The F List: Fame, Fortune, and Followers

by Torre, Alessandra

  “You have dogs?”

  “Yep. Three girls. I like the ladies.” Another smile.

  “You don’t post any pictures or videos of them.” It was socially stupid. People loved pets. Dog pictures helped hit the feeder markets that were slow to warm to social influencers. It’s why Nick Bateman’s followers jumped twelve percent after he got that ridiculously cute purse dog. I could just imagine Cash shirtless, wrestling around with them on a brilliantly green patch of lawn.

  “Yeah, well. You don’t tell people about your sex life, and I don’t talk about my dogs.” He looped the towel around my neck and pulled me toward him. For a horrifying moment, I thought he was going to kiss me, in front of the cameras and crew. Instead, he placed a kiss on my forehead, then squeezed my shoulders. He glanced over at Dana. “You got our clothes?”

  On the walk back to the fire, he reached for my hand, and for a few steps, I took it. When the camera turned to us, I released it and heard his quick chuckle float over in the dark.

  “Shut up,” I muttered, and bit back my own smile.

  After filming ended, we all piled into the van to ride back to the house. We were all pleasantly buzzed, with Johno and Layton past the line and fully into drunk territory. Cash and I were in the third row with Eileen, me in between the two of them. His hand settled on my thigh and curved around the muscle, a warm seal of contact that I could feel all the way to my toes. I let my hand fall over his and felt a hum of energy between us. As the van jostled over a speed bump, his shoulder rocked against mine. The opening lines of Don't Stop Believing filtered through the speakers, and Johno climbed over the center armrest and turned the sound up.

  I laughed as he turned back and howled out a line of the song, then pantomimed a guitar sequence.

  “Come on!” He called out, pointing to Marissa for the next line.

  "Smell of wine and cheap perfumeeeee," she screeched. We all joined in on the next one, and I felt his hand tighten as I leaned against his shoulder and sang louder than I had in ages.

  "DON'T STOP… BELIEVING!" We called out as a group as the van came to a stop at a red light. I watched as a girl on the sidewalk looked at us with curiosity. Her eyes widened, and she reached for her phone, not getting her camera out before we were moving, Eileen leaning into me as she crowed out the song, her eyes bright and happy. Impulsively, I threw my arm around her shoulder and sang along.

  Was this what popularity was like? Moments of unity and acceptance? The high was addictive, and I felt the sudden and ridiculous desire to hug them all, even Marissa.

  “You look happy,” Cash whispered in my ear. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you happy.”

  “I am happy.” I threaded my hand through his.

  "I love seeing you happy." He grinned at me, and the van rammed over another speed bump, and everyone called out in protest as we flew off the seats. My head collided painfully with the roof, and I grabbed it, wincing.

  He pulled me into his chest and kissed the spot. Against him, I smiled.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered against my hair. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Tell them what?”

  “That your icy exterior melts.”

  I grinned despite myself and thanked God for the dark interior’s protection.

  64

  #zzz

  CASH

  Like the other nights, she didn’t sneak into my room—but it didn’t matter. As cheesy and dumb as it sounds, her smile stayed with me.

  “We found Emma's volunteer shirt and badge in a duffel bag in the trunk of her car. From there, it was pretty easy to find out what she was doing at the Ranch. So, yeah—we knew that she and Wesley Mitchell were friends. It was a card we held. Dana wanted to wait, and she always had a knack of knowing the perfect time to use stuff like that. And of course, she was right. The time came, and it was… well. I don't know what to say. It made for great ratings."

  Rachel Gladden, Crew, House of Fame

  66

  #frenemies

  EMMA

  There was a giant blank next to episode seven. I tapped the tip sheet and scooped out a heap of Frosted Flakes. “What’s tomorrow? There’s nothing here.”

  Eileen shrugged. "I don't know. I asked Dana, and she said they were working on it."

  “That’s weird.” I chewed loudly and watched as the sound guy turned down my mic.

  “Yeah. They’re probably banking on Johno having an overdose or something.” She worked at the peel of an orange, collecting a pile of shredded pieces on a paper towel.

