скачать книгу бесплатно
“Night,” Kate called out. She gazed at the next envelope for a moment before opening it. It was sent from here in L.A., and the handwriting was small and exquisitely neat. J.B. from Studio City: The initials and the handwriting were familiar. He’d written her before, hadn’t he? Yes, and she’d sent him a signed head shot. He was probably writing to thank her—after all, not every TV personality would be so generous with her time and photos. She opened the letter, feeling rather pleased with herself for being so nice, and with J.B. for being so polite.
Dear Kate,
Thank you so much for the photo. I have it framed next to my bed. I’ve watched you since the very first episode of The Fame Game. You are a great talent, and you are better and more beautiful than anyone else on that show. I love your voice. It’s the voice of an angel.
Kate smiled. Now this was more like it. She read on.
I wish that your voice could be the first thing I heard in the morning and the last thing I heard at night. Sometimes when I see you on TV, and your blue eyes turn toward the camera, I swear that you are looking straight at me. Telling me that you see me, and you want to get to know me. Well, I want to get to know you, too. I know it sounds silly, but sometimes I tell people you are my girlfriend—and who knows? Maybe someday you will be. I mean, look how close we live to each other.
Kate looked at the second page enclosed in the envelope. It was a map with what she assumed was his home circled and a line leading to a second location. She looked a little closer and realized it was their apartment. Sure, a few photographers had figured out where they lived after following them home, but Trevor had always assured them that most people didn’t know.
Kate looked up. “Uh . . . Carmen?” she called.
“Brushing my teeth!” she yelled from the bathroom.
“Can you come out here and look at this letter?”
A few seconds later, Carmen came and took the letter and the map from Kate, her eyes quickly scanning the pages. “Oh no,” she said as she read. “Ewww.” When she was done, she handed the letter back to Kate as if it were contaminated. “You need to tell someone about this.”
“It’s not some random weird thing I can, like, ignore?”
Carmen shook her head. “That guy sounds like a stalker and he clearly knows where you live. Where we live. My mom’s had about five hundred stalkers, and trust me, they’re bad news. You need to get rid of him, stat.”
“Really? I mean, sure, it’s kind of weird,” Kate said. “But it’s not like he wrote ‘I’m outside your window’ or something.”
“Kate, people can be crazy. They watch the show and see you in your bedroom talking about your life and think that they know you.”
“I think you’re overreacting,” Kate said. “He’s just some weirdo—”
“Yeah,” Carmen interrupted. “He’s a weirdo. And angry weirdos are exactly the kind of people you want to be careful around. They can be dangerous.”
Kate, admittedly, had been sort of freaked out by the letter. But something about Carmen’s response annoyed her. Couldn’t she simply have a rabid fan? Why did he have to be some sort of threat?
“I don’t think—”
“You don’t need to think,” Carmen interrupted. Again. “Turn the letter in to Laurel and she’ll give it to whoever heads security at the network. If anything, they like to have these things on file.”
Kate couldn’t help herself then. She was annoyed and she lashed out. “Maybe you’re jealous,” she whispered. “Maybe you wish you’d gotten a letter like this.”
Carmen stared at her in disbelief. “Girl, if you think that, you are even more out of touch than the creep who wrote you that letter.” Then she turned and stomped away.
Kate looked at the letter again. It was written on scented stationery.
Love always,
J .B.
P.S. Hope to see you very soon.
She shuddered, and then pulled out her phone and texted Laurel. Immediately after that, she texted Drew. CRAZY FAN LETTERS. CARM SAYS I SHOULD WATCH OUT. CALL ME?
But Drew did better than call her. He left Rock It! right away and drove to her apartment, even though she tried to tell him that it wasn’t necessary.
The moment she opened the door and saw him, clutching a spray of daisies, standing there so tall and strong and reassuring, she couldn’t believe she’d tried to convince him (and herself) that he shouldn’t come.
It ended up being one of the best nights ever. They streamed Walk the Line, the Johnny Cash biopic, on Netflix, and cuddled on the couch. As Kate rested her cheek against Drew’s warm chest, feeling his arm tight around her shoulders, she thought about the irony of it all: how the very day that Carmen seemed to think she could be in some kind of danger was also the day that she felt the most taken care of. The most safe.
Kate looked up at Drew, and he looked down at her. They smiled at each other—wide, silly, happy grins. It was great.
And then they kissed, and that was even better.
