by Zoey Dean
"Dating." Ben laughed. "Wow, does anybody really date anymore?"
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Anna stiffened. "Evidently I do."
"Evidently you do. The two of you could come by, then. Drinks are on me."
"Okay, thank you." She sipped her coffee, wondering why he was being quite so accepting of her dating, when the person she was dating was not him.
"This is amazing!" Anna exclaimed, as the Ferris wheel swung skyward into the cool night.
"Welcome to the best wheel west of the California coastline. Which also happens to be the only Ferris wheel west of the California coastline."
Caine had picked her up at nine as promised. But instead of the pickup truck, he was on a black 1960s BSA motorcycle that he said he'd restored himself, complete with an extra white helmet for Anna. "Put it on," he ordered with a grin.
She did, with some trepidation, never having been on a motorcycle before. Yet within three minutes she was completely comfortable, as Caine followed Sunset Boulevard to Barrington, then cut over to San Vicente and took it east to the ocean, dodging between cars with total confidence. It was a warm night, and she clung to his body, picturing how they must look to passersby. Like lovers, she thought. We must look like lovers.
He said he had one more surprise in store, and pulled the bike up near the Santa Monica pier, which jutted into the sea off of the Pacific Coast Highway. At the west end was an enormous Ferris wheel.
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"A hundred and thirty feet high, and powered by the sun," he told her.
"Even at night?" she joshed. She'd taken enough high school science to know that solar energy could be stored in batteries, just like any other kind of energy.
"Let's go and find out." He looked at the crowded parking area. "Two thousand Los Angelenos can't be wrong."
Fifteen minutes later, they'd walked through the polyglot mass of humanity that was the Santa Monica pier on a warm summer night, paid their admission tickets for the wheel, climbed into one of the yellow cabs, and gone spinning up into the night. It was fantastic. The night was crystalline, and a bright full moon hung in the west like a beacon of adventure. Around and around they went--two, three, four trips on the wheel, Caine happily assuring the operator that he was good for the fare. Then he slipped the guy an extra twenty dollars.
"That's nice of you," Anna noted.
"I have an ulterior motive."
Caine offered no more information than that, but Anna's curiosity was satisfied five minutes later, when the wheel slowed as they reached the top and then stopped dead.
"You paid him for this."
"Guilty as charged. Check out the view." Caine put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around so that they could look east, toward the city. It shone like a constellation in the night, streams of car headlights moving
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in all directions and up above, Anna could see the lights of the planes as they stacked up to land at LAX.
"It's . . . it's like a dream." Anna found herself thinking of Champagne and wondering whether she'd ever had a guy take her to this wheel, then tip the operator so that the cab would stay perched high in the sky.
"What are you thinking about?" Caine asked softly.
"This girl I met yesterday. Funny name. Champagne. She's in the at-risk girls' program. I guess she begged to help out with the fashion show, and they let her."
"What about her?"
"Just... I don't even know her, but the woman who runs the fashion show basically accused her of theft, based on no evidence. She was so patronizing, and this girl seemed so sweet. . . ."
"Fill me in. I'm not tracking."
Anna explained what Virginia had said about Champagne stealing Martin Rittenhouse's gown, even though she didn't have any proof at all. He whistled gruffly. "That sucks. Sometimes people with money act like not having it is the result of a character defect. Such patronizing bullshit."
Anna agreed, and found Caine's reaction so close to her own that she impetuously leaned over and kissed him, the first time she'd ever done such a thing in her life.
The kiss lasted until the wheel started moving again. And then for a while longer after that. It turned out to be both fun and educational. Anna learned in thirty seconds that Ben wasn't the only great kisser in L.A.
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Pre-Post-Hot
Cammie found herself that night in an uncharacteristic position. She literally had nothing to do. Dee was off with Jack doing whatever Dee and Jack did. Ditto Sam and Eduardo, who were crashing at Eduardo's condo on the Wilshire corridor.
She couldn't even call Adam. He and his parents had gone on a three-day canoe trip and left their cell phones behind. Unimaginable, but true. Nor were any of her other usual suspects available. Krishna and Skye weren't due back from London until Sunday, while Ashleigh and Damian were slumming at Hedonism III in Jamaica.
So Cammie decided to go out by herself. Maybe she'd just check out Trieste, where Ben still worked. Even after all the press coverage it had received the month before
--coverage that normally turned a hot club into burnt toast--Trieste remained next to impossible to get into, with Jacinda Barrett reportedly having to wait forty-five minutes to be admitted and Jessica never making it to within spitting distance of the VIP section.
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Of course, the best reason to crash Trieste was Ben Birnbaum. Despite being with Adam, the truth was that Cammie still hadn't gotten over getting dumped by Ben at the end of her junior year. Adam brought out the good in her. Ben brought out the bad. Good was often good. Bad was sometimes so much better.
She put on a new outfit she'd found at Fred Segal--a D&G ivory miniskirt and a Robert Graham magenta brocade jacket that ended four inches above the top of the skirt.
She did her makeup, spritzed her strawberry blond curls, then checked out her reflection in her full-length mirror.
I would do me. No higher compliment could be given.
For the last week, she'd been driving her father's new cherry red Lamborghini. Even for Los Angeles, capital of the universe of the internal combustion engine, the Lamborghini was something special. At every stoplight there were admiring stares from passersby. She took it to Trieste, tossed the keys to the valet, and a moment later was waved into the club by the very hot, very bald doorman. He was new, she noted. Very tasty. She favored him with a wink as she shimmied past. No block-long line or velvet rope for her.
As she made her way to the juice bar at the back, her typical club experience began. That is, she was hit on early and often. No to the businessman from France.
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No to the lipstick lesbian from Hancock Park. No to the race-car driver from Holland. There was only one guy at Trieste she wanted to hang with. And there he was, behind the juice bar, making the famous fortified fruit smoothies for which this patio was becoming famous.
"Well, well." She sidled up to him, thinking it was impossible for Ben Birnbaum to look anything but hot, even in a basic white Trieste staff T-shirt and black Diesