First Stop, New York (2 page)

More importantly, Corliss had zero talent. She knew this because the director of her high school musical had said, “Corliss, you have many gifts, but talent is not one of them.”

Which was fine with her. Corliss was happy enough to stand next to the stars. Bring them coffee or run lines with them.
That way,
she reasoned,
I can bask in their glow—which has got to be so much easier than being the source of the glow itself.

The Offices of the UBC Network—9:46
A.M.

Max Marx moved through the maze of silent, taupe-colored hallways that led to the soundstage. At twenty-six, he was a certified prodigy with twelve-hundred-dollar glasses and a silhouette designed by Miuccia Prada herself.

Flanked by a gaggle of assistants who clung to him like gum to a sidewalk, Max spoke in a voice he never raised above a whisper. He had earned this crew because he had made a huge name for himself creating high-concept music videos for bands like My Chemical Romance, The Killers, and Death Cab for Cutie.

“Get Brandon on the phone,” he whispered to no assistant in particular—and each and every one of them jumped
to get Brandon Flowers on the phone. They were there to make sure the world unfurled before Max like a giant VIP staging area. That’s because Max was both creator and director of
The ’Bu
, and all of them wanted to be him when they grew up.
If only they knew the pressure of being Max Marx,
Max reflected, thinking of himself, as usual, in the third person. And why was it so pressure-filled to be Max Marx? Because brilliant, powerful Max had a secret:
He’d never worked in television before
. He’d also never worked with writers.

Or on an actual script.

Or from the crack of dawn to the black of night.

But there was another secret. Once he’d signed his
’Bu
contract, he’d bought an enormous glass-and-steel house perched high atop Mulholland Drive. He’d filled it with classic video games and Pac-Man machines that his assistants found for him on eBay. In other words, he’d already spent his entire paycheck.

He’d done it all to announce to the entertainment industry that Max Marx had arrived. And to befriend Spike Jonze, who lived three doors down.

“Get Spike on the phone,” Max whispered to his flying monkeys, effortlessly exuding authority.

Max knew anyone else his age would never have been handed the reins of a new series—that job was only ever given to someone with years of experience. But such was Max’s current cachet. He could ask for whatever he wanted—and it was automatically delivered to him like a pizza, half plain/half pineapple (his favorite).

But all of it rested on one condition: Max had to create a blockbuster prime-time teen drama for the UBC. The network
was fourth in the ratings—and that had to change. Max’s contract was ironclad: If
The ’Bu
didn’t become a top-ten rated show, it would all go away for Max. His see-through house, his pile of cheddar, and his new BFF Spike.

Max’s blood ran cold from the sheer terror of it all. But he always pulled himself together. No one ever knew the fears that roiled within him. Max was a sphinx, guarding his secrets and cultivating a mystique of power. In LA, that made him a force to be reckoned with.

I’ll fake it till I make it,
he silently repeated to himself. It was a little something he’d learned at Promises, an exclusive rehab clinic he’d checked into when he was fifteen and addicted to Robitussin cough syrup.

What an awesome space,
Max thought as he arrived at
The ’Bu
soundstage and his assistants fanned out behind him. In fact, it had once stored P. Diddy’s fleet of seaplanes. It was a little big for a show that was filmed almost entirely on location in Malibu. But the first rehearsal was scheduled there to give the actors a sense of their gigantic mission—or “
The Awesomeness of
The ’Bu,” as Max kept whispering to his assistants.

Max looked at his watch. The actors weren’t due for another fifteen minutes. Even so, Jonathan Bader—or JB, as he was known—was already there.

Seventeen years old, ramrod straight, with four super-sharp pencils spread out on the rehearsal table before him, JB was playing Ollie on the show—the character always getting sand kicked in his bespectacled face. A cliché, of course, but fail-safe.
Boy oh boy, was JB cast right for this one,
thought Max as he came upon the classic (but of course not-so-secretly handsome) nerd. Max had spotted JB in a Rite Aid
commercial, sniffing air fresheners and grinning maniacally. He’d done a bunch of guest star work, too, generally playing the homicidal kid who lived at the end of the block. Max sensed immediately that JB’s off-kilter charm would win the hearts of geeks—and those who loved them—from coast to coast.

