No Strings Attached (48 page)

“No!” they both said emphatically.

Jared laughed. “The dudes doth protest too much.”

“Before I got here, I never heard that expression. I hate it,” Nick groused.

Jared got serious. “Look, can I say something? I don't want to pry, and you can tell me to shut up—”

“Shut up.”

“That was rhetorical. Anyway, from what I can see, Nick
is having a hard time with the whole modeling thing. It's making you question yourself, no?”

“No!” Nick said.

“That's what I thought.” Jared kept on talking. “Here's the thing, dude. Maybe you hate the modeling gig not because you're uncomfortable with the people at the studio; maybe you hate it for the simple reason that it's boring. Maybe standing there in your tighty-whiteys, or whatever they make you pose in, maybe it makes you feel like some brainless hunk, some subhuman. Maybe it makes you feel like you have nothing else besides perfect pecs and six-pack abs. Maybe the reason you're ready to ditch it has nothing to do with which way you swing the bat. In other words, maybe the whole time, you questioned the wrong thing.”

Nick stared at Jared, openmouthed.

Jared shrugged and bit into his second burger. “I'm just sayin'.”

“That kind of makes sense, Nick,” Eliot said slowly.

Jared pointed to Eliot. “And you—what can my psychobabble help you with?”

Nick piped up, “He thinks he's a failure, because, you know, in the earthquake, he kind of …”

“Froze? Oh, you mean, just like I did?” Jared inquired. “I've given that a lot of thought. Not to rationalize the way I stood there like a spoiled do-nothing rich kid, in way over his
head …” He paused to see if they were smiling. In spite of themselves, they were.

“Here's how I'm looking at it. It was teamwork. Eliot got us started, then passed the bat to Nick and Sara. And Naomi came in for the save. Lindsay, of course, nabbed the most dramatic part, the damsel in distress—that's who she is. And me? Well, we did end up at my house, and my dad is making reparations to everyone. So I guess I contributed my family money and clout. We all did our part, the best we could.”

Eliot looked surprised. “That is the most sense you've made all summer.”

Nick flashed back to their first day in L.A.: Jared's reaction to having been caught with his pants down. The guy had been so smooth, Nick had totally worshipped him. Three months later, he still did.

“I have an idea,” said Jared. “Let's go catch a movie—some guy thing where a lot of shit blows up.”

Nick waved his arms up and down, a worshipful motion.

Lindsay embraced her superficiality, but she wasn't stupid. Something had gone down behind the scenes, something that eliminated the need for a final audition and took Sara out of the running.

Amanda insisted that Lindsay was more talented, that
she'd given the better reading. Jared agreed with Amanda, and further speculated that maybe no one wanted to risk a big-budget movie on someone as inexperienced as Sara. Rusty claimed blissful ignorance; he was just thrilled that a client from his agency had landed a role. It meant money in his pocket.

Lindsay was left to figure it out for herself. There was something no one was telling her, something no one was whispering about: She'd checked with Caitlin, Julie, Ava, MK, Austin, and Tripp, anyone with connections and an ear to the Hollywood ground.

Lindsay's portrayal of Cherry wasn't better than Sara's: It was different. It
was
possible the powers-that-be had decided on her take. But no way would they do it without a tryout in front of the studio bosses. The director and producers were notoriously risk-averse, and their bosses dined out on the power to make the final selection. So what was up this time?

She was forced to do something totally counterintuitive: observe Sara's behavior. The tall Texan had briefly congratulated Lindsay on hearing the news, but didn't blather on about how the best person had won, destiny, all her usual perky upbeat nonsense.

Of course, Sara was still freaked out about the earthquake, giving up her precious virginity, hurting Eliot, breaking up with Donald, yada yada. Losing the part in the movie was
probably far down on her misery list. Maybe Sara even believed she deserved to lose the part—who knew what went on in that blond head?

Still, something gnawed at her, told her Sara knew the truth. Finally, when she could stand it no longer—she'd wasted an entire day shopping and obsessing—she pounced on an unsuspecting Sara, just home from the day's work and hauling grocery bags, as if they still lived in the Hills house, as if the staff here didn't do the shopping and cooking.

