The F List: A celebrity romance

by Alessandra Torre

  I gently closed my hand around Emma’s elbow and pulled, catching her attention. “Can I borrow you for a minute?”

  The group paused. Emma nodded. “Yeah, sure.” She followed me through the crowd of reality and milk crews and over to a quiet spot by a potted palm tree.

  “I know that bit about the phone message was staged, but if you do want to get signed by Vision Placements, or by any big talent agency, don’t do this.”

  “Don’t do the milk ad?” She raised an eyebrow in skepticism.

  “Don’t do it naked. You’ve never been that girl, and you shouldn’t start now.”

  “What kind of girl have I been?” With anyone else, the tone would have been confrontational. For her, it was mild. Almost curious.

  “Smarter than that,” I managed. And it was true. Her activities were annoying, her videos offensive to everyone they mentioned, but she was intelligently calculated in all of it. She didn't need the shock value of a nude milk ad, no matter how tastefully they did it. She could just open her mouth and create a similar sensation.

  She chewed on her thumbnail and studied the pool.

  “You can’t undo it,” I said carefully. “Once it’s done, it’s there. Forever.”

  Her gaze came back to mine. “Okay,” she said quietly.

  Relief swept through me. “Okay?” I repeated. “You won’t do it?”

  “You think I shouldn’t, right?” she confirmed.

  “I don’t.”

  She shrugged, and her hand dropped from her mouth. "That's all I needed to know."

  I wanted to hug her but kept my hands to myself. “Okay. Good.”

  Dana passed, and Emma darted to one side, snagging the producer by the sleeve. "Hey, about the nudity—"

  “Yes?” Dana paused, and her attention darted from Emma to me, then ricocheted back to Emma. Like leeches to blood, a handful of crew and assistants sucked in.

  “I’ll do it on one condition. You get him and everyone else off set.” Emma pointed to me. “Just me, Layton and the milk people.”

  What the…? We had just discussed this. I had given her strong advice, and probably the only she would receive that was untainted by personal agenda. She shouldn't pose naked. Was above it. And that was a difficult thing for me to say, given the opinion I've carried of her for a very, very long time. But I was starting to think, or had thought, that there was something more to her. Something more than just numbers and shock value. A person beneath all of the hype—the person that had blushed at me behind a set of crooked teeth five years ago.

  I had been wrong. She—this was bullshit, and she had just absolutely toyed with me. That whole shy smile, you think that's what I should do act… it had been a game, and I had fallen for it.

  “You heard the woman,” Dana chirped. “We need a closed set, NOW.”

  Well, screw this and screw her. I turned and strode out of the backyard before I made a scene.

  “God, the press loved the leak about that milk shoot argument. The next morning, every tabloid had an article about Emma’s initial refusal to do the nudity, and a did-she or didn’t-she guessing game with crew quotes and some covert behind-the-scenes shots. No one knew if she’d bared it all or not and a few of the magazines ran a timeline of every time she had shown any skin at all. All that, of course, was fed to them by her team. They had Twitter laying bets on whether she’d stripped down. By the time the print ad released—and there was an honest-to-god countdown to it—people were even asking if Layton was nude. Half of America was thinking they were mid-thrust with milk glasses in hand and the other half insisting that Emma was the Virgin Mary.

  Milk ads are boring, right? But that was the genius of Emma. She made ordinary events newsworthy, and we filmed it all for the show."

  Glorya Lane, Prod Assistant, House of Fame

  "Emma said whatever she said in earshot of the crew—but there was a reason she wanted a closed set, and it wasn't to protect her nudity. It was the opposite. She didn't want anyone to know—not until the ad ran—that she was fully clothed in it. Flannel shirt, cut off shorts, and that milk mustache. I laughed when I flipped open USA Today and saw that shot because it was the perfect F you to everyone. And to this day, that is the most famous dairy ad on the planet. Probably the most famous ad that year.”

  Paulette Reyes, Camera Operator, House of Fame

  58

  #thishouseisntbigenough

  CASH

  It felt like a war between us. When I stepped into the kitchen, she moved to the opposite side of the counter. When she stepped into the home gym, I took my water bottle and left.

  I shouldn’t have cared, but I did. The more she avoided me, the more I wanted her to look at me. To respond to me. To see me as something other than an obstacle.

  I wasn’t imagining it. The production team saw it too, and after a week of forcing us into shots together, Dana called us both into the biggest of the production trailers.

  I took the seat in front of her desk while Emma leaned against the right wall, her arms folded over her chest.

  “What’s the problem?” Dana said the minute my butt hit the chair. “Because viewers are going to be bored by both of you staring at walls.”

  I said nothing and waited for Emma. After a moment, she cleared her throat. “There’s no problem.”

  Dana studied her, then me. “Emma, sit down.”

  A long, suffered sigh came from her, then she slunk into the chair next to me. Dana clicked a pen into action, then clicked it back into itself. "Emma, we need the relationship with you and Layton to progress."

  I felt my muscles knot and bind in an agonizingly tight fashion.

  Emma shrugged. “Okay. Like how?”

  “They’ve already been naked together,” I bit out. “What more do you want?”

  Dana held eye contact with Emma for a long moment, then continued. "We were thinking of a date night. Something casual, but with drinking and heavy petting near the end." Her attention pulled over to me. "And since everything is just hunky-dory between you two, let's make it a double date. Cash, you can bring Eileen."

  I was torn between relief at being there to chaperone and disgust at what she was proposing. Heavy petting? What the hell was that? She didn’t have to do that. We weren’t being pimped out by MTV.

  "What kind of date were you thinking? Like, a restaurant?" Emma leaned forward in her seat, and her elbow brushed mine. We both immediately withdrew.

  “Wait.” I held up my hand. “What do you consider heavy petting?”

  “It’s when one person touches another person in a sexual way,” Dana said to be slowly and clearly, in a tone appropriate for a child. “And don’t worry, you don’t have to touch Eileen if you don’t want to.”

  I ground my teeth together and fought the urge to upend Dana’s desk.

  “Like, making out, right?” Emma offered unhelpfully. “I can just make out with him?”

  "That's finnneeee," Dana said. "I just want heat. I want the cameras melting, and you two actually interacting on the double date, okay? Come on. Fans love when you're together—just don't start swinging fists." She smiled as if this was all in good fun.

  “And we’re filming this when?” Emma asked.

  I couldn't believe she was so casual about this. Then again, this was the girl who kicked me off her photoshoot and stripped naked with Layton. I'm almost glad I wasn't there. I'm not sure I could have held back if he'd put his hands on her.

  “Tomorrow night. We were thinking of you guys at the Santa Monica pier, then a bonfire at the beach.”

  “Adorable,” I muttered.

  “Okay.” Dana stood up from her chair. “Good chat, kids. From now on, you’re chummy, okay?”

  Emma and I filed silently out without responding.

  59

  #santamonica

  CASH

  Emma wore a blue sundress that caught every guy’s eye we passed. I shoved my hands in the pockets of my board shorts and tried to stroll in as norm
al a fashion as possible, given the fact that Eileen was hanging on me like a leech.

  “People are staring,” Eileen clawed at my arm. “Is it like this every time you go out?”

  I looked past the guy who was fixated on Emma’s legs and glanced around. Eileen was right. A crowd was beginning to form, and it was probably due to the camera crews and not us, but that was hard to know.

  Someone in one of the booths said something to Layton, and we stopped to watch him peel off a twenty-dollar bill and hand it to the guy, then pick up a toy rifle. Emma beamed at him. She couldn't genuinely be impressed by this. The guy probably grew up shooting baby deer. He leveled the rifle on his shoulder and fired a series of shots at a row of cans. They all fell in quick succession, and Emma cheered.

  I turned to Eileen. “Want something to eat?” I nodded to the funnel cake trailer.

  She tugged my hand out of my pocket and laced her fingers through mine. “Sure.”

  We were at a picnic table, Eileen practically in my lap, trying to feed me a piece when Emma and Layton appeared, her arms wrapped around a giant fluffy bunny.

  “Wow,” Eileen blinked up at them. “That’s… big.”

  “That’s what she said,” Layton cracked, then grinned at me. “Right, Cash?”

  I let Eileen stuff a piece in my mouth just so I wouldn’t have to answer.

  “Excuse me.” A voice sounded from behind me. “You’re Cash Mitchell, right?”

  I turned, and it was a girl, phone clutched in her hands, a tentative and embarrassed grin spread wide across her face. She had braces and couldn't be older than fourteen. "Yeah, I'm Cash."

  “And you’re all on House of Fame, right?” She tucked a red curl behind her ear. “That’s what they’re filming?”

  “Yeah,” Eileen said.

  “Can I get a picture?” The girl passed her phone to her friend and stepped on the picnic table bench, then sat on the surface, putting herself in the middle of us without waiting for a reply.

  We all leaned in and smiled, then waited for her friend to get in the shot. A line began to form, and a producer snapped into action, getting footage of the buzz. Emma gave her stuffed animal to a girl with a fanny pack and neon pink sunglasses, and Layton did a handstand contest with a trio of guys from Florida. I took a dozen selfies with fans before one of the producers finally clapped his hands.

  “Okay, we’ve got to run. Everyone who didn’t get a pic, we’ve got House of Fame stickers and koozies for you. Talk to the guy in the yellow hat—Bryan, raise your hand.”

  A crew member in the back raised his hand, and the producer nodded. He turned to me and said something, but I didn't catch it because right then, I saw Layton lean into Emma.

  Her hands gripped the front of his shirt.

  His mouth lowered.

  Her chin turned up.

  There was a collective hush from the group of fans, and I felt like my skull was going to break open in the moment when her mouth met his. The camera beside me zoomed in, and I could have dropped my pants, and no one would have noticed because everyone was watching them. I wanted to turn away but I couldn't. His hand tightened on her waist, and he pulled her closer to him, and it was right then that I realized I was jealous.

  I was jealous of Layton Barnett. I had to sit back down on the picnic bench just to absorb the fact. I was jealous of him kissing her.

  “Are you okay?” Eileen asked. “You look funny.”

  “I’m fine.” I rested my head in my hand and tried to wrap my head around the fact that this building irritation and frustration over the last few days could be due to jealousy. Yes, I had known that I was attracted to her. Who wouldn’t be attracted to her? But I had also thought that any moments of chemistry between us had been fleeting and misguided—brought on by nostalgic memories of what might have been, if I hadn’t lost her at that party.

  It was a few minutes at a party five years ago, yet I had couldn’t seem to forget that version of her. It was insane and proved by the fact that her tongue was down Layton's throat, and I was the only one who seemed to give a damn about it.

  I stared down at the table, not trusting myself to look up until I heard Emma’s voice, clear and unrestricted by a kiss. She said something about heading down to the beach, and then Eileen was standing, and everyone was moving, and I followed like a sheep.

  “Dana had two cameras on Layton and Emma and one on Cash, and she was right. The minute that Layton moved in for the kiss, his entire face changed. It was kind of heartbreaking in a way, and we caught it all. That was when I knew that something would happen between them. I didn't know what, but something was coming, and we were going to catch it on camera when it did."

  Paulette Reyes, Camera Operator, House of Fame

  61

  #skinnydipping

  CASH

  On a regular night, with a normal girl, I'd sip beers with my friends and watch her social media and distract myself with someone close by and friendly and try to avoid thinking about her until the moment that whoever it was inevitably called.

  They always called, or commented, or private messaged, or showed up, their face appearing on the door cam, inhibitions shed somewhere between Beverly Hills and my house.

  Emma wasn’t most girls, and if I distracted myself with Eileen or Marissa, she’d probably cut my balls off with a butcher knife.

