Hollywood Hills (4 page)

Once the girls landed in the Las Vegas airport and bid farewell to the curious sisters, they were able to pick up right where they’d left off. “The point is, I’m
not
delusional,” Alexa was saying, still in her hat and shades, as she and Holly strode past rows of blinking, beeping slot machines. Determined elderly ladies with pink-dyed hair sat before each one, tugging on the levers while their husbands waited nearby, most likely wishing they could drive off to the Bellagio and play poker. Holly half expected to see her plucky Grandma Ida with her new husband, Miles, among them, but she knew they were home in Miami.

“Ever since my, uh, incident in Paris,” Alexa continued as the girls arrived at their connecting flight’s
gate, and were stopped short by a serpentine line, “my new motto when it comes to guys is ‘be realistic.’” She nodded; the words sounded good to her. She wondered if she could get them emblazoned on her cell phone in Swarovski crystals.

Holly patted Alexa’s arm supportively; she fervently wished that her friend would one day experience the love and devotion she deserved. The only problem was, Alexa was reckless and choosy at the same time—a dangerous combo when it came to finding the right guy.

Holding her sun hat in place and rising up on her toes, Alexa surveyed the never-ending line before them: a series of balding heads, and worried voices buzzing into cell phones. Lines—in addition to a pairing of plaids and stripes, elevator music, and chipped nail polish—were the stuff of Alexa’s worst nightmares. They got in the way of her natural progression toward fabulousness. “What’s going on?” she demanded imperiously, while Holly shrugged.

The stressed-out mom in front of them turned around, a wailing infant in her arms. “Apparently there’s some kind of strike,” she replied. “I don’t know—” She was interrupted by the crackle of the loudspeaker overhead, and then a twangy voice announced:
“Attention, all passengers. Flight four twenty-
eight, which just arrived from Newark, will be True West’s last flight today. I repeat—due to an airline strike, all of True West’s flights are grounded indefinitely.”

Alexa and Holly exchanged a look of horror.

“Don’t panic,” Holly instructed. But from the set of Alexa’s jaw and the rosy flush of her peaches-and-cream skin, she was beginning to do just that. Holly tried to keep calm for the both of them, but visions of spending the week in tacky Las Vegas—sneaking into casinos, driving past Cirque du Soleil billboards, getting hit on by slimy card sharks wearing gold chains—were already flashing through her head. “I’m sure every other airline here has flights to LA—”

“Passengers flying to Los Angeles International Airport, Burbank, or Long Beach, please be advised that all other airlines’ flights to those destinations are booked until tomorrow. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

“The
inconvenience
?” Alexa burst out in fury as the crowd collectively groaned. She glanced around, searching in vain for some official-looking person to yell at. Dread washed over her; they’d never make tonight’s party now.

“Listen,” Holly replied, holding up her hands and hoping she sounded more in control than she was feeling. Getting stranded
anywhere
terrified her. She thought about calling her parents, but she knew their
panicking would only make the situation worse. “We won’t get to LA today,” Holly went on pragmatically. “So let’s see if we can get a cheap motel room for the night, and I’m sure…”

“No.” Alexa was
not
about to let fate decide her travel plans. She had a glitzy event to attend in downtown LA, a wedding to shop for, and a Malibu guesthouse to enjoy—and she’d be damned if some teensy detail like an airline strike stood in the way. “I have a better idea.”

Holly bit her lip, looking apprehensive. “Alexa, whatever I said before, I am
not
going to give you a piggyback ride to—”

“Not that, you idiot,” Alexa said affectionately. Scooping up her Paul & Joe owl shoulder bag, Alexa motioned to the Hertz car rental desk, where another line was already beginning to form. “There’s a
much
more luxurious form of transport. LA’s got to be—what?—an hour’s drive from here? Totally doable.”

“Try five hours,” the Hertz guy told them a few minutes later, his tone flat and his gray hair illuminated by the fluorescent bulbs overhead. The laminated pin he wore on his shirt read george. “And can I see some ID? We don’t rent cars to anyone younger than twenty-three, or twenty-one if you’re willing to pay extra.”

This time, the look Alexa and Holly exchanged
plainly translated as
we’re screwed.
Though both girls had fake IDs, they didn’t need to confer to know that using one at an airport would be glaringly stupid. The people in line behind them started to complain about the holdup—a soft grumbling that could quickly turn into a roar. Holly’s hand instinctively flew to the Claddagh ring on her finger; she twisted it around and around, wondering if she should call Tyler. He’d probably urge her to come home, which she sort of wanted to do anyway.