“Hey, where is everybody?” JB wondered aloud to no one in particular, which was fine because no one in particular was listening to him.

Max girded himself and approached. “Hello, JB.”

“Heya, Maxy, my man!”

Max shot the young actor a look. “JB, it’s
Max
. Not Maxy or Max-o or Dude or My Bro. Keep the dorky patter for the part you’ve been hired to play, okay?”

“
Comprendo
, boss man!” JB said, wincing as he heard himself do it again. “So…where d’ya suppose everyone else is?”

Max looked at his watch again. His assistants looked at theirs.

“Rocco is present,” said a velvety baritone that filled the soundstage. It had come from Rocco DiTullio, who was still yards away.

At eighteen, Rocco was already self-possession incarnate. A wall of rippling muscle, outfitted in board shorts, a Fred Segal muscle tee, and Havaianas flip-flops, the Italian-American actor had lips that rivaled Angelina’s, limpid eyes filled with so many blues and greens they invited comparisons to the Caribbean, and inky black hair that did whatever it was told. Even his toes were pretty.

Rocco moved like a panther to the table as PAs and network execs cleared a path. As Rocco came closer, JB tugged
self-consciously at his blue gingham poly-blend polo.

Max beheld Rocco in awe.
This Italian stallion alone will make the show a success,
he mused. Rocco had auditioned for the show without a résumé or headshot—no one even knew who his agent was. He’d simply appeared like Hercules from the heavens. But Max had recently learned that Rocco came from a legendary family—one he has so far been successful at keeping secret.

“Good morning. I’m Rocco DiTullio,” Rocco said elegantly as he took a seat next to JB. Everyone in the entire place sighed a little in unison.

“Hey!” JB shrieked. “Sorry about the volume…indoor voice! Indoor voice! I’m JB.”

“A pleasure,” said Rocco in his deep, sexy voice.

Good,
thought Max,
the cast begins to assemble.
And the minute he thought this, Tanya Ventura floated in, looking like an angel emerging from the mist.

Tanya, just seventeen, was a brunette beauty with Hershey’s Kisses eyes. All elbows and knees, she exuded a shiny bright newness. That’s because only three months earlier, she’d been living in the South Bronx, the daughter of strict Catholic Puerto Rican parents who had homeschooled her. She waved like the innocent girl she still was.

“Hello, everybody,” squealed Tanya.

“Welcome,” said Max.

Rocco, who had been doodling on his script since he sat down, kept doodling. JB sat up in his chair.

Trent Owen Michaels was the next to make an entrance. Eighteen, tall and sinewy, he was a certified SoCal surfer and blond all over. He radiated sun and fun. In fact, his agent was
lobbying Wikipedia to use Trent’s headshot to help define “California Boy” on their website. He’d been a B-level star ever since appearing in the short-lived cable series
Emo Surfer
.

“Hey,” Trent said, mouth-breathing through his sun-kissed lips.

“Trent,” said Max, “these are Rocco and JB, two of your costars.”

“Hey and hey,” Trent said.

“And this is Tanya Ventura, who will be playing Tessa.”

“Uh, hey,” said Trent, offering his hand.

Tanya’s eyes catapulted open. “Oh my God. Trent Owen Michaels, hello! I’m
so
excited to be working on this TV show with you!” she said, nervously twisting her hair.

“Cool,” said Trent. “TV rocks.”

“I know! But my parents think TV is, like, the tool of the devil.” She rolled her eyes. “So whenever I was done with my homework, we just sat around and prayed to the Baby Jesus! I mean, I
love
the Baby Jesus,” she continued, crossing herself, “but who wants to pray to him when
American Idol
is on?” She chewed her nails and giggled flirtatiously. “That’s why I
completely
rebelled and got a job at Home Depot, where I was
totally
scouted by two IMG agents!”

Trent smiled his patented crooked smile. “Weren’t those the agents who got you that
slammin’
six-page Valentino spread in
W
where you’re all in that
total
bikini? And then that smokin’
Sports Illustrated
cover where you were all in that
total other
bikini?”

“That’s right! My God, how did you know that, Trent?”

“Let’s just say, like, I do my research.” He chose two seats next to each other so that he and Tanya could sit side by side.

Max smiled painfully. Trent was looking at Tanya like a starving man looks at a pig on a spit.
And Tanya was liking it.

