Hollyweird (3 page)

Desi pinched my thigh and I knew the same thing was coursing through her mind.

“So, you're our escort, Jameson?” she asked, and I wondered if he caught the “now this is interesting” tone in her voice.

“That I am,” he answered with a smile.

“Then escort me the hell out of here.” Missy shoved into our circle, her face harsh with anger and her bag teetering on her shoulder.

God, she's such a bitch.
In that moment I wished I could fold myself up like a contortionist and disappear into my Samsonite suitcase. Yet Jameson didn't even quail at Missy's rudeness.

“As you wish,” he said with a solicitous nod. “May I take your bag?”

In a snap, Missy went from grumpy to gracious and her complexion smoothed back to photogenic perfection. “Yes, thank you. You, unlike him”—she sent a scathing look at Francis—“are a gentleman.”

Francis ignored the obvious insult and asked me about our luggage. “One suitcase for each of you and three for her, got it. I'll meet you out front.”

Before he'd even got out of ear shot, Missy started in. “That man is insufferable. I want a new limo driver.”

My mouth was open to object, and I'm pretty sure Des was getting ready to tell Missy to do something obscene and physically impossible, when Jameson smoothly cut in.

“Ms. King,” he said, with an awe-inspiring amount of patience, “Francis is a stand-up guy and has been on staff with Dakota for years. He won't be going anywhere.”

She sniffed her distaste and waltzed ahead, allowing us to act as her trailing entourage.

Once again, I felt the need to apologize for her. “I'm sorry, she's just … ”

“No worries.” Jameson shrugged. “Working in Hollywood, I've run across her type before.”

“Snooty, spoiled, bratastic,” Des supplied.

“Maybe,” he said, too chivalrous to agree outright. “But I know there's always more than meets the eye.”

“Speaking of eye,” Desi segued away from Missy. “I can't wait to get my eye on Dakota. What's he like? Really like? Is he as charismatic and suave as he appears?”

“Yeah.”

“A total chick magnet, huh?”

“Need you ask?”

“Right. Well, is he like the love 'em and leave 'em type?” she asked.

“They don't call him a bad boy for nothing.”

“So, he's a player.” Des looked crushed. “Of course he would be. It's Hollywood. I bet girls throw themselves at him with nothin' more than a thong and a smile.”

“It's been known to happen.”

“Right,” she snorted. “At breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

He startled us both with a robust laugh. “Don't forget his bedtime snack.”

“Is he really that bad?” I asked, more than a little shocked by his implications. This was exactly what I'd feared about this trip. You always heard stories about fans finally meeting their heroes or crushes only to be disenchanted by the cruel reality of a star who was dismissive or mean. I didn't want that to be the case with Dakota Danvers.

“Is he really that bad?” Jameson repeated, giving me an odd, dark look. “Let's just say the devil makes him do it.”

I frowned. “I'm sure your boss wouldn't appreciate your dissing him,” I said in a haughty tone.

He stroked a hand down his chin and looked uncomfortable for a minute. “You're right. I shouldn't have said anything. I apologize.” Then he gave me and Desi a conspiratorial look. “Between us, Dakota is exactly as he appears on TV. He's tall, dark, ‘charmed and dangerous' as
People
magazine put it. No doubt you'll find yourself even more enamored when you meet him in person. He tends to have that affect on people.” He centered his intense gaze on me. “Even when they think they'll be immune.”

I gasped in outrage.
How dare he!
I didn't care anymore how good-looking he was; the man was deplorable. “If you're implying I'm going to be one of Dakota's, uh, bedtime snacks, you can forget about it.”

“Naw, I didn't mean that,” Jameson quickly assured me. “Just remember, there's always more than meets the eye.”

Jameson

There's always more than meets the eye.

If that hadn't been the case, Aly King would have been able to see the danger before her.

As I screeched away from the Beverly Wilshire Hotel in my BMW convertible, a ludicrous (but I ain't complaining) loaner from Dakota, I cursed this new turn of events.