  "Who's having an overdose?" Cash entered the kitchen shirtless, in workout shorts, and a pair of sneakers, a set of headphones hanging around his neck.

  “Well, no one yet,” Eileen said, sectioning off a piece of orange.

  “There’s nothing on the schedule tomorrow,” I explained. “We’re hypothesizing.”

  He frowned, circling the island and coming around behind me. Resting a hand on the counter, he reviewed the sheet. “That’s strange.”

  "Yeah. Hey!" I blocked his reach for my cereal and shoved at his midsection. My fingers brushed over the hard notched abs that recently stretched over a Times Square billboard and I fought the urge to lean over and lick my way across the tan divots.

  “Come on, Em. One bite.” He held my spoon hostage and out of reach. “I don’t have cooties, I swear.”

  I shook my head sternly and held my smile in check. “You dated Marta Pratt,” I pointed out. “You’re lucky we let you eat at the same table as us.”

  Eileen grimaced. “Ouch, Cash. She’s got a point, though.”

  I reached for the spoon, and he held it out of reach, then behind his back. I zigged left, then right, bumping into him as he kept it at bay. "You know, there are other spoons," I pointed out.

  “There aren’t,” he said. “I stole them all.”

  “Whatever.” I abandoned my attempt at capturing my spoon and went to the wide drawer that housed all of the silverware. Pulling it open, I reached for the spoon cubby, then stopped, surprised to find it empty. I hadn’t paid attention when I’d gotten the bowl out earlier, but it didn’t matter. I looked up to find him watching me, mischief on his face. Rolling my eyes, I tugged at the dishwasher handle, opening the heavy steel door. Squatting, I checked the silverware caddy, then cursed.

  “I told you,” he mocked. “I took them.”

  “You were serious.” I stood and slowly shut the appliance.

  “Yep.” He stuck the spoon in his mouth. “So, unless you want to eat the rest of that cereal with a fork, it looks like we need to do some negotiating.”

  “God, you guys are weird,” Eileen said, stepping on the trash pedal and dropping the peels into the can.

  “What kind of negotiating?” I challenged, letting my gaze flick to the closest camera guy in a subtle reminder that we were being watched.

  “I think you know what I want.” He hoisted himself up, so that he was sitting on the counter.

  I stayed where I was. “A cure for chlamydia?” I asked dryly.

  He smirked at me. “Guess again.”

  "Hmmm." I took a few steps toward him, letting my hand trail along the counter and suggestively over the butcher's block of knives. I pulled the biggest half out and glanced from it to him. "Circumcision?"

  He winced. “No need for that.”

  Eileen popped a wedge of orange into her mouth, then spoke around it. “I think he wants your body.”

  I blushed despite my steadfast vow not to. “He doesn’t want my body.”

  “Oh, I definitely want your body.” His gaze traveled down said body, which was currently on display in plaid pajama pants and a Britney Spears t-shirt that was a few sizes too big.

  I glared at him. “Give me my spoon.”

  "I will give you your spoon," he announced grandly and damn him if we weren't all, including the brand new producer who still had iron pleats in his khakis, paying attention. "If…" he paused. "If… you kiss me."

 
; One of us gasped, and it was either Eileen or me. I couldn't tell, but I sincerely hoped it was her, because I was struggling madly to deliver detached nonchalance. "I'd rather not," I mused, and it was almost perfectly delivered, as long as you missed the tremor in my voice. I stepped back, edging toward the hall, and if I turned quickly enough, I could sprint out of here without being caught.

  Then again… I stopped myself. I was a grown woman and needed, at some point in time, to stop punching people or high-tailing it when a situation grew out of my control. This… this was in my control. I didn’t have to kiss Cash. I didn’t need that spoon. I could toss my half-eaten bowl of cereal in the trash and avoid public use of his lips altogether.

  Eileen propped her chin in her hand and watched with unabashed interest. Cash moved closer, and I looked up at him and forced a smile. "What are you doing?" I gritted out quietly between my clenched teeth.