“You must understand, George,” Alexa was insisting, leaning over the counter and wishing that she, like Holly, had actual cleavage; maybe Mr. Hertz would give her a break then. “It’s life-or-death
crucial
that we get to LA within the next few hours, and I’m happy to put you in touch with Margaux Eklundstrom if need be.” The name clearly meant nothing to George, so Alexa, throat tightening with desperation, rebounded with: “Do you
know
who my mother is?”

“Sorry to interrupt.” A male voice came from a few feet away. “But I need to get to LA, too.” Alexa glanced away from George, to her right, to see a strikingly good-looking guy with floppy blond hair and black-framed glasses. He was sitting cross-legged on a nearby bench, balancing a notebook on his corduroy-clad lap; he’d been writing something, but he closed the notebook. “And,” he added, unfolding his long legs
and standing up, giving Alexa a full view of the rumpled Hot Hot Heat T-shirt under his tattered tweed blazer and the worn brown belt slung around his cords. “I turned twenty-one last week.”

“Happy birthday,” Alexa murmured, stepping out of line and whipping off her sunglasses. Skinny hipster boys weren’t usually her thing, but there was something pulse-quickening about this guy’s strong cheekbones and his tall, graceful frame. Behind her, she could feel Holly tense up, her classic reaction whenever there was a hot guy in the vicinity.

But Hipster Boy’s response to Alexa’s flirtation was a wry smirk as he cast his gaze over Alexa’s outfit. Alexa could read his thought process plain as day:
Somebody please get this Top 40-listening, makeup-wearing, magazine-reading dumb blonde as far away from me as humanly possible.
She balled her hands into fists, pissed. Boys, all boys, were so
obvious.
And she couldn’t stand being written off like that.

“So tell me,” the boy said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Who
is
this world-renowned mother of whom you speak?” He pushed his glasses up on his nose, still smirking.

Alexa bristled, wondering how she’d ever found this guy attractive. “A buyer at Henri Bendel’s in Manhattan,” she spat, then shoved her shades back on, not wanting to maintain eye contact.

He nodded thoughtfully. “Should’ve guessed that from a mile away.”

Alexa drew herself up to her full height, preparing a comeback, when Holly stepped forward and placed a hand on Alexa’s elbow. “Uh, look,” she said, addressing Hipster Boy. “About getting to LA. Do you have legit ID?”

Glancing at Holly, the boy’s square-jawed face broke into a slow smile. Holly felt the strongest sense of recognition, of understanding, pass between the two of them, even though she’d never seen him before in her life. She tried to fight back what felt like the beginnings of a blush; why,
why
, did cute guys always do that to her?

“Indeed,” the boy replied, removing his wallet and holding up a New York State driver’s license. Holly felt a flush of relief. His name, according to the card, was Seamus Kerr, his address was somewhere in Brooklyn, and he was, in fact, newly twenty-one. She hadn’t thought he was a liar—there was a sincerity in his bright hazel gaze that disarmed her a little—but it was nice to see proof. “So shall we?” Seamus asked Holly. “I don’t mind driving.”

“Splitting the cost three ways
would
be better,” she reasoned, turning to Alexa, who looked seriously miffed. Holly wasn’t sure why she was now the one pushing them toward LA—seconds before, she’d
been ready to return to New Jersey—but something about Seamus’s warm, easygoing presence made her feel like heading farther west was the best thing to do. If only Alexa would stop stubbornly shaking her head.

“To drive or not to drive—that is the question,” Seamus intoned, putting a hand to his chest and grinning at Holly again. A businessman waiting in the Hertz line regarded Seamus as if he’d lost his mind. “Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to crash in Vegas for a night, or rent a Mustang—”

“Easy there, Hamlet,” Alexa snapped; she had only so much tolerance for English-major types. “Holly, can I speak to you alone for a second?” She led Holly a few paces away from Seamus, where they positioned themselves behind a beefy guy in a cowboy hat. “Don’t be such the naïve suburban girl,” Alexa hissed the minute they were safe. “This guy’s a complete stranger. How do we know he’s not, like, a serial killer?” Alexa checked over her shoulder. Seamus was now standing at the back of the Hertz line, thumbing through a paperback copy of
Crime and Punishment
, his book bag at his feet. Alexa noticed what looked like a green plush toy peeking out of the top of the half-open bag.
Freaking weird.

