Hollyweird (2 page)

ALY

Three months later

“If you tell, I'll sentence you to a slow and torturous death. I'll make the rack en vogue again and I'll be relentless with the crank. I'll strap you to a—”

“Shut it, Des.” I gave her a playful shove against the wall as we walked down the exit ramp from our plane.

During the landing, we'd squealed and squirmed in our seats at the breathtaking view of the Pacific ocean and the kitschy-cool, UFO-shaped LAX airport, but just as soon as the flight attendant thanked us, on behalf of Linus the Lynx Kitty, for flying Frontier, Des had gone spazztastic.

“Des, I've sworn up and down, even made a blood oath”—I held up my left index finger with its black bandage—“against my will, I might add, that I would not tell Dakota you passed out.”

However, I'd said nothing about not using it as blackmail material for the rest of our lives. Mwuhaha.

Desi blasted out a noisy breath. “ 'Kay, I believe you. But I'm wiggin' out. We're steps away from meeting him, well, his handler, who handles him, and bo-o-oy would I like to handle him, and it's just a matter of time before—”

I yanked her to the side of the tunnel and ignored the other passengers' curious stares as they went by. By now I was used to getting raised brows from people who compared my Candies and Mudd look to Des's Hot Topic and Fang fashion, and okay, her black hair with electric blue and cotton-candy pink streaks probably caught a gaze or two. Or maybe it was her industrial ear piercings or lip ring. Blocking out the rubberneckers, I shook her by the shoulders. “Breathe,” I instructed her. I had to get her chill or her nervous nattering would boost my own nerves like a NoDoz chased with an espresso.

At my shake, Des did an impressive bobblehead imitation before blinking into awareness. “Was I babbling again?”

“Like a brook.”

Before I could get Des calm and centered, the Wicked Witch of the Midwest swooped down upon us. Now I could feel
my
cool slipping. Missy was the icky brown crust on my Wonder Bread, the annoying hole in the toe of my rainbow-striped sock, the grody hair in my otherwise clean sink drain. Birth may have made us sisters, but polar opposite personalities made us incompatible. And wonder of wonders, there's no embroidered Hallmark pillow that says that.

“What are you two doing?” Missy asked with peevish exasperation. Dressed in four-inch, gold-toned heels and oversized sunglasses, body-molding Rock & Republic capri jeans, and a low-cut top that drew people's (men's and women's) attention to her chest before her face, Missy flung her perfectly bed-mussed blond hair behind her shoulders. (All the better to see her cleavage, my dear.)

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to will her back onto a broom headed for home. The persistent gum-smacking in my ear told me she hadn't poofed away.

That Missy had somehow convinced Dad she could be a “responsible chaperone” still boggled our minds. Yes, we needed someone “Twenty-one years or older” to accompany us—she qualified by a measly two months and two days—and sure, Dad didn't always know the right thing to do since Mom could no longer guide him, but Missy as our guardian? It was ludicrous. She'd already told us we were on our own.

“I'm focusing on two things in L.A.,” she'd said on the plane, clicking them off on her acrylic nails. “My tan and getting discovered. Just keep your cells at the ready and stay out of trouble.”

How's that for trustworthy? She must've delivered one heckuva speech to convince Dad she should be our escort.
Hmm
, I thought, maybe she really would be an
ac-tor
(she always put a ridiculously strong, self-important emphasis on the second syllable) one day. It certainly wouldn't surprise me. Missy was such an attention whore, what else could she be? I just found it hard to imagine our mom had once been an actress. Granted, it was way back when, before she had us girls, but still … I could never see her being like Missy. Whatever the reason behind my sister's burning desire for stardom, I had to at least give her kudos for going after what she wanted.

When it came to knowing what I wanted … I was struggling … maybe even floundering. I was a bit like a newbie swimmer in the deep end without water wings. My only goal for this trip was to have some fun and live a little, something I really hadn't let myself do since Mom died. Getting that phone call from
EnterTEENment Magazine
had been the first time I'd truly gotten excited about … well, anything. And it had felt good.