  If I waited for her to call or come after me, she wouldn't—not unless she punched me again and needed to apologize. While her fist had stung, I was willing to accept the pain but didn't think the show would look too kindly at another fight.

  So I was lost, sitting on my ass on a log that some production member dragged out to the middle of the beach, staring across the fire at a girl who I didn’t particularly like but was somehow falling for. The one girl who didn’t seem to like me any more than I liked her. The girl who Layton was currently running his hand along her leg and whispering something in her ear.

  “You know you’re staring, right?” Eileen bumped me with her knee.

  I forced my gaze off of them. “Just trying to figure out if this is for the episode or real.”

  “Yeah, sure.” She tilted her drink back.

  I glanced at Emma and found her watching me. She didn’t look away, and I held the contact and stared through the smoke at her. She tilted her head to one side, indicating the empty stretch of beach to our left. I immediately rose.

  Maybe I was wrong. Maybe, in this twisted situation, she would make the first move.

  A camera trailed us, the operator aware enough to stay twenty feet back. With the quiet beach and the moon reflecting off the waves—it almost felt like we were just two ordinary people. I said something to that effect, and she laughed under her breath.

  "You've never been a normal person, Cash." She looked over at me, and she had to be chilly in that sundress. The skimpy spaghetti straps, the short length that flapped against her thighs with each step that she took… I should have brought a jacket. Something to put around her shoulders. "You know that, right? All that stuff you feed the media about being a regular guy…" she stopped and faced me. The wind whipped a strand of her hair across her face, and I shoved my hands in my pockets to keep from tucking it back into place. "It's crap.”

  I frowned. “No, it’s not.”

  “It IS. You grew up with Jocelyn as a mother. Do you have any concept of what that means?”

  “Do YOU have any concept of what that means?” I countered, my voice taking on that hard edge that liked to creep in when I was annoyed. “Everyone says that like it’s a good thing. It’s not. My mom…” I broke off, aware of the cameras. “She brings a lot of attention with her,” I said and hoped it was a believable transition. “It’s a lot of pressure.”

  She kept that famous Emma Blanton mouth quiet for a moment and studied me, and maybe, maybe she heard what I was trying to say. I glanced back at the camera guy who was inching forward, almost hidden by the dark. I looked back at her and tried to mentally telegrap
h what I wanted to say. My mother was a monster. The press was my protection because, in front of them, she was perfect.

  Her gaze drifted to the camera and then back to me. “Let’s go for a swim.” She turned to face the water and twisted her hair into a knot on the back of her hair, exposing the clasp on her dress.

  “What?” I asked dully, not comprehending. There was a reason no one was out here, and it was due to the unseasonable chill, though maybe the sharks should be a concern as well.

  She glanced over her shoulder, her profile lit by the moon. "Let's go for a swim," she repeated, and there was a bit of a challenge in her voice. "Get my zipper."

  I may have been slow and skeptical, but I wasn't going to just stand there when a beautiful woman told me to undo her dress. I carefully undid the top clasp and stole the moment to run my fingers over the soft skin just above the fabric. I pulled on the tiny zipper pull and watched as inch after inch of her skin was exposed. No bra strap. I pulled further. I got to the place where the microphone was clipped and hesitated, then kept going.

  The top of her lace underwear was exposed, and I almost groaned at the sight of it. I stopped and stepped back. She pushed at the bunched fabric, and it fell to the sand. I heard a shuffle of sand behind me and remembered the camera guy. Striding toward him, I put my palm in front of his lens. “Get back!”

  “They’re going to pixelate everything,” he protested. “I just need the sound.”

  I shoved, and he cursed, tripping back and falling onto his butt. He tried to get up in the soft sand and fell back down.

  A laugh came from Emma's direction. I turned my head just in time to catch her moving toward the surf, her bare skin glowing in the moonlight, the bounce of her small breasts as she ran toward the sea. I yanked at my t-shirt, pulling it over my head and tossed it to one side, then fumbled with the tie of my shorts. Ripping the fabric, I got them around off and left them in the sand, my mic pack still clipped to the waistband.