Wasn't it enough I was supposed to derail Dakota's plan? Every time I went near him I could sense something nasty brewing, like decaf coffee full of grounds from 7-Eleven. Uncertainty, not to mention the tick-tock of time, ground at my nerves, but I still had no frickin' clue what his evil plan entailed. And now I had to play babysitter on top of that. If I was honest, though, and God knew I ought to be, somewhere I'd gone from being annoyed I had to watch over two unsuspecting girls I couldn't care less about to suddenly caring very much that Dakota keep away from them.

Especially Aly.

She might have been naïve, but I felt drawn to the faint bruise of sadness in her eyes and her undeniable spirit. A spirit I didn't want to see snuffed.

Just then, U2 interrupted my frustration when my personal cell sang “
Walk On.”
Michael's ringtone. I pinched the bridge of my nose before pressing a Bluetooth-enabled, hands-free remote on my visor.

“Hey, Mikey. 'Sup?”

“ 'Sup? Not sure yet. Maybe Italian for supper. Manicotti, perhaps.”

I rolled my eyes and slowed behind a Dolly Madison semi that made me hungry for HoHos. Although Italian sounded good too.

“What is up?” I repeated for the old man.

“Oh. Oh! Well, I wanted to know how things went with the girls.”

“The gir—how'd you know about them?”

Michael chuckled and I could envision him doodling on a couple more stickies for his desk. “Nothing gets by the big boss. Jameson, you sound … grumpy.”

“Yeah, well … ” Out of my peripheral vision I saw the Golden Arches beckoning to me like a shameless siren and I veered across traffic, making an illegal left turn. “Don't you think they complicate things a tad?”

“That, my dear Jameson, remains to be seen.”

I screeched into the McDonald's drive-thru and gave my order over Michael's protests about “ingesting the greasy abomination they call burgers.” His harping continued when he advised me to read the “eye-opening” book
Fast Food Nation
as I took a large slurp of Coke and rifled through my two oil-stained bags to make sure nothing had been missed. Two double cheeseburgers, a large fry, and … “Dude!” I looked up at the pimple-faced slacker wearing a headset. “Where's my pie?”

Once I got my hot apple pie I pulled into a palm-tree-shaded parking spot and wolfed down my meal between bites of conversation with Michael.

“What do you mean, ‘remains to be seen'? I'm running out of time, I can feel it.” I folded a handful of fries into my mouth. “Thergonaslwmdn.”

“Really, Jameson. Your manners.”

I chewed and swallowed. “They're going to slow me down,” I repeated.

“Or, it could be their timing is perfect.”

“Say what?”

Michael heaved an exasperated sigh, something he frequently did when speaking with me. “Perhaps those girls are more than meets the eye.”

My gaze shot up to the visor and I gave Michael—well, my Bluetooth link to Michael—a suspicious look. Weren't those the same words I'd been using about Dakota?

“Are you saying Ms. Preppy and her punk sidekick are bad news?”

“Au contraire!” Michael shrilly negated me. “What I'm saying is they just might be the key to Dakota's downfall.”

I crumpled up the red fry box and tossed it into the paper sack on the floor. “Miiiikey,” I drawled in warning. His cryptic clues were beginning to piss me off. “What do you know about these girls?”

“I really can't say—”

I yelled an expletive that had the old man huffing in surrender.

“Okay, okay. Look, all I know is they're supposed to be there. And you're supposed to use them.”

“Use them!” My appetite vaporized and the food I'd eaten congealed in my stomach like day-old bacon grease. He wanted me to use the girls? My morals had frequently been challenged on this job, but this …

“Trust the boss, Jameson,” Michael said, in a rigid tone he rarely used.

Trust the boss, trust the boss.

How could I have faith in—?