Unacceptable…

Trent was, in no uncertain terms, a player. His sexploits were constant catnip for websites like Gawker and Perez Hilton. His past was littered with a trail of weeping girls that stretched from LA to Laguna.
Would Tanya be next in line?

If there was one thing Max knew from directing music videos, it was that all it took for production to come to a screeching halt was one weeping teenager locked in her trailer.
Oh, no, this potential coupling will have to wait
—
until it’s good for
The ’Bu.
I’ll have to devise a way to keep Trent and Tanya apart. There’s way, way too much riding on this show for me,
thought Max,
and for the network, to have a couple of hormone-hijacked kids mucking it up.

As he was making a note to this effect in his BlackBerry, he heard a new female voice enter the mix. “Hiya, sexy beasts.” The husky voice was unmistakable. Its owner was yet another famous heartbreaker.

Yes,
thought Max,
our star, Anushka, has arrived.

The whole room strained to get a look. Anushka Peters had fascinated everyone under twenty ever since she’d become a household name on the long-running TV show
Suburban Magic.
Thick, buckwheat-colored hair, with lunar blue eyes—she looked as if she were dreamed up by some mad scientist who created starlets in his spare time.

As she strode over, Max noted everyone’s response. Most stared, but Rocco didn’t seem impressed. Trent even winced. JB, however, bounced up and down in his chair.

“Hello!” JB practically yodeled. “I’m JB.”

“Great,” she said, tossing her hair. “Hey, Trent,” she said, frowning. “Long time no…”

Trent managed a crooked smile.

“I don’t believe we’ve met…” Anushka said, giving Tanya a chilly once-over. Tanya froze.

“This is Tanya Ventura,” said Max. Anushka gave Tanya a little snort and took her seat.

Tanya remained frozen.
Could she possibly be starstruck?
Max wondered. He knew everyone had been telling Tanya that
she
would be the next Anushka, because Anushka, with her hotel-trashing, production-slowing antics, was perpetually on the verge of becoming a wash-up.

During the second season of
Suburban Magic
, Anushka partied so hard, she broke into the Los Angeles Zoo one night with some friends and shot pink paintballs at the polar bears. Consequently, her pretty little prime-time booty was plunked in jail. She had to wait for her manager to post bail while sandwiched between two snoring mimes reeking of Smirnoff Ice. The press had some fun with that one.

But as Max gazed at Anushka, he had a hard time believing anyone anywhere could replace her. She was not only beautiful, she was
adorable.
Freckles were scattered over a button nose, and her lips always turned up a little devilishly. Her bod was class-A killer—and to prove it, she’d just appeared on the cover of
Maxim
wearing a bra with two smiley faces. She was a kind of vixen-next-door type, and everyone found her irresistible.

Sure, she’d arrived wearing something that looked like a bathrobe—and enormous reflective glasses that no doubt hid dark circles and puffy eyes (and probably sordid tales from the
night before). But Anushka Peters had entered the building, and she was, as always, covered in stardust.

“Anushka,” whispered Max. “Glad you could make it.”

“Hey, Maxy,” she croaked in a voice scratchy from way too much partying. “So,” she said, glancing at everyone with a weary, wry smile before finally taking a seat at the head of the table. “Aren’t y’all glad to see me looking so foxy?”

Max consulted his watch. It was exactly 10:00
A.M.
That’s when he heard panting. Everyone turned. A few yards off stood a young woman so out of place, so disastrously styled, and so stained by beet juice that a few people gasped.

“Hey,” Corliss said faintly, trying to catch her breath.

“And who do we have here?” Max asked conde-scendingly.

“Corliss Meyers,” she said, jogging over and shaking Max’s hand rather too vigorously. “I’m the new production intern. Please excuse this violet color all over my face and shirt. I got into a wrestling match with some beets. And if you’re picking up on a vinegary smell—that’s me, too. Italian dressing. Lite…” She laugh-snorted, then slapped her palm against her forehead. “Uh, okay, Corliss, time to shut up. No one cares about your caloric intake. So, is this where the rehearsal is?”

Before Max could answer, JB stood and offered his hand. “Sure is, young lady. Hi, I’m Jonathan. Or JB. Or Jay Boy—or whatever’s cool!”