  He studied me, and a war waged through our eye contact. Leaning forward, he put his hands on the counter behind me and spoke into my ear. "I don't care if the cameras know that I want you."

  Warmth spread through my body, and I struggled to keep the optimistic part of my brain tampered down. He didn't mean that he wanted me. He meant that he wanted my body, or the challenge, or to keep the spoon. This was a battle, just like our others. A game. Just because we'd had a cease-fire of sorts, just because we'd been drunk and half-naked and had kissed… it didn't mean that Cash Mitchell wanted me. Guys like Cash didn't want girls like me. They wanted girls who spent two hours on their makeup every day and who used emojis in their texts and who did sexual stuff that I wasn't even aware of.

  “Can you repeat what you just said to her, but louder?” The camera guy spoke up. “We didn’t catch that.”

  Cash ignored him, his hands still on the counter, his body close enough for me to smell the body wash he used in his shower. I tried not to look at his tan chest, decided not to stare at the tattooed line of script that ran along the inside of his right bicep.

  “You don’t want me,” I said quietly.

  "Yes, I do."

  I shook my head and looked away. He straightened up and grabbed my hand. “Come on.” He headed for the hall, his grip on my hand taking me with him.

  I struggled to keep up, as did the camera guy. “Where are you going?”

  "Not I. We." He opened the door to the garage and held it open, ushering me through. I stepped into the air-conditioned space and watched as one of the six bay doors rumbled into action, slowly opening to reveal the morning glare. I held up a hand to block the stream of harsh sunlight and watched as he opened the passenger door to a Jeep-style SUV. "After you."

  “Where are we going?” I repeated.

  “I ruined your breakfast. I’m getting you more.” He nodded toward the vehicle. “Come on. Hurry before this guy tries to crawl in the back.”

  I took his hand and hoisted myself up and into the front seat, getting my seat belt and then holding on as he shifted into gear and careened out of the spot, aiming for the front gates as members of the crew ran for the production vehicles. I spotted Dana mid-step out of the production trailer, a donut in hand, staring at us.

  “You know they’ve miked all of our cars.”

  “I know. They’ve also got trackers on them.” He took a left out of the gate and gunned the engine. I held on to a handle in the upper doorframe and tried to understand what was happening here. “Which is why we aren’t going to say anything.” He reached over and opened the glove box and pulled out a small black box. “Here. Toss this out the window.”

  I took the box from him and turned it over in my hands. I hadn’t seen a tracker before, but it was surprisingly small and light, like a garage door opener. “Was it in the glove box the entire time?”

  “Under my seat.” He slowed to a stop and nodded to a trash can on the corner. I tossed the tracker and felt a burst of pride when I made it in.

  He held out his fist and I bumped mine against his. I fist-bumped Cash Mitchell. My inner teenager squealed with joy. I pulled back my fist and forced my face into a mask of composure and reminded myself that I had better things to do with my time than to drive around with Cash Mitchell in Los Angeles traffic in silence. In eight minutes, I was supposed to be having a call with Michelle to discuss VidCon. After that, I needed to take stills for Instagram, then had plans to film a TikTok with Eileen before meeting with Dana. I also had a branding presentation to review and a post-lunch conference call with my Twitter rep.

  I’d gladly skip all of it. I watched him out of the corner of my eye and kept my mouth shut, even when he put on a horrible country station and started nodding his head to the beat. When he began to sing, I broke my self-imposed vow of silence. “Please don’t.”

  "Aw, come on. This is Sturgill Simpson." He grinned at me, one hand resting on the wheel, the other on the shift knob, and he was almost believable as a country boy. I resisted the urge to take a picture because a shirtless Cash with the grin and the look he was giving me… the thing would go viral. Especially on my feed, with my followers. And, oh shit. I patted down my pockets, then glanced into the floorboard.

  “What?”

  "I don't have my phone." I groaned. "I left it in the kitchen." Four minutes until my call with Michelle. She’d rail me for missing it. I glanced in the side mirror and wondered if anyone was following us.

  “Don’t worry, we’re almost there.”

  “The coffee better be good,” I remarked tartly, watching as we turned down a quiet side street.

  “It’s good.” He spun the wheel to the left and navigated a tight turn. “Not as good as my singing but good.”

  I swallowed a sarcastic remark because we were at a new set of gates, and I knew this house. I'd driven past here a dozen times, tucked in the safety of my car, staring out the window in hopes of seeing him.

  He hit a button on his visor, and the gates parted, the engraved wood face tucking into a sleek white wall that encompassed the entire lot. Putting a finger to his mouth in a stay silent gesture, he pulled down the drive toward his home.

  67

  #thisEmmaBlanton

  CASH

  I didn't really have a plan. I woke up that morning and wanted more of her. Saw her in the kitchen and wanted to kiss her good morning. Got irritated when she blew me off. Felt like smashing a camera. Got out of there instead. Liked the look of her sitting in my front seat, that smile on her face. Didn't want to go somewhere where the paparazzi would find us, or people would want selfies with us, or where we'd be stuck in one more conversation where we couldn't really say what needed to be said.

  Also, she wasn’t wearing shoes—a fact that didn’t seem to concern her when paired against the more panic-inducing realization that her phone was also missing.

  So, needing a barefoot-friendly spot with excellent breakfast and privacy, I brought her here. I parked the Defender on the far side of the drive, closed the front gate, and pointed her toward the front door. I armed the alarm and let out the dogs and found her in front of my coffee pot, a filter in hand, looking like she belonged there and shit. How was this Emma Blanton? How was she peeking shyly up at me and undoing the top of my bag of coffee grounds and asking if I had any almond creamer?

  My bedroom was less than fifty feet away. Down that hall and through the open door was my bed. The maids came the day after I left for the mansion, so the sheets were clean, the down comforter plumped, and I could have her naked and underneath five-thousand-thread-count sheets before that coffee finished brewing.

  Except that this wasn't another girl from the Valley. This was her. Sharpest tongue in Hollywood, most intoxicating smile in California and a gaff through my heart since 2015.

  And, if what she said yesterday was true, she’s a virgin. I was still having trouble wrapping my head around that because the last thing I needed was another reason to want Emma Blanton.

  "Wow." Emma's voice was muffled, and I looked over to see her fist-deep in a handful of Peanut's
hair. "Now I know why you keep them a secret." She kissed the top of the dog's head and sat down on the kitchen floor, accepting a face-cleaning welcome from Dot. "It's because they're ugly."

  I opened the fridge and found the almond milk, then set it on the table. "Easy. Their feelings are easily hurt."

  She laughed and tugged on Peanut's ears, scratching behind them as her tongue lolled out the side of her mouth. "Are these warts?" She parted the thick nape of hair and peered at her scalp.

  “They are warts. And highly infectious,” I warned. “Don’t touch your face.”

  “Ha.” She leaned forward and kissed Dot on the end of her wet snout.

  "So, you'll kiss her, but not me?" I opened up the fridge and pulled out a box of frozen waffles.

  “She doesn’t have the power to break my heart.” Emma crawled to her feet.

  I studied her. “I have the power to break your heart?”

  “Well, yeah.” She scratched at a spot in her hair near the back.

  “I’m not gonna break your heart.”

  "Oh-kay." She pulled out a stool and climbed onto it. "Your house is nice. Much cleaner and more grown-up than I expected. You have maids, right?"

  “You think I’m playing you? Trying to kiss you?” I didn’t budge from the conversation because if this was the hold-up, we could settle this out right now.

  "We really don't have to have this conversation." She drummed her fingers on the counter, then perked up when she saw the almond milk. "Oh, good! You do have it."

  I moved it out of the way just as she reached for it. “Why do you think I’m playing you?”

  She sighed, exasperated. "I didn't say that. You said that."

  “Stop talking in circles and communicate with me. You kissed me in the water, right?”

  “Yeah,” she said sullenly.