(#ulink_229548b2-78a2-5fae-a78b-a27320e6cb05)
In the parking lot of Hope Medical Center, the girls were miked and directed to stand near the building’s portico awaiting Gaby’s arrival. The sun felt blazingly hot; L.A. was in the middle of a freak January heat wave, and Carmen hadn’t dressed appropriately for it.
“I wonder if Gaby’ll get some kind of diploma,” Kate said. “My cousin’s kid got a diploma from her daycare.”
Wow. Was Kate trying to sound as dense as Gaby? “I got a diploma from driving school,” Carmen offered.
“All I got was a key chain that said ‘Stay Alive—Drive Fifty-Five.’ I mean, how old do you think that thing was? The speed limit hasn’t been fifty-five since before I was born.”
Carmen laughed. “It’s vintage! Maybe it’s worth something.”
“Doubtful. Anyway, I threw it away.” Kate squinted at the rehab. “When are they releasing Gaby?” she wondered.
“They probably already did,” Carmen said drily. “And Laurel’s making her wait on the other side of the door until Sophia arrives and we can film.”
“Did I hear my name?” Sophia hurried up to them in a cloud of lavender essence and kissed them both on the cheek. “So good to see you,” she said, giving Carmen’s arm a squeeze. “I wish Madison could be here, too.”
Yeah, I’ll bet you do, thought Carmen.
“This is such an important moment,” Sophia went on, beaming at them.
“Didn’t you spend some time in this place?” Carmen asked, referring to Sophia’s own rehab stint, which had begun not long after she’d joined the cast of L.A. Candy.
“No, I went to Promises,” she said breezily. “I learned so much there. It was a fantastic experience, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”
“Any minute now, ladies,” Laurel called.
Carmen smoothed a strand of hair away from her face. She’d forgotten how much of filming was standing around, waiting. Movies were a thousand times worse in this regard, but at least you got a trailer to hang out in.
A long black town car pulled into the lot, right next to the PopTV van. A moment later, the back door opened and Trevor emerged. He gave the girls a nod and a half smile.
“What is Trevor doing here? He never comes to shoots,” Kate said.
“Only the really big ones,” Carmen corrected her. She wasn’t surprised to see their executive producer here. Not out of concern for Gaby, of course, but for the footage. This would be a crucial scene for the show, so it made sense that he’d want to keep a close eye on how it went.
She watched him as he walked over to Stephen Marsh, the new producer, and she was about to ask him if they could start filming before all their makeup melted off when she saw, out of the corner of her eye, a flash of red.
She looked back toward the town car and watched, in shock, as Madison Parker emerged from the backseat, in a fantastic scarlet Dolce, looking tan, thin, and triumphant. (A bit overdressed, but still—stunning.)
Sophia gasped.
Carmen watched with grudging admiration as Madison approached them. The girl sure knew how to make an entrance.
“Oh, shit,” Sophia whispered.
Carmen turned to her with a smile. She, for one, was glad Madison was back. They might not like each other that much, but no one could argue that Madison didn’t make things interesting. “Like my dad always says,” Carmen whispered back, “be careful what you wish for.”
(#ulink_4b140c5c-cb00-5e1a-9b1c-5886ed557bd5)
“—And once, I ate thirty hot dogs in fifteen minutes,” bragged the blond, blue-eyed guy sitting across the table from Madison at Fig & Olive. “My friends were like, ‘Dude, you should take it professional.’”
Madison flagged down the waiter, who was obviously unnerved by the PopTV film crew he’d been instructed to ignore. “Vodka and soda,” she said, the instant he was within earshot. “A double—and the sooner the better.”
Trevor hadn’t wasted any time getting her back on camera, once they’d settled on terms. He’d come crawling to her in the end, appearing on her doorstep all smiles and promises; she’d simply handed him an envelope from her lawyer, which contained her new, extensive demands listed on four pages of creamy white paper.
Trevor may have put his foot down at Madison’s request for white peonies at every location (hey, it had worked for J.Lo), but she’d put that in there precisely so he would have something to refuse. It was business negotiations with a dash of psychological warfare. It helped that she knew from Kate how much Laurel and Trevor wanted her in the Gaby’s-release scene. The look of unhappy surprise on Sophie’s face when she saw her was an added bonus.
She would move in with Gaby again (in the Park Towers penthouse), do her best not to freeze out Sophie, and do a better job of tolerating the presence of Jay whenever Trevor sent him over. She’d also agreed to develop a romance story line. Not because she was searching for romance—she was done with that business (do you hear that, Ryan Tucker?)—but because she wanted screen time. There simply weren’t enough dates during season one, and both she and Trevor knew it. So: Cue the Hollywood hunks.