Suddenly, a line from my mom's favorite Christmas movie,
Miracle on 34th Street,
sprang to mind: “Faith is believing in things when common sense tells you not to.” My common sense was screaming that things were getting out of control, way out of control, but I had to believe. It had worked for little Susan Walker and her Kris Kringle—hopefully it would work for me.

What choice did I have?

ALY

“What if I do something monumentally, horribly embarrassing?” Des hissed under her breath.

We were walking down an endless hall of floor-to-ceiling windows on the seventeenth floor of a bronze L.A. high-rise that boasted a garden plaza. When we'd first emerged from the elevator, Des and I had gawked at the spectacular view of “The Miracle Mile,” a chrome-shiny business district so congested the locals joked it's a miracle if you find a parking spot within a mile. Although we were swaying on our feet from the dizzying height, the perf-panorama had worked to calm our nerves for uno momento. But now we were headed to the
EnterTEENment Magazine
office and, predictably, Des had grown a little … manic.

I gave her a doubtful look. “Embarrassing, like what?”

“I might have a spontanepiss.”

“Spontanepiss?” I choked out the question.

“What?” she asked in all innocence. “It's a word.”

“I'll have to add it to my Des Dictionary, alongside pierconify and tattegory.”

“Two totally legit terms,” she declared. “You can't tell me that a person isn't personified by their piercings; they so are. And tattegory, hullo, you can take one look at a person's tats and know everything about them.”

Despite having heard her bod-mod theories a thousand times, I still grinned. “And spontanepiss?”

“A nervous, spontaneous reaction. Duh. I have to pee when I'm scared.” She clenched her thighs together and looked over her shoulder where Jameson trailed us at a discreet distance. “What if I pee my pants?” she whispered, and then her eyes widened in alarm. “Or worse? What if—?”

“Des!” I said in exasperation. “Don't go there.”

“But—ha ha,
butt,
no pun intended—it could be like bowel Tourette's.”

I got the giggles just imagining it.

She whacked me on the arm. “Stop! It's not funny.” But her lips twitched when she said it. “Come on, Al. I'm seriously shaking in my combat boots.”

I gave what she called her “dress” boots a meaningful look. “You're not wearing combat boots, for a change, and he's just a guy, Des.” I hooked my arm through hers. “He puts his underwear on one leg at a time.”

“Pfft,” she scoffed. “Bet he has someone do it for him. And you know he's got people taking them off.”

I thought about the insinuations Jameson had made earlier. Was Dakota more scoundrel than stud? Guess we'd know soon enough.

I looked back at Jameson. Our gazes caught and my pulse revved like I'd throttled up a Harley. I gave him a tentative smile and then twisted back around. Maybe he wasn't so deplorable after all. He hadn't said another disparaging word about Dakota since picking us up for our meeting. In fact, he had teasingly played into Des's nervous energy by regaling her with amusing anecdotes about Dakota. Still, something about Jameson just seemed … off. I sensed an underlying—what was it? Hatred? No, more like distaste for his employer. Question was: why? Why work for someone you didn't respect? With Jameson's gorgeous looks, he could easily get work out here as a model or actor. Playing PA to Dakota Danvers just didn't make sense.

“How is it you're so calm, cool, and annoying?” Des asked, sounding miffed. “I like it when you lose control. You need to quit being so Good Golly Miss Molly all the time.”

If one bone of contention lay between us, it was this.

Me = Good Girl.

Her = Rebel.

Des tried to coax, cajole, and cow me into breaking the rules as often as possible. I could count the number of times I'd actually done so on one hand, and the consequences hadn't been worth it, but that certainly didn't keep her from trying to scuff up my goody two-shoes.

“Aren't you at least nervous?”

“A little,” I answered. Truthfully, I had this inexplicable sense of foreboding more than I did the jitters. I could only tie it to the negative comments Jameson had made about Dakota. Besides, Des seemed nervous enough for the both of us.

“A little,” she mimicked. “He's only the hottest star on the planet and we're about to meet him. Right here. Right now.” Audible gulp. “Oh, shit.”

