Some Like It Hot
Copyright © 2006 by Alloy Entertainment
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group, USA
237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at
hachettebookgroupusa.com
First eBook Edition: April 2006
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN: 978-0-316-04163-8
Contents
Skirt So Short It Looked Like a Loincloth
The World's Tiniest Leopard-Print Thong
Mr. I'm-So-Talented-But-I'm-All-Fucked-Up
Waiting for the Other Manolo to Drop
Long Blond Hair Down to Her Butt
If you have to ask, you'll never be on …
Be sure to read all the novels in the
New York Times
bestselling
A-LIST series
THE A-LIST
GIRLS ON FILM
BLONDE AMBITION
TALL COOL ONE
BACK IN BLACK
SOME LIKE IT HOT
AMERICAN BEAUTY
HEART OF GLASS
And keep your eye out for BEAUTIFUL STRANGER, coming September 2007.
HOW FAR WILL ONE GIRL GO TO BECOME …
the it girl
Be sure to read all the novels in the
New York Times
bestselling it girl series
the it girl
notorious
reckless
unforgettable
And keep your eye out for
Lucky
, coming November 2007.
THE A-LIST
GIRLS ON FILM
BLONDE AMBITION
TALL COOL ONE
BACK IN BLACK
SOME LIKE IT HOT
AMERICAN BEAUTY
HEART OF GLASS
If you like THE A-LIST, you may also enjoy:
Bass Ackwards and Belly Up
by Elizabeth Craft and Sarah Fain
Secrets of My Hollywood Life
by Jen Calonita
Haters
by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez
and keep your eye out for
Betwixt
by Tara Bray Smith, coming October 2007
For Francois at the Hôtel du Cap.
Merci pour une nuit inoubliable.
Fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy night!
—Bette Davis,
All About Eve
THE PROM COMMITTEE OF THE GRADUATING CLASS OF BEVERLY HILLS HIGH SCHOOL, 2006 INVITES YOU TO THE 50
TH
ANNIVERSARY
SENIOR PROM
8:00 P.M.
MAY 16, 2006
GRAND BALLROOM BEL AIR GRAND HOTEL
BLACK TIE
PER COUPLE
(Same-Sex Couples Welcome):
$1,250
RSVP CARD ENCLOSED
Skirt So Short It Looked Like a Loincloth
“P
rom, Anna?” Cammie Sheppard asked disdainfully, shaking her trademark strawberry-blond curls off her forehead with a swift motion made perfect by experience. “Seriously, you want to go to the Beverly Hills High School
prom?”
Anna Percy—an inch taller than Cammie at five foot eight, with the classic features of a girl whose ancestors had come over on the
Mayflower
(they practically had) and the razor-cut shiny straight blond hair of girls who'd been done personally by Raymond at his new salon on Rodeo Drive—glanced up from the small brown vial of an amber essential oil she'd been holding beneath her nose. “We're seniors. Why not?”
Cammie flashed Anna a look of pure scorn. “Because compared to the parties I have already been to and/or given, a high school
prom
is about as exciting as a square dance in Sacramento.”
“I'll second that,” Sam Sharpe agreed, as she uncorked a small vial of essence of English rose that the well-coiffed and just as well-face-lifted saleswoman had suggested she try. “We can do something else that weekend. How about we take my father's jet to his house in Maui?”
Though Anna's family was easily as well off as her friend Sam's, and probably richer than Sam's and Cammie's combined, she still hadn't gotten completely used to how easily the two of them were willing to be extravagant. Back in New York City, before she'd moved to Los Angeles, Anna had certainly gone on lavish vacations, lived in a coveted Upper East Side town house, had a spacious walk-in closet full of great clothes, and been well aware of how fortunate she was to have been born to this life. But the conspicuous consumption of Los Angeles was somehow … different.
Anna, Sam, and Sam's friend Cammie had stopped at the Scent Bar in the Hancock Park neighborhood of Los Angeles as part of a project to help raise money for DIS—Drama in Schools, an after-school drama program in the least fortunate L.A. neighborhoods. Everyone in Hollywood had a cause, either because they were truly philanthropic or because it made them look like they were. DIS was the pet project of a former raven-haired child actress now in her twenties, who'd recently exploded from flat-chested to Pamela Anderson territory—the tabloids cried, “Implants!” but she claimed a late adolescence. That actress had asked Sam's father, Jackson Sharpe—”America's Most Beloved Action Hero”—to be part of her new campaign. The idea was that a star would create a limited edition of a scent with his or her name on it; the perfume or cologne would be auctioned on eBay, and all proceeds would go to DIS.