Mom's death had been so sudden and unexpected. “Tragic” was the word most often used. For me, it had been total devastation. My rock-solid, safe world had been shattered and I'd lost the one person I felt closest with. But, quite frankly, Mom would've kicked my boo-tay if she realized just how much I'd allowed myself to disconnect and fade away. Facing my senior year, and anticipating all the momentous occasions Des was constantly reminding me about, I'd come to the realization I had withered enough and needed to unfurl in the California sun.

“Give me a sec,” I told Missy, intending to finish my “Dakota's just a regular person” pep talk with Des.

“Nuh uh.” My sister grabbed me by the arm and started hauling me down the tunnel. “Get a move on,” she ordered. “Hollywood awaits and she shouldn't hold her breath any longer for my arrival.”

I snorted in disbelief and grabbed Des's hand. “Don't be nervous,” I whispered to her as I tripped down the carpet. The thing of it is, I'm too klutzy to wear pumps, but Missy actually has the skills to be one of those stupid sudsy heroines who chases after the bad guy in a short skirt and lethal Manolo Blahniks.

Anyhow, when we stepped out of the tunnel, Missy did what any audacious wannabe would do—she made a scene. With practiced precision she lowered her glasses to the tip of her nose, licked her already glossed lips, and with a saucy smile trilled our arrival to everyone in the area.

“We're heeeere!”

And damned if half the people in the area didn't do a double-take to see which starlet had made such a dramatic entry. Voices murmured, people squinted for a closer look, and a camera flashed.

“Un-freakin'-believable,” Des muttered in my ear, her nerves temporarily steadied by my sister's outrageous confidence. “If anyone asks her for an autograph, I'm cursing them.”

“I'll hunt down the eye of newt for that spell myself,” I offered.

While Missy simpered and vogued, Des and I headed for the baggage area, looking first for traveling celebs, and second for our escort. For a moment we thought we saw Ashton Kutcher, hidden in a hoodie and mega sunglasses, but we couldn't be sure. Then all thoughts of star-gazing popped out of my head when I saw a burly, uniformed limo driver with a cardboard sign that read,
King
.

I elbowed Desi. “Look!”

“Mmm mmm. Honk the hottie horn.”

I did a double-take at the driver and then cocked a questioning eyebrow at Des. “Hot? He looks like that guy from the
Sopranos
.”

“Not him.” Des rolled her eyes and twisted my head to the right, bringing the guy standing next to our chauffeur into my line of vision. “
Hiiim
.”

Yo-ho-hell-o! Honk the hottie horn, indeed. My vision narrowed to a bubble of focus on his gorgeous stubbled face. Sound faded away to a buzzing hum and my cheeks grew prickly hot, while my tummy got swirly.

He had trim golden-brown hair, with sideburns and just a tease of spikes on top. If I had to guess, I'd say he was about nineteen, only two years older than me. A distressed leather jacket and scarred shit-kicker boots made him look effortlessly sexy. His chiseled cheekbones and piercing olive eyes made my hands tremble, but it was his voluptuous lips and adorable cleft chin that made my body turn to molten lava.

Suddenly his gaze caught mine. He tilted his head and gave me an appraising look. Still, I couldn't move. When his lips lifted in the barest of smiles, I heard myself give a soft sigh.

“Al. Al?” Des said. “Earth to Aly.”

When I didn't answer, didn't even realize she'd spoken to me, she jumped in front of me, arms akimbo, eyes narrowed in disbelief. I craned to look over her shoulder.

“Whoa,” I thought I heard her say before she grabbed me by the shoulders and shook.

“Breathe,” she ordered, echoing my earlier instruction.

In a flash the world came rushing back into my awareness. Desi stood directly in front of me, a look of “I've so got ammunition on you now” amusement on her face, while screaming babies and people chattering in different languages on cell phones added a chaotic soundtrack to the scene. Strangely, I found myself sucking in air like I'd been holding my breath or something.

Des laughed. “Now that's what I call luststruck.”

I felt myself pinken. “I don't know what you … you're nuts … I was just … ”

What was I just doing? Good Lord, what had just happened to me?

She waggled her eyebrows suggestively and glanced over her shoulder to where he still stood. “I was gonna call dibs, but if the dude's got that kind of effect on you, he's all yours.”