We stood outside Jolly Green Giant–sized double doors that had the mag's name etched into the crystal-clear glass. Inside, the lobby for the
EnterTEENment
offices boasted art deco furniture and a bright, funky décor that looked like a Crayola box had exploded on the walls. As I carefully reached for the door handle, mindful of not leaving any fingerprints, I had to admit a sudden swarm of dragonflies took wing in my tummy. Turning to give Des one last reassuring smile and to shore up my own fleeting courage, I flinched when I noticed her pasty and putrid complexion.

“Oh, no,” I said as she slammed a hand over her mouth. “No, no-no, no.”

“S'okay,” Des mumbled around a cringing swallow. “I just puked a little in my mouth.”

“Interna-hurl,” we both said, and then cracked up.

We dashed off to the bathroom where Des brushed her teeth with her finger and some toothpaste I had in my purse. When we returned to the office doors, Jameson stood waiting, his brow creased in worry. “Everything okay?”

“I'm a little, uh, nervous,” Des admitted with chagrin.

“But I think it's out of her system now,” I said. “Or would that be back in, Des?” I asked with a laugh.

“There's nothing to worry about.” Jameson gave Des a sympathetic smile, but when his glance slid my way his face turned stony, like a cop standing at the ready before a bust. His morose gaze then shifted to the office, as if searching for an unseen Dakota. If looks could kill, Dakota'd be dropping dead somewhere in there. Then, as if Jameson realized he'd just pissed on our parade, he pasted on a fake smile and tossed us a wink. “Like I said, no worries. I've got your back.”

Now why did I think he meant that in two ways?

Dakota Danvers had the kind of charisma that made skirts hit the floor and machismo men question their sexuality. At twenty-four, his fan base ran from tweenie-boppers to cougars. Heck, he could probably even count a few jaguars. Dark chestnut curls swept the back of his neck and he had this endearing way, which drove Des and me wild, of flicking his head to the side to get his wave of bangs out of his eyes. And those
eyes
… mocha brown and deeply soulful. As the moody but sensitive paranormal investigator on the CW's most edgy show, he did most of his acting with those incredible eyes. But on the rare occasion when his character was allowed to crack a smile, it seemed as if heaven itself opened up and shone its every ray of sunshine. Hokey sounding, sure, but his dimpled grin would actually elicit a matching smile from anyone watching.

And here I stood, grinning at him like some kind of demented dolt while Des, obviously fully recovered from her interna-hurl, shrieked and leapt into his arms.

Arms, I might say, that bulged out of his charcoal, short-sleeved, snug-fitting V-neck Hurley tee.
Sigh.
The only thing more impressive than his biceps was the body-molding fit of his darkwash jeans.

I couldn't help but stare—no one could—but I wondered who was worse: me or Des? Tweedle Mute or Tweedle Maniac?

Fortunately, Dakota had more than a little experience with starstruck fans. He laughingly swept Des into a hug before gently setting her a safe distance outside his personal perimeter and introducing himself.

Me? I kept standing there—
still grinning
—like some kind of Botox-paralyzed fool until someone, Jameson maybe, gave me a gentle push at the small of my back.

“Hi,” I finally managed to say as I held my hand out formally. “I'm Aly King.”

Dakota took my hand in his, flashed that captivating smile again, and pulled me into a hug that had me go positively woozy amidst the yummilicious mix of muscles and musk.

Too bad my euphoria got squelched by a glowering Jameson, lurking in my peripheral vision.

Sheesh. What was with him?

Too quick, the hug ended. I felt empty when Dakota moved away, and then chagrined by Jameson's silent scolding.

“So you're the lucky winner,” Dakota said as he shoved his hands into his front pockets and hunched his shoulders over. I'd seen him do this before, on TV and in photos. At six-four he towered over everyone, and I'd often wondered if he did this to make himself seem a tad smaller and less intimidating. Then he looked at me and did that sexy little toss of his head while giving me a shy, warm smile, and I wanted to hug him all over again.

