The F List
Fame, Fortune, and Followers
Alessandra Torre
Contents
Book Description
1. #unlikeable4life
2. #richpricks
3. #knightinshiningarmani
4. #2wivesarentbetterthan1
5. #chaching
6. #believeinyourself
7. Quote
8. #99problemsbutfameaintone
9. #bojanfrost
10. Quote
11. #hollywoodcurrency
12. #Frenchys
13. #likeforlikes
14. Quote
15. #rulebreaker
16. #offline
17. #sponsoredad
18. #nofilter
19. Quote
20. #CashMitchellOfficial
21. #EmmaattheEmmys
22. Quote
23. #personalday
24. MTV Gift Bag* Contents
25. #redcarpetready
26. #thedreamteam
27. Quote
28. #sohappy
29. #vitamansea
30. #byefelicia
31. Article
32. #truecolors
33. #thefamegame
34. #dontbelieveeverything
35. #newroommates
36. #smileforthecameras
37. #thestruggleisreal
38. #absfordays
39. Quote
40. #quietontheset
41. #whathadhappenedwas
42. #findemma
43. #drinkinggames
44. #iknowwhereemmais
45. #hey
46. Quote
47. #walkofshame
48. #confessional
49. Quote
50. #thinking
51. Quote
52. #redneckshavemorefun
53. #gimme
54. #branding
55. #gotmilk
56. #weloveourveterans
57. Quote
58. #thishouseisntbigenough
59. #santamonica
60. Quote
61. #skinnydipping
62. Quote
63. #shutupandkissme
64. #zzz
65. Quote
66. #frenemies
67. #thisEmmaBlanton
68. #episode7
69. #meetingtheparents
70. #thisisawkward
71. Quote
72. #brothers
73. #houseofblame
74. #nocomment
75. #sweetbutshespsycho
76. #crushable
77. Quote
78. #Casma
79. Quote
80. #dontlookoverhere
81. #whattoreadnext
#abouttheauthor
Copyright © 2020 by Alessandra Torre
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or promo.
The internet's most famous celebrities hate each other. Or, at least they think they do...
There was a lot I did to get to this point, to get 42 million followers. Some of it I was proud of, most of it I wasn't.
There was a group of us, all internet celebrities, and everyone wanted in, which is how six of us ended up living in this mansion, a camera always on, the public always watching. Two months and eight carefully scripted TV episodes that would get us more of the three F’s we were desperately chasing.
Fame. Fortune. Followers.
I knew my role. I was Emma, the unlikeable one. The dark villain with the devious smile. The package of dynamite that would blow up any chance of peaceful living and harmony.
Cash knew his role. He was the good guy. The lovable one. The one that everyone, even the darkest cast member of them all, would fall in love with.
They were supposed to just be roles.
None of it was supposed to be real.
My heart didn't get that memo.
This book is dedicated to Troy DeVolld, my reality tv mentor and one of the true gentleman in Hollywood.
“I loved being famous. It was all so great, right up into the point where it wasn’t.”
Noel Gallagher
1
#unlikeable4life
“Of course, I wanted to be famous. Everyone, whether they will admit it or not, wants people to know who they are. Even if they hate who you are. It just the act of being seen. Followed. It gives a life validity. It gives me purpose.”
Emma Blanton
“I sort of fell into this. The fans, the camera crews… it’s like I woke up one day and they were all here. Eighty million people, staring at me. Expecting something from me. I’m still figuring out what to give them. Because Cash Mitchell… he’s just a normal guy. But hey—maybe that’s what they relate to.”
Cash Mitchell
EMMA
Ugh. A normal guy? Are you kidding me? Cash Mitchell is Jocelyn Mitchell’s golden son. His baby pictures were sold to People Magazine. He wasn’t normal—had never been normal. And he knew it. That whole, tilt his head to the side and grin bashfully at the camera bit—it’s a bit. Just like all of it. Just like the shorts I wore today, which were chosen because I was guaranteed a repost by Hollister if I tagged them in a post. Just like the fact that when I walked out of this restaurant, some guy that Edwin paid was going to scream at me for wearing fur and throw his coffee at me, while the paps, who were tipped off to be here, captured it all. It was all bits—only Cash Mitchell was better at it because he was born and bred for this crap. Literally. I bet you a hundred bucks his mother got pregnant strictly for the page six mentions and the photo ops.
God, I loved his mother. Do you remember Beverly Hills? I watched that show every single day after school. Jocelyn Mitchell played Adel Berkshire, and she was so glamorous and gorgeous. She could say anything—anything, and it just reeked of class. And that—that beautiful Emmy-winning actress—was his mom. So no, Cash Mitchell had absolutely no idea of what it’s like to be normal. He was just good, really really good, at pretending he did.
“What do you think of Cash Mitchell?” The House of Fame producer leaned forward, her hands clasped together underneath her chin and examined me as if I was an art exhibit.
“I’d screw him on a slow day at Burning Man.” I delivered the line dryly, and a titter of laughter floated through the room. There were too many people in here, their chairs crowded in a row behind the camera like front seats to a Fashion Week show. I was perched in a director’s chair before them, a vintage Fendi bag hanging off the arm, one leg crossed over the other in leather leggings and an off-the-shoulder T-shirt that was frayed along the sleeve. My team had agonized over the outfit, my shoes swapped four times during the drive here, and I bobbed the toe of the metallic red Converses and hoped they’d chosen wisely.
Effortless trendsetting. That was the goal, and photos of my entrance into the studio had already been captured by paps and posted on the internet before I’d opened my mouth and answered their first question.
“Have you ever?” She gave me a calculated smirk. “Had sex with Cash?”
“At Burning Man?” I smiled. “No.”
“You know of the Casma rumor, right? That you guys just pretend to hate each other but secretly date?” A stick-thin woman with purple hair pointed her pen at me. “Any truth to that?”
“No.” I smiled again. “I actually do hate him.”
“But if we wanted you to—you could pretend to like him, right?”
“Of course she could,” Michelle snapped from h
er position beside me. “Emma’s an actress.”
I fought the urge not to roll my eyes at that one. While my first manager had solidly understood the social media influencer role I was capable of— Michelle had the sweet but misguided opinion that I had talent, which was probably why I’d hired her. It was nice to have someone believe in you, even if you knew they were wrong. And hey—who knew. Maybe my film career could have legs.
“Why would I pretend to like him?” I ran a hand through my hair, tousling the newly dirty blonde strands. Bleach blonde, Dion had decided, was so last year.
The man’s eyes darted excitedly between Michelle and I. “We thought that a major storyline of this season would be a relationship between you and Cash.”
This, of course, had already been discussed by my team. They hated the idea. I loved it. “Have you run this idea by Cash?”
“Well, yes.” A mohawk with a red clipboard spoke up. “Cash is open to the idea provided that—and this is a direct quote from him and not me—“she plays nice”.” He glanced up from the pad. “Is that possible?”
“It’s really not,” I drawled, and winked at the guy, who blushed a darker shade of tan.
I could play nice, but with Cash Mitchell… that was risky. I knew my role—that of a cold and ruthless fame whore. It was what Cash would expect and the suit of armor I needed.
2
#richpricks
EMMA: 0 FOLLOWERS
I met him six years ago, before I became Emma Blanton. Back then, I was Emma Ripplestine and I was ugly. Honestly, I was. Which was why I was being picked on by some rich prick who was holding the keg wand hostage.
“What’s that?” He raised his voice, attracting the attention of every partygoer in close range. “I can’t hear you over everything those teeth are saying.”
I’d heard the line a half-dozen times before, but my cheeks still burned at the words. All I wanted was a beer. Something to nurse while my cousin finished making out with whatever guy had his hand up her shirt. Come with me, she had groaned, tugging on my sleeve while I had scooped a heap of strawberry ice cream onto a sugar cone. This party is going to be sick. And the guys there will be like… so hot.
The guys were hot, I’d give that to her. They were also the sort of tan, Laguna idiots who drove Range Rovers and had trust funds and dated girls with implants and bleached teeth. This is why I needed to get a beer, melt into a forgotten corner of this house and kill thirty minutes before I bailed on Paige and took the bus back to Hyde Park.
It was a good plan, but this jerk wasn’t going to let me go. Not when he had an audience. He pointed at my face. “Seriously, were braces ever a thought or did your parents just say screw it?”
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
“Hey.” Another preppy jerk shouldered in, and I couldn’t deal with two of these people. I turned to run but the crowd was there, keeping me in place. Panic flared in my chest.
“She’s beautiful.”
The words weren’t about me but I still turned, desperately wanting them. I followed them through the smoky air and to a guy that couldn’t possibly mean them. But he was looking at me. Smiling at me. And not that cruel grin that someone gives you just before they crush you—this was a real smile. A kind one. I lifted my beer to my lips just to keep myself from smiling back.
“That’s a joke, right?” my attacker laughed. “Come on, Cash.”
And then, I realized who he was. Cash Mitchell. This was his house. His beer. His money. His friends. Even back then, he was the king of Laguna Beach. The one with the movie star mother and the hair gel empire father. The one who already had a collection of cars, and a vintage Rolex, and a face that had already racked up a million followers.
Cash ignored him and stepped closer to me, close enough that the toes of his boots brushed against mine, and the edge of shirt sleeve whispered against my arm. “You okay?” he asked gruffly. As if he had all of the time in the world. As if the party hadn’t already moved on from its focus of me, as if people weren’t tugging on his arm, and shouting out his name. The music started a fresh and familiar beat, and everyone roared in approval.
“I’m fine.” I scoffed and tucked my hair behind my ear. “But thanks.”
“I meant it. You’re beautiful.”
“Um.” I forced myself not to combat the compliment. “Thanks?” Super smooth, Em. Super smooth.
Something caught his eye and his gaze narrowed. He stepped back. “I gotta take care of something.”
I kept my lips pinned together, my teeth hidden, and nodded. And then, like prey hauled off to be eaten, he was swallowed by the party.
Gone.
3
#knightinshiningarmani
CASH
She was out of place at the party. The girls were the usual mix of college girls with daddy’s credit cards. All blonde, in push-up bras and heavy makeup, their touch aggressive, voices too loud. She was quiet, dressed as if she was hiding, with a gaze that seemed to look everywhere except at anyone. She didn’t want to be there, and for that reason alone, I wanted to talk to her.
Lacey was all over me, and then I had to break up a fight by the poolhouse, and by the time I made it to her, she was squaring off against a dickhead who was making fun of her teeth.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak fast enough. I tripped over someone’s foot and barely made it through the crowd before the laughter started to build.
“She’s beautiful.” I shoved at the prick’s back, and he turned to face me. From over his shoulder, her eyes connected with mine.
She really was beautiful, and it was heartbreaking to see the tentative way her gaze teetered from mine because she didn’t believe it, and that was a travesty.
The guy said something, and I stepped around him and made it to her. “You okay?” I asked, and forced myself not to brush her hair away from her face, to cradle her face in my hand. To order her to look in a mirror and recognize how pretty she was. The music roared, and I almost missed her response.
“I’m fine.” She tucked her hair on her own. “But, thanks.”
“I meant it.” I studied her eyes and wondered if it was too soon to ask for her number. With another girl, I’d get them a drink. Dance with them. Take them up the big staircase and to my master bedroom. With her, I felt like she’d spook at a stiff breeze. “You’re beautiful.”
She blushed and stammered, and my attention was distracted by the only thing that could pull me away from this girl. A camera. I stepped back. “I gotta take care of something.”
It was Matt, a cell phone in hand, its focus directly on us. I cut around a couple and made it to his side, pulling the phone out of his hand and stopping the recording.
“Hey!” he said sharply, reaching for the device. I held it out of reach and put a hand on his chest, keeping him at bay. “That’s great stuff, man. Hero level. Followers are gonna love that.”
“Have you posted this anywhere?” I scrolled through the camera roll, spotting still frames he’d captured while filming.
“No, I wasn’t live. But I can get it up—” He tried to get the phone from me and sputtered when I shoved his chest again. “Are you—? What are you doing?”
I deleted the video, then the stills, then went into the trash and deleted them there. “Deleting them.”
“What the—”
I tossed back the phone, and he cradled it in his hands, squawking in distress when he verified the deletion.
“Why did you do that? That shit was epic! Pure chivalry, man!”
“She’s not a prop.” I looked through the crowd, but she wasn’t by the keg stand anymore. “You can’t treat people like that.”
“Oh, come ON.” Matt looked up from his phone. “I could have gotten us trending with that shit. Hashtag Cash to the rescue, man. Trust me and let me do my job.”
I pushed through the partiers, scanning the crowd for her face. When I couldn’t find her on the back deck, I headed into the house, then searched
the beach, but she was gone. Like Cinderella but without the slipper.
4
#2wivesarentbetterthan1
EMMA
I found the dead body the same day that I became a millionaire. James Union was forty-eight. The internet would later unearth that he had two wives, one in Los Angeles, one in San Diego. The wives had found out about each other earlier that day. James listened to the women scream at him for two hours, then drove to the closest hotel and checked himself into a room.
The closest hotel was the Ramada at LAX, and I was the lucky loser staffing the front desk. Later, in the interviews and press calls, they would ask if I could tell. Could you tell that the man planned to kill himself?
The F List: A celebrity romance Page 1