The blossoming—in more ways than one—young actress had asked her young showbiz friends to participate. As “Action Jackson” Sharpe was staring down middle age and the very real possibility of post hipdom loomed on the horizon, he'd readily agreed to participate. But since he was on location for his newest movie,
Ben-Hur
(a remake of the often-remade classic set in the Roman Empire—Jackson was not just starring in it, he was directing it), he'd asked his assistant Kiki to do the honors for him.
Sam, though, had decreed that she'd do it instead. She'd wanted to check out Scent Bar. Plus, as she explained to Anna, if she smelled the actress Jena Malone's signature scent on one more girl at Beverly Hills High School, she was personally going to spray her with some vile Jungle Gardenia knockoff you could buy from a street vendor near the Staples Center.
Anna had been curious to come, even if Cammie had been invited too (they didn't get along, to put it mildly). Scent Bar was a one-of-a-kind boutique, where you couldn't get through the door without an appointment, and to get a good appointment, it definitely helped to be the daughter of America's top action hero. The place looked more like a well-appointed living room than a store. It had white upholstered chairs that circled a central, low-slung metal table, and a spare white counter for the resident saleswoman/perfume expert; there was even a sound system for which the clientele could choose from thousands of MP3s. Sam had allowed Anna to choose, and she'd selected some piano variations by the French composer and pianist Erik Satie.
“Ugh.” Sam recoiled from the pungent odor wafting from yet another bottle of essential oil. “I had a nanny who wore this shit.” She passed the vial to Cammie. “Remember?”
Cammie sniffed and grimaced. “She was from Sweden or something. We were what, eleven? She hooked up with that actor who did all those guest spots on
Friends.”
“And lived in that asshole producer's guesthouse—the one who jumped from ICM to CAA and then to your dad's agency,” Sam added, nodding.
Anna barely followed this Hollywood shorthand. Unlike Sam and Cammie, Anna had neither been born in Beverly Hills nor had show business in her blood. In fact, she'd been in Los Angeles for barely five months, having moved from the Upper East Side of Manhattan to live with her father and finish her senior year at Beverly Hills High School before going back east to Yale the next year.
There were a lot of reasons that she'd made this huge change in her life, but the biggest one was that she wanted to reinvent herself. The box into which Anna had been born and bred was a confining one of old money and privilege. She wanted to push boundaries, to have new experiences, to stop being the proverbial literature-devouring, well-mannered—and worst of all, predictable—
good girl.
Anna caught sight of her reflection in the stark, mirrored wall at the rear of the perfumery. She was slender, with the carriage of a girl who had spent many hours toiling in ballet classes. Her wheat-blond hair fell straight to her shoulders, brushing the white eyelet of her Valentino halter top. With it she wore ancient khakis—she couldn't remember when or where she'd purchased them—and Chanel leather cutout ballet flats. Five-karat antique diamond studs inherited from her great-grandmother adorned her ears. She wore a touch of Stila lip gloss and some brown Yves Saint Laurent mascara but was otherwise makeup-free. She'd heard others say she resembled Gwyneth Paltrow, but that wasn't what Anna saw. All she saw was a traditional-looking girl who screamed, “I'm safe!”
Her gaze slid to Sam, who had the pampered air of the semifamous teen daughter of a very famous movie star who made the most of her better-than-average—but by Beverly Hills standards less-than-average—looks. Her perfectly made-up brown eyes were the color of rich chocolate and sparkled with intelligence; her glossy, shoulder-length chestnut hair was perfectly streaked with varying shades of butterscotch highlights. Her golden tan, sprayed on weekly at B2V Salon, was flawless. Her outfit, a citron Follies tank top with a braided leather neckline and high-rise Joe's Muse jeans (because low-risers were so last year—and thank God, because she was sure her ass looked like a relief map of Colorado in them) were as expensive as they looked. Sam's jeans were two sizes larger than her tank top. In her Beverly Hills neighborhood, this fact alone could have been the kiss of death. Her perceived bodily deficits colored everything she said, did, and thought—no one was harder on Sam's appearance than Sam. That said, Sam was by far the smartest person Anna had met since she'd come to California. Anna liked her a lot.