This
was the guy Jameson disliked so much?

Here Dakota stood in all his gorgeous studliness, and instead of acting like a stereotypical Hollywood egohead, he seemed completely down-to-earth and adorably approachable.

“Yep, I'm the winner,” I finally said. “I could
not
believe it when I got the call. We”—I motioned to Des, who was gawking at Dakota like he was a prime rib steak and she'd been withering away as a contestant on
Survivor
—“are huge fans of the show.”

“And of you,” Des piped in. “We've watched all your movies and catch all the repeats of
Stars Landing
.”

Dakota raked his fingers through his hair and gave us a wry smile. “What a difference a few years make.”

“You were great as Don,” I said, not wanting him to diminish his debut role. “But we really love your Tristan Remington character on
Paranormal PI
.”

He nodded his appreciation. “I get to do a lot more physical stuff, that's for sure.”

“Do you do your own stunts?” I asked.

“Some,” he said with a modest shrug, “but I have a pretty strict contract that keeps me from doing anything
too
fun.”

“Wouldn't want to hurt that pretty face,” Jameson said, and he sounded a little more jeering than jesting.

Dakota laughed off the comment with a quick grin. “That's right; they like to remind me it's my money-maker.”

“Speaking of your gorgy good looks,” said a hippie-esque photographer with bare feet and braids who I'd failed to notice standing in the corner, “we should really get started.” She arranged us in front of a white canvas backdrop and blinding, scorching lights. As the #1 magazine among twelve-to-eighteen-year-olds,
EnterTEENment
had its own impressive, in-house photo studio with backgrounds, sets, props, lights, and cameras. The photographer, Allegra, worked exclusively for
ETM
but sometimes freelanced for their sister mag,
Tween Scene
. “I want you girls to have a lot of fun with this,” she instructed.

When we'd first stepped through those crystal-clear doors with Jameson, we'd been whisked down a long hallway—past framed magazine covers checkerboarding the bright walls, past a maze of cubicles and a high-tech conference room—to a small makeup room where we'd gotten our hair and face done. Despite pre-planning our Meet Dakota outfits back in Colorado, we'd still agonized over our photo shoot apparel while settling into the hotel. Ultimately I'd gone with my white sunflower sundress and cowboy boots, and Des had color coordinated with her black and yellow plaid halter dress and knee-high vinyl boots. The
EnterTEENment
powers that be okayed our choices, saying they captured the “wholesomeness” and “girl next door” appeal they were looking for. When Des laughingly asked the editor if anyone like herself lived next door to her, the editor snorted and said this was L.A. and Des hadn't seen true edgy yet. Equal parts irritated and intrigued, Des actually bit her tongue—well, she teethed her lip ring—and allowed the hair and makeup crew to work their magic.

Standing here now, next to Dakota, I must confess I felt a little buzzed by the celebrity treatment. I could easily understand the lure of stardom.

“All right girls, get in close,” the photog instructed. “Don't be shy now, you're meeting
the
Dakota Danvers and a million girls, and boys, are going to wish they were you.”

The three of us turned to face the photographer. Des was on Dakota's left, I was on his right. She didn't have to be told twice to move in, but I nervously scooted closer inch-by-inch until Dakota wrapped an arm around each of us and snuggled us closer. A smile bloomed from my heart and spread wide across my lips.

“That's right,” Allegra trilled. “Those are the smiles I'm looking for.” She danced around us and the snaps and flashes made me feel self-conscious and awkward. I didn't know where to look, how to move, what to do. Just as I thought to ask for some modeling instruction, someone cranked AC/DC's “Highway to Hell.” Des and I locked eyes and broke into crazy grins. Next thing we knew, we were singing the lyrics at the top of our lungs. As the song segued into another classic rock hit (
Paranormal PI
's signature soundtrack genre), I totally forgot the beatnik shutterbug and gave myself up to the music, dancing with abandon.