonight
was covering her club? Not that she ever watched
ET
—it was unbelievably cheesy, and she already knew everything they reported before they knew it. Still, having them there could only be a good thing.
“Hi, there,” she purred, striking a pose with her left foot thrust forward.
“Hey. I'm Dashiell McCarthy.” The reporter held a microphone close to Cammie's face. “Call me Dash. Your club opened last night and it's the hottest thing in town tonight. Did you know that the police are keeping spectators a block away so they don't disrupt traffic? How many people can your place hold? And how many do you expect to turn away?”
“How high can you count?” Cammie raised an eyebrow coyly.
Caught off guard by her boldness, Dash laughed and then moved on to his next question. “Why do you think your club is so successful?”
Cammie shrugged lightly. “Because it has the best of everything. We've got the best celebrity DJs. The best bartenders. The best mix. The best guest list. And the décor will be constantly changing, so anyone who can actually get in will never get tired of it. Everyone wants the best, right?”
Cammie stopped talking when she saw Ben step outside. He was dressed simply, in a pair of black True Religion jeans and a long-sleeved black button-down Calvin Klein shirt. He looked around, then saw her and beckoned.
“I have to go,” Cammie told Dash as she smoothed her hair behind one shell-like ear.
“Just one more question,” the reporter asked. “Everyone will want to know. Who are the hottest designers for clubwear right now? Whose clothes are you seeing the most of?”
“Martin Rittenhouse,” Cammie replied, thinking fast. The rising young designer who created everything from high fashion to sportswear. Cammie had modeled for him at his LACMA show to benefit the New Visions program. “No doubt about it. Did you know he's launching a new line for petites? It's so hot. He's calling it Petite Couture by Rittenhouse, but what he's going to call it when it hits the runway is—”
She stopped for a brief moment. What would be a great name? Martin, petite, Rittenhouse, petite, Martin …
“Martinette. The face of Martinette is an amazing new model named Champagne. You heard it from me first. But you didn't hear it from me last.”
Cammie nearly hugged herself. Damn, she was good. She had come up with that on the spot.
She gave Dash one last smoldering look just for practice, then moved off, as photographers continued to snap photos and other reporters called out questions. She smiled at her own quick thinking. She was Champagne's manager. They'd met when Cammie had helped out at a charity fashion show earlier in the summer.
When her interview aired on
ET
, there'd be buzz about Champagne even before anyone even saw her face. So what if Martin Rittenhouse hadn't officially named his new clothing line Martinette? It was a great fucking name. So what if the designer had merely verbally promised to feature Champagne in his fashion shows, and not yet said a word about making her the new face of Martinette—or whatever he decided to call it? When
ET
reported it, it would be a fait accompli. Just let Rittenhouse try to deny it.
It was a move worthy of her father, Clark Sheppard, the toughest agent in Hollywood. How many times had she heard it from him? Sell the sizzle, not the steak.
Cammie made her way to where Ben was waiting for her inside the front door. He smelled faintly of Acqua di Parma aftershave. “You ready for night two?”
They walked through the club together. Cammie still got a thrill every time she looked around
their
space. Playing on the fact that the club had once been an auto-body shop, antique car signage and license plates from around the world dotted the walls and ceiling, and interior upholstering from cars formed seating areas. An enormous slot-car track ran along the interior walls, and partiers could take their turns racing against their friends. Lights changed color and in turn changed the mood on the dance floor: sultry red, flirtatious pink, cool blue. They paused near the Cone of Silence, one of the add-ons they'd thought of at the last minute. Inside the cone, clubgoers could get a brief respite from the pounding music and throbbing beat.
“Two minutes to opening,” he told her.
“Brilliant. You and me, baby.” She effortlessly slipped a hand into his back pocket. To her satisfaction, he snaked one of his hands around her waist.
“You look great.”
“Thanks.”
She couldn't help herself. She waited a plausible five seconds to make it seem like it wasn't high on her conversation checklist, but she asked nonetheless.
“Have you talked to Anna?”
“I left her a message,” he answered quickly.
Was she imagining it, or did the hand that was on her waist seem to stiffen as he shook his head? Was his skin paling slightly under his golden tan? Cammie shook out her curls. Forget Anna. “I was thinking maybe you and I would guest-DJ tonight for a while, so that everyone will know our faces. There's an open slot between Zac and Christina,” she cooed.
“Great, let's do it,” Ben agreed as his eyes locked with hers.
“Fantastic.” She ran her fingers through the top of his straight brown hair. “We make such a perfect team.” She gave him a dazzling smile, dropped her eyes to half-mast, and added, in what she knew to be her sexiest, most insinuating voice, “We really should do it more.”
Saturday night, 11:54 p.m.
I
n the time it took her to plod down the spiral staircase from her bedroom to the living room, Anna realized that every part of her body hurt, ached, or throbbed. Her shoulders. Her knees. Her hips. Her neck. Her wrists. Joints that she didn't know existed were calling out to her for at least ibuprofen and possibly something a whole lot stronger.
She'd taken a shower before she'd finally fallen asleep at dawn. Nothing had felt sore then. Why so much pain now?
Adrenaline, she told herself, as she took the stairs with the caution of a septuagenarian, clinging to the iron railing. She'd been running on adrenaline all night long. There was a reason she'd been instructed to assume the brace position. Regardless of the pilot's considerable skill, landing on metal was a lot rougher than landing on wheels.