Holly groaned, putting her hands on her hips. “Alexa, give me some credit—don’t you think my parents have made me sufficiently paranoid by now?”
She refrained from reminding her indignant friend that, on all her exotic travels across the globe, Alexa had full-on
made out
with her share of “complete strangers.” But Alexa was an expert at conveniently forgetting things. Holly glanced at Seamus to see him watching them, and then quickly return to his book. She smiled to herself. “I think he’s a good guy,” she finished with a shrug.

Alexa rolled her eyes. If Holly was developing a crush on this Seamus person, Alexa did not want to be the one to clean up the mess. But the truth was, they really had no choice; she
did
want get to Malibu by tonight, and Seamus was their lone ticket there.

“Fine, but I need to collect my luggage from the baggage claim,” Alexa sighed, turning away. “You figure out the car stuff with your new best friend, and I’ll meet you guys outside.”

“Holy mother of…” Seamus muttered twenty minutes later, his eyes wide behind his glasses. He and Holly were sitting outside the airport in the convertible Mustang they’d rented with Seamus’s ID, watching in disbelief as Alexa wiggled toward them in her platforms. She was trailing a blush-pink wheelie suitcase that was about the size and shape of Alaska, and in her other hand she lugged several totes, her handbag, and the satchel containing her PowerBook.
The black camera bag in which she carried her big, professional Nikon swung from her free shoulder. That she was able to move at all seemed to Holly like a miracle.

“She’s like the bag lady of Rodeo Drive,” Holly murmured, observing Alexa with a mixture of amusement and sympathy. Her friend stumbled, sending one of her totes to the ground, and as she bent to retrieve it, the hot desert wind almost snatched her hat off her head.

Seamus laughed warmly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “That’s perfect,” he told Holly. “It sounds like a short-story title.”

This time, Holly couldn’t help but blush—she hated how her face always gave away the slightest stutter of her heart—and then fiddled with her Claddagh ring. “I’m not much of a writer,” she admitted. “Are you?” she asked, thinking of the notebook Seamus had been scribbling in.

“In a way,” Seamus replied as Alexa finally made her way into the car, flinging herself into the backseat with a dramatic moan. “I just graduated from NYU, so I’m starting as an editorial assistant at
The New York Observer.
”

“Alexa, did you hear?” Holly asked, turning around to her friend. “Seamus lives in New York—”

“I did, but I don’t care,” Alexa spat, sweaty and
achy as she plunked her camera bag on the seat beside her. Squeezing all her other bags into the trunk had been utterly traumatic. She removed her sunglasses and hat and ran a hand through her tousled hair.

“I’m not sure you packed enough, Alexa,” Seamus commented with a smile in his voice, turning the key in the ignition. Alexa thought she saw him exchange a glance with Holly.
Ugh.
Why didn’t the two of them just go off to a hippie commune where nobody cared about clothes and everyone carried their earthly possessions in, like, hemp pillowcases?

“Wow, that’s hilarious,” Alexa yawned, leaning her head back and shutting her eyes; the emotional turmoil of the day had drained her. Seamus slipped a CD into the player, and a jangly guitar and a bluesy voice poured of the speaker.
Whiny emo bullshit
, Alexa thought derisively.
Figures.
As they pulled away from the airport, she felt a flash of jealousy that
Seamus
got to drive; she loved to steer, to control the music, to navigate through either rain or sun. And it felt wrong being relegated to the backseat. But she also wasn’t about to fight Holly for shotgun. Alexa got the distinct feeling that the dynamic duo up front had been mocking her, and was in no mood to speak to either of them.

“So you guys are friends from before?” Seamus was asking as he picked up speed. The convertible’s
top was down and a dry wind whipped through the car, carrying with it the scent of cactus flowers. Holly drew a deep breath, staring out the windshield at the flat landscape; everything seemed so immense here. Out of the corner of her eye, Holly saw Seamus looking from her to Alexa and then back again. “I thought maybe you’d met in the airport,” he added, still sounding incredulous that the two girls could actually be acquainted.

Alexa cracked one eye open to monitor Holly’s response.