“What do you want, Lindsay?” Sara tried to brush by her, but Lindsay stood blocking her way past the foyer.

“I want to know what you know.” Lindsay stared into Sara's sky-blue peepers. “What Lionel told you, or what you told him.”

Sara stepped to the side, attempting to walk around Lindsay. “I don't know what you're talking about. Anyway, why do you care? You won the role. I congratulated you, didn't I?”

Lindsay only caught a brief glimpse, but there was a look in Sara's eye. Of what? Regret? And suddenly, it hit her. Like a sledgehammer. “You … you pulled out? You freakin' took yourself out of the running! You told them you didn't want the part, didn't you?” Lindsay was incredulous. And sure she was right.

Sara tossed her hair back—a very Lindsay-like motion, it
occurred to her—and stood firm. She didn't deny it, though. “What makes you think I backed out?”

“Because it's the only way I'd have gotten it without that last audition.”

If she thought Sara was going to reach out to her, take her hand the way she did Naomi's so often, or say something soothing and insipid, Lindsay was wrong. Sara said nothing, just tried again to walk away from her.

“You have to tell me why you did it!” Lindsay insisted, frustrated at Sara's silence. The girl had been so open, so easy to read all summer long. Lindsay was having none of her silence now.

Sara managed to brush by her finally and head toward the kitchen. Lindsay found herself trailing the statuesque girl, feeling ever so much like a kid pulling at the back of her mom's coat, begging to be paid attention to. She didn't care, though. She had to know. “Please, Sara,” she whined. “I'd really like to understand what happened.”

Finally, Sara whirled around, set the grocery bags down, and crossed her arms. “I called Lionel and told him I didn't want the part.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because you wanted it more than I did.”

Lindsay's mouth fell open. “Well, yeah, but what's that got to do with anything?” she finally managed. “You … you …
rehearsed! You told your people back in Texas—won't they be disappointed?”

“No doubt.” Sara sighed.

“And you kicked ass at the audition. You really did. I snooped.”

Sara smiled ruefully. Which made Lindsay feel even worse. “I did want it, Lindsay. But you needed it. That's the difference.”

Sara always did what was needed. Naomi needed shelter, needed help and a friend. The house needed cleaning, the lawn needed seeding, the rent needed to be paid. Sara, ever so righteous, did the right thing. Always.

Standing there in the massive hallway between the foyer and the kitchen, Lindsay didn't try to stop her lip from quivering, or swallow the lump in her throat, or tell herself she wasn't acting. “I've been a bitch to you all summer long,” she blubbered.

It was then that Sara finally touched her, cupped Lindsay's chin in her palm. “This is your dream, Lindsay. You go for it.”

“But … don't you have a dream too?” Lindsay asked, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand.

Sara's eyes clouded over. “I'm sure I do. I thought I knew what it was, but everything went topsy-turvy this summer. I'm waiting to figure it out.”

Sara had told Lindsay more truth than she'd meant to. More than she owed the selfish girl. In her heart, Sara was still the righteous girl she'd always been—and she knew she'd done the right thing. So why did it hurt so much? Her skin felt sore, every molecule ached.

“Ouch! Is it always this hot?” Naomi, trying out the hot tub for the first time, yanked her foot out of the bubbling Jacuzzi.

“Take it slowly,” Sara advised. “You'll get used to it.”

In a bid to cheer Sara up, Naomi had suggested an after-dinner soak in the Larsons' magnificent marble tub, which made the one at the share house look scrawny. This was “the Gucci of Jacuzzis,” as Rusty Larson had proudly bragged, state-of-the-art, featuring several tiers to sit on, two carved-in lounges, and jets shooting pulsating water at you from every which way.

“It's supposed to relax your tense muscles,” Sara said.

“Or fry my skin,” the dark-haired waif muttered.

Sara chuckled. “You weren't afraid to dive under the wreckage in an earthquake; you're going squeamish now?”

“
That
was all adrenaline,” Naomi pointed out. “
This
is bizarre.”

Sara had thought so too, back when she'd first come to Los Angeles. All these big, shiny, material things: profligate, extravagant, decadent, toys for people with so much money they don't know what to do with it.

