After four hours of hard labor, Ryan appeared in the doorway. He watched as Madison gave Samson, the hideously ugly mutt who had moved her to tears a week ago, a final rinse.
Madison pretended she didn’t know he was there. “You’re doing so good, Sam,” she said soothingly to the dog, who stood trembling under the spray. “This is going to make you feel so much better.” She washed the last bits of lather from his fur and then guided him to the corner and wrapped him in a worn but soft towel. “There,” she said, rubbing him vigorously. “Now you’re nice and clean.”
Samson whined and tried to lick her. A haircut and bath had helped, but he was still pretty unfortunate looking. “Oh, you,” she said, smiling. “Keep your tongue in your mouth. You’re just like all the other guys.”
Ryan came over and squatted down beside them both. “We want him to look as good as he can,” he said. “We’re taking his Last Chance shot today.”
Madison put her hand protectively on Samson’s head. She didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”
Ryan reached out and rubbed Samson under his chin, and the dog practically purred—oh, to be petted by two people at once! But Ryan’s voice was grim. “We take a photo and send it out in an email blast. It’s the last thing we can do for him before …” He trailed off.
Madison paled. “You aren’t going to kill him, are you?”
Ryan shrugged, unhappy but resolved. “We do the best we can, Madison. But Lost Paws isn’t a no-kill shelter.”
She gazed at Samson. He really did look so much like a mop crossed with a rat. One ear stood up and the other flopped down, and he would probably always look mangy. Who in the world would adopt him? “You can’t do that,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. Samson whined and looked at her with his cloudy, sad eyes.
“We can’t save all of them, Madison,” Ryan said. “That’s the hardest thing about working here.” Then he stood up. “We’ll make him look great for his picture; don’t worry. And maybe someone will adopt him. And you—you’ve done a great job with him. Thanks.”
An actual, in-person compliment from Ryan Tucker—you could have knocked Madison over with a feather.
But it didn’t matter. For one thing, Samson’s life was on the line. And for another, it didn’t change anything about Ryan and Madison’s tense relationship. There was no way Ryan was going to go easy on her just because she wasn’t complaining for once. No, she thought gloomily, she and the dog were both basically doomed.
After lunch, Ryan sent Madison to clip the nails of Lost Paws’s cat population, a task that would have been unpleasant enough if they were friendly house cats. Which they weren’t. Some of them were wild-eyed strays from the building site of Jungle Bar, the new nightclub Gaby had reported on before she got fired from Buzz! News. Gaby had called them “fearful cats,” because she didn’t know the word “feral.” But that’s what they were. Feral. Savage. Like tiny tigers.
Madison’s arms were covered in scratches by the time she was done. And while in the past she would have run to Ryan, claiming unsafe working conditions and preferential treatment to those horrible, greasy-haired twins, Hazel and Ivy, today she said nothing at all. She got her Bacitracin and her Band-Aids and took care of business.
Madison didn’t even blame the cats. She felt only sympathy for them. Because now, like them, she knew what it was to be unwanted.
“You really don’t have to do this,” Ryan said. He was leaning on the counter in the Lost Paws reception room, watching as Madison filled out a clipboard full of Xeroxed forms.
“I know,” Madison said. She scanned down the page. No, she didn’t have a fully fenced yard; she lived on the sixth floor of the Park Towers apartments. No, she didn’t have experience with pet ownership. (Sue Beth had allowed her to keep a turtle for a while, but then Sophie let it out to play in the yard, and that was the last anyone saw of Puddles.) No, she didn’t have a relationship with a vet—but she knew how to Google one. Same thing. Yes, she understood that a pet was a great responsibility. She had been taking care of Gaby for years. How could this be much different?
She glanced toward the hallway that led to the dog wing. Somewhere back there, a freshly groomed Samson was locked in his little cage. He was probably curled in the corner, licking sadly at the rawhide bone that every Lost Paws dog was given upon arrival. Madison smiled to herself, thinking about it: He no idea that his life was about to change. If there was a dog lottery, Samson the mutt was about to win it.
“You could always just foster him, you know,” Ryan said. “That’s a big deal, too. And a great help. We always need foster homes.”
Madison didn’t answer. She was writing down the names and addresses of personal references. It was dumb that she had to fill out all the forms—it wasn’t like she was some random stranger off the street, after all—but she wanted to do this right.
“The nice thing about fostering is that it’s not a long-term commitment,” Ryan went on. “I fostered one of the Great Danes for a while....”
A part of her appreciated his skepticism. Madison knew she didn’t look like the doggie type, and certainly not the mangy-shelter-mutt type. Ryan was trying to make things easy for her—to let her know that she could help grant Samson a death-row reprieve without actually signing up for twelve years of responsibility. But she knew what she was doing. Samson needed an ally. He needed her. And no matter what he did, she wasn’t going to abandon him the way his previous owners had.
“Really,” she said, filling in answers to questions such as How do you discipline your pets and why? “I’m sure about this.” She wondered if she would rename Samson something more … mediagenic. It really was too bad he wasn’t some darling teacup poodle—something she could carry in a handbag or dye pretty colors. Something that would look good in US Weekly. (Paris Hilton’s dog had looked so cute when it was pink, even if PETA didn’t agree.) But he needed her.
Ryan pushed himself off the counter and came over to stand beside her. “I’m not convinced you are really thinking this through,” he said.
The tone of his voice made her look up from the forms. “What do you mean?”
“A dog isn’t an accessory, Madison,” he said (as if he’d known what she was thinking!). “It’s a living being. It needs to be walked and loved and fed and cared for. I don’t know how much you understand about it, but pet ownership is not a game.”
He looked as if he was going to keep going, but Madison had had enough of his patronizing lecture. “You think I don’t know that? You think I’m not capable of taking care of him?”
“I don’t know. You seem like you might be better at taking care of yourself. Isn’t that your thing—looking out for number one?”
Madison scoffed. “You think you know me because of what you’ve heard about me—because I’m sure you’re way too cool to ever watch PopTV—but let me tell you: You don’t know the first thing about me.”
Ryan laughed mirthlessly. “Actually, I have seen you on TV. And you forget that we’ve spent a lot of time together in the last couple of weeks. When you actually show up to work, that is.”
Madison bristled. “First of all, we don’t spend time together. It’s not like you come to the laundry room to fold towels with me! And second of all, you don’t have to get on my case for missing work; Connie already did. Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to be yelled at by a middle-aged woman in Crocs?”
Ryan raised a hand. “Look, I’m not trying to start a fight—”
“Oh really? Because you’re doing an excellent job of it.”
“I’m just concerned about Samson.”
“Three hours ago you were talking about killing him, and now you’re acting like sending him home with me would be worse,” Madison yelled. “You’re a hypocrite, Ryan Tucker. You act like you’re God’s gift to the animal kingdom, when really you’re just an asshole.”
Ryan took a step back. “Whoa,” he said. “Maybe you should calm down a little.”
Madison lowered her voice. “I’m perfectly calm,” she said. (A lie.) “I’m taking Samson. And if you don’t let me adopt him, I’ll have to steal him.”
“Of course you will,” Ryan said snidely. “How could I forget that if you want something, you just take it.”
That, really, was the last straw.
Madison picked up a paper coffee cup that was sitting on the counter and threw it at him. “I didn’t do it!” she yelled. “I didn’t even take that necklace, so you just shut up, you arrogant prick! You don’t know what the hell you are talking about.”
She stopped and clapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes were wide. Then she fled from the room.
“Hey,” Ryan called after her. “Hey—”
He caught up to her on the steps outside the shelter. “Wait! What do you mean you didn’t take the necklace?” he asked, half out of breath.
“I mean that I didn’t take it,” Madison shouted bitterly. She couldn’t believe she’d let him goad her into confessing. “How much clearer do I need to be?”
Ryan whistled low under his breath. “No shit,” he said softly. He sat down on the top step and gazed up at her. “Okay. Wow. Then why would you say that you did?”
Madison felt the sting of tears brimming in her eyes, but there was no way she was going to let herself cry. She gazed up at the cloudy sky; she couldn’t look at Ryan. When she finally spoke, her voice was cool and controlled. “It’s a long story, and one that I don’t particularly like talking about.”
“Maybe it’d make you feel better,” he offered.
“You’ve been a jerk to me since day one. Why would I confide in you?”
“For the pleasure of proving that I was wrong about you?” Ryan suggested.
Madison finally looked at him. “Do you think I care what you think of me? Because I don’t. I know who I am, and that’s all that matters.”
Ryan sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I jumped to conclusions about you. I’m sorry if I haven’t been very nice. I will admit that I have certain … prejudices against people like you.”
“People like me? What does that mean?”
Ryan shrugged. “People who crave fame and attention. It just doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Just because you don’t understand it doesn’t mean it’s wrong. You know the shithole I came from—everyone does. Doesn’t it make sense I’d want to live a different life?”
Ryan nodded slowly. “I guess. But I still want to know about the necklace. Will you tell me? I won’t tell anyone.”
Madison dropped down onto the step next to him. She was so tired of keeping the secret; she really was. She was sick of everyone looking at her like she was a criminal. Maybe telling Ryan Tucker would make her feel a little bit better. (There was a first time for everything.) She’d already blurted out the truth; what was wrong with filling him in on a few details?
“Pretend you don’t hate me,” Ryan urged. “Come on, pretend I was never a jerk to you. You may find this hard to believe, but lot of people think I’m a nice, pretty sympathetic guy.”
“You’re right; I do find that hard to believe.”
“Just tell me,” Ryan said softly.
Then Madison surprised herself, and she did. By the time she was done telling him—about Sophie, about her dad, about their painful history—she felt five pounds lighter.
“So,” she said, flinging her hands up in the air. “That’s that.”
Ryan was speechless for a moment. Then he simply exhaled with a “Wow.”
Madison felt almost giddy with relief. “Yeah, wow,” she repeated.
But then reality came rushing back and she felt terrible again. What good had telling Ryan done? None.
Ryan reached out and touched her arm. “I’m really sorry,” he said. “For everything that you’ve gone through. And for misjudging you.”
“People have been misjudging me my whole life,” Madison said. “What’s one more?”
“Well, I won’t do it anymore. There’s a different Madison Parker than the world sees, and I just met her.”
Madison held out her hand. “Hi,” she said wryly. “Nice to meet you.”
Ryan shook her hand, but instead of releasing it, he kept it wrapped in his.
“Nice to meet you, too,” he said.
20
LET THE HATERS HATE
Carmen sighed happily as she sank down at the edge of the mineral pool. Slipping off her flip-flops, she submerged her feet and felt the warm water swirl around her ankles. She closed her eyes for a moment, and let out an involuntary “Ooooohhh …”
Birds were chattering from the eaves of the Hope Springs Resort, and the sun was setting over the desert in a blaze of orange and red. Carmen was only two hours east of L.A., but it felt like a different world entirely. A quieter, simpler, prettier world. She kicked her feet in the water, thrilled to be taking a break from the city—from the traffic, the smog, the paparazzi, the PopTV cameras … from all of it.
Carmen and the rest of the End of Love cast and crew were in the desert for a few days to film scenes of Roman and Julia trying to live off the land (which, like nearly everything else in their story, was not going to go well for them). Today’s shoot had been long and exhausting; Carmen was sunburned, not to mention blistered. (Those boots Alexis Ritter had designed were really not comfortable.) And her call had been at five a.m.—five!—because she had an hour of makeup with Lily before she could get into her wardrobe and film. Which meant that Carmen was probably getting up just as Gaby was crawling into bed with Jay after they’d spent the night partying at Whisper and then who knows where.
But overall, the day had been great. Colum McEntire hadn’t yelled at her once, and in fact he’d even paid her a compliment on a line she’d improvised. Her scenes with Luke were raw and intense; at times they’d felt so real that she almost believed she was starving in a post-apocalyptic desert.
Yes, things were good. It was nice to have a moment of peace and solitude to remember that.
But Carmen only enjoyed solitude for so long. There were some people—Kate, maybe (she seemed like the nature type)—who could watch the sun go down solo, but Carmen preferred to share it with someone. Even someone who was hours away. So, because she missed him and she hadn’t talked to him in forever, she called Drew.
It was a Friday night, and she thought there was a chance he was over at her house for dinner. Maybe he’d be peeling carrots for one of Cassandra’s salads, while her dad talked his ear off about some new band he’d seen at Slim’s when he was in San Francisco. But Drew didn’t pick up. Instead of leaving him a message, she hung up and sent a text. I MISS U. U STILL EXIST, RIGHT?
Then she got up and walked over to one of the lounge chairs. She spotted Lily in the lobby staring intently at her iPhone, probably choosing between filters for an artsy picture of rocks she’d taken. Carmen had never met someone so obsessed with Instagram. A string of lights suspended from the courtyard trees illuminated the stack of magazines she’d brought from her room, all of them bookmarked to the articles about her. She opened the nearest one to see a picture of herself paying for a coconut water and an apple at Whole Foods. Carmen Curtis tries to keep fit with healthy snacks, read the caption.
Huh? she thought. “Tries” to keep fit? Carmen had struggled with various things in her life—algebra, her mother’s fame, a tendency toward oiliness in her T-zone—but fitness had never been one of them. Where were these stories coming from?
“Reading up on yourself again?” said a voice, and Carmen, startled, looked up to see Luke grinning at her. “Are you curious about what you’ve been up to lately? Because, you know, you could just ask me.” He sat down next to her and picked up a towel to dry his wet hair. “The indoor pool is too hot, by the way,” he said. “It’s like a giant bathtub.”
Carmen shut the magazine and smiled at him. Even after a whole day together, she was still happy to see him. “Someone’s been talking to the press about me,�
�� she said.
“So what else is new?” Luke asked. “I mean, you’re a public figure. They take pictures of you feeding your parking meter. Saw one of those the other day, in fact.”
Carmen crinkled her nose. “I still got a ticket, though.” She picked up another tabloid and tossed it at him. “I mean, look. There are all these stories that are wrong … or sort of mean.”
But Luke didn’t open the magazine. “Don’t pay any attention to this stuff. It’s not worth your time. This is what these magazines do. You know better than anyone.”
“Easy for you to say,” Carmen answered. “No one’s calling you overweight or spoiled or undeserving of your success.”
At that moment, as if he had some sort of conversational ESP, Drew texted Carmen back. I’M NOT THE ONE WHO’S FALLEN OFF THE FACE OF THE EARTH, MISS TABLOID QUEEN!
If I’d fallen off the earth, you wouldn’t see me all over the tabloids, dope, she thought, setting the phone on top of Gossip. Carmen would have liked to text him that retort, but suddenly it felt like too much effort. She was so tired!
“You’ve worked hard for everything you’ve gotten, and you deserve it all,” Luke said. “Let the haters hate.”
Carmen sighed. “I just want to know who the haters are.”
“Maybe it’s me,” Luke said. “Maybe I’m secretly trying to sabotage you because you’re a better actor than I am.”
Carmen laughed. “Yeah, that makes sense. Seriously, though—I want to know who’s doing it. At first I thought it was just tabloids being tabloids, but some of these ‘sources’ know personal details that no one else could know.” Her first thought was Madison Parker. After all, the girl had a history of interpersonal sabotage. (Poor Jane Roberts! She was probably still scarred from Madison’s betrayal....) But she quickly realized that in this case, Madison was innocent. “It had to be someone who was with me at the party in the Hills—”
“The one you broke up with me from,” Luke interrupted, poking her with his foot. “Heartbreaker.”
Starstruck Page 15