Such as Greg, the blond, blue-eyed surfer type, currently boring her to death with a story of the “time he hooked up with Lindsay Lohan” and a bad Jon Hamm impression. Yes, she was going to need more than patience to get through this date.
This documented date.
Madison managed to smile at the drink when it appeared, and then transferred that smile to Greg’s strong-jawed face. It was really too bad he couldn’t keep his gorgeous mouth shut.
“So,” she said, “how long have you lived in L.A.?”
“About two years now,” Greg said. “I moved here from Nebraska.”
“And what do you do here?” Madison already knew the answer. It was the same thing that almost everyone who moved to Hollywood from flyover country did. They acted—and by “acted,” they meant they bartended by night and auditioned by day.
“I’m an actor,” Greg said, putting a giant hand into the paper cone of truffle fries and pulling out a fistful.
“Really? What would I have seen you in?”
Greg paused for a moment. “A few, uh, independent shorts. I also do a little modeling on the side.”
“So, right now, you aren’t exactly a working actor?” She smiled slyly.
Again, Madison knew very well the answer to this question. If Greg had a paying acting job, he would not be sitting across the table feigning interest in dating someone he had nothing in common with, hoping to gain the exposure that would result in his being “discovered.”
“We’ve all gotta start somewhere, don’t we? Not everyone can get paid to be on PopTV getting frozen yogurt and shopping with her friends,” Greg said through his own sly smile.
Madison sat up straighter. This date wasn’t going anywhere and she knew it. Trevor would never air the footage if it continued like this.
“Let’s order you another drink,” she said, patting his hand. “And then you can tell me what it’s like to attend acting classes all day while still being supported by your parents.”
Greg’s eyes got wide. “Excuse me?” he said, looking caught off guard.
Madison winked at him.
Behind Greg’s head, she could see Julian the camera guy focusing in. She suspected he felt sorry for Greg.
“Dude,” Greg said, “I don’t know what your problem is, but . . .”
“I don’t have a problem. I’m simply curious how you are an actor if you don’t actually act.”
“I’m acting right now,” he said sharply. “I’m acting like I actually want to be on this date with you, even though you’re a total bitch.”
Madison smiled calmly. “And once again you aren’t getting paid, so this must be right up your alley.”
Then she stood up, grabbed her Celine bag, and exited stage left. Sure, she’d agreed to go out on dates—but she’d made no promises about staying out.
“Okay, let’s take a look at the latest candidates for the job of Tolerable Dinner Date.” Kate slid in a DVD vaguely labeled AUDITIONS 1/2013 and then hurried to join Madison on the couch.
Madison put her feet up on the coffee table and settled in. That was the good part about a bad date: A girl could get home early. “Gab, can you please turn down the tango music?” she called.
Trevor had promised Gaby an audition for Dancing with the Stars. And while watching Gaby attempt fox-trots around their new living room got tiresome, at least it had the potential to spice up her story line. Because at this point—as terrible as it was to say—the best thing Gaby had ever done for the show was overdose on painkillers.
Gaby obediently turned down the stereo and came bouncing over to the couch. “Where’s the eye candy?” she asked.
Madison hit the remote. Her spirits lifted as a handsome black-haired guy walked into the frame of the screen and sat down on a stool. If she was going to play the game and go on the dates, it was only fair that her producers found her some guys who weren’t utter cretins.
“Tell us your name, please.” Laurel’s voice came from somewhere out of frame.
“Jackson Trask,” the guy said.
Madison noted his broad shoulders and his toned—but not too beefy—arms. So far, so good.
“Where are you from, and what brought you to L.A.?”
Jackson shifted in his seat and smiled right into the camera lens. Madison smiled back as if he could see her. He was a natural. “I’m from Wisconsin—go Packers!—and I’ve been here for a year and a half. I live in Studio City now.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m developing my portfolio . . . and, uh, waiting tables at Mr. Chow’s.”
“Your portfolio?” Laurel asked. Madison was pretty sure she could hear her take a sip of coffee.
Jackson nodded. “Modeling. I’ve done a few shoots. I could have done more, but, well, sometimes the photographers ask for . . . special favors.”
“Mmm,” Laurel said.
“Oh my God, I’ve heard about that,” Gaby said. “You know what he means, right? He means sexual favors.”
“Shhh,” Madison said.