That was then. Now? Her core values hadn't changed. But this, she kinda liked: If you allowed yourself to sink into it, to feel—and not think—it felt real, real good.

Naomi carefully slid in, pressed her back against the side. “Wow!” She giggled. One of the power jets had hit the small of her back. “This is definitely … weird.”

“It's supposed to pound your muscles, take out the knots,” Sara explained, as she sank neck-deep into the bubbles.

Sara wondered if the girl from the streets would find herself liking her first Jacuzzi experience. It was so easy to succumb (the word came to her unbidden) to all kinds of temptation, to things that made you feel good, feel important, to people who made you feel special.

No. She didn't want to go back there. She closed her eyes. What she'd done the night before the earthquake had set off a chain-of-pain reaction. Nick was wracked with guilt, Eliot was devastated, poor unsuspecting Donald got dumped—for what could she do now but break up with him? She felt responsible for all of it.

When she opened her eyes, she realized Naomi was staring at her. “We all do things out of anger,” Naomi said, “no matter how hard you try not to.”

The words popped out of Sara before she could censor herself. “So, what, you're a mind reader, too? Is that one of the skills you learned on the streets?” Horrified at her outburst, she
slapped her hand over her mouth. “Naomi, I am so sorry. I didn't mean that—but you seemed to know what I was thinking.”

“I don't have to be a mind reader to know what you've been obsessing about; it's written all over your face. And don't worry, no offense taken.”

Sara considered. “So you're saying I got drunk, broke my purity pledge, had sex with Nick, all out of anger?”

“Pretty much.”

“Who am I supposedly so angry at?”

“Yourself, Sara. That's who.”

She wanted to say, “I have nothing to be angry at myself for.” She wanted to say, “I live—or lived—a righteous life. I did the right thing.” But the words got stuck in her throat, never made it out.

Naomi continued. “Backing out of the audition so Lindsay could win the role was off-the-chart unselfish. Lindsay isn't even worthy! You knew it. So you wanted something in return, something for you: something to make you feel good. On a visceral level—the most basic human level.”

“Nick,” Sara mumbled, starting to tear up again.

“You've been wanting him all summer.”

“Something else written all over my face?” Sara asked sarcastically.

“Not just your face, sistah.”

Sara swallowed hard. So she had been that obvious, much as
she'd tried to kick those feelings away, to not name them. It'd never occurred to her, not in a million years, that she'd act on them. She turned to Naomi. “It's actually not good to stay in the tub longer than fifteen minutes at a time. You'll get dizzy.”

“Let's not risk it.” Naomi hoisted herself out of the water and brought over a couple of soft, oversize beach towels.

They sat on the edge of the Jacuzzi, wrapped in terry cloth, legs dangling in the hot water. “Nick's not the right guy for me,” Sara heard herself saying. “Neither is Donald. There's no future with either of them.”

“Agreed.”

Sara was a little surprised Naomi said that so quickly.

“Look, Sara, just because you did something once doesn't change who you are, cancel out your beliefs. You're still you, and Nick's a great guy, but on no planet are the two of you remotely right for each other. At heart, he's a simple, good-time frat-guy, more brawn than brains. You're deeper. You're always going to be searching, questioning, looking for answers. And helping other people—that's such a huge part of who you are. You're not going to stop, even if there are times, like this one, you got hurt doing it.”

“Who died and made you Yoda?”

Ah, leave it to Lindsay. As if proof were needed that people, in fact, never do change. Neither Sara nor Naomi had heard her pad outside in her spa slippers. But what shocked them was not
her intrusion, nor her itsy-bitsy bikini. It was the sight of Lindsay Pierce, diva divine … carrying a tray? With
three
fancy salt-rimmed margarita glasses and a pitcher full of the pale green drink.

Lindsay said, “Sounds like I walked in on the juicy stuff—girl-talk confessions. I am
so
all about that. Mind if I join? I come bearing gifts.”

“Yes, we do mind,” Naomi started to say, but Sara overruled her. “Oh, what the heck. We hardly have any secrets anymore. What's in the pitcher?”