My blush deepened and Des cracked up.

“I'm marking today, Tuesday, July 10th, on the calendar,” she marveled with a grin. “ 'Cause I've never seen you that way.”

“What way?” Missy interrupted. Once the mini-buzz she'd created had fizzled out like day-old soda, she'd sashayed her way over to us.

I gave Desi a warning look.

“Hot and bothered,” Des answered Missy with an impish grin, before qualifying her statement. “Must be the weather.”

Whew! My BFF might tease me mercilessly, but at least she wouldn't front me to my sister. If Missy had witnessed my, er, guystraction (Des's word), she would've done one of two things—embarrass me or (and this is much worse) steal his attention away.

“Ooh,” Missy purred, her attention thankfully diverted from me. “There's our limo driver.” She tromped over to him with an air of entitlement that made me squirm in horror and tapped the big guy's sign with her talon. Then she gave the hottie next to him a quick appreciative glance before ignoring him because he couldn't give her what she wanted. “King,” she told the driver. “That's me.”

He gave Missy a dubious look and in a gruff voice asked, “You're Aly King?”

“No, she is.” She gave an imperious wave in my direction. “I'm Missy, her guardian.” Then she held her overnight case out to him.

He pushed it back in her direction, stepped past her two paces, and gently slid my messenger bag off my shoulder. “Welcome, Ms. King. Glad to have you here.”

“I, uh, thanks.” I bit my tongue to keep from laughing, first at the knowing twinkle in his brown eyes and then at the open-mouthed shock distorting Missy's face. Diss-missed. That had to be a first. This jowly faced man, who reminded me of a sweet Shar-Pei, now owned my heart.

And apparently Des's. “You, I like,” she informed him with a Cheshire grin.

He gave her a wink. “What's your name, little lady?”

“I'm sorry,” I said, ashamed I'd forgotten my manners. “This is Desi Moreno, my best friend.”

“Nice to meet you.” He engulfed Desi's hand in his meaty paw. “I'm Francis. And the prima donna?” He jerked his head back in Missy's direction.

“My sister,” I whispered apologetically, seeing her fuming face over his shoulder like a dark, ominous thundercloud. I felt torn between mortification at her diva-ness and worry for Francis, because Missy seemed to be percolating toward a dangerous eruption.

“She's a soap star wannabe. She wants to be on the next
Desperate Housewives
or
Revenge
,” Desi explained. “Full of silicone and bratitude. Beware.”

“Duly warned,” he said, but still the man would not be cowed. Instead, he added further insult to injury by reaching for Desi's backpack. Even better, he ignored Missy's outraged huff. “She's got the attitude right,” he said with a wry chuckle. “If you're ready, we'll go.”

“To meet Dakota?” Des squealed.

My own heart tripped at the idea, but I refused to act like a crazed fangirl. I didn't want to be just another groupie to Dakota. I wanted to stand out, and I figured the best way to do that would be to be … normal. Maybe he just wanted to be normal sometimes.

“Anxious to see him?” Francis asked with a mischievous smile.

Des wriggled like a four-year-old doing a pee pee dance, then caught herself and tried to play it cool. “No, I just, you know, wanna know what we're doing.”

“Actually,” a gravelly new voice cut in, “we're going to take you to your hotel first and then you'll meet Dakota at a photo shoot.”

My gaze jerked from Des to the guy who'd been standing so quietly in the background I'd somehow forgotten all about him. Now he resumed his spot next to Francis.

“This here's Jameson Dagon.” Francis introduced the person who moments ago had rendered me luststruck. “He's Dakota's PA.”

“Aren't you a little young to be Dakota's personal assistant?” I blurted out.

“I'm nineteen, but well connected,” he said with a smile.

“Isn't a PA like a slave?” Des asked with an impish grin, referencing some dialogue from a
Paranormal PI
episode.

“Something like that,” Jameson answered with a good-natured laugh.

Francis swiveled his head back and forth between the two of them. The puzzled look on his mug revealed his cluelessness about the inside joke. “Yeah, well, Jameson'll be looking after you.”

Lucky me.
Not only was I going to meet Dakota, I was going to have an equally handsome (maybe more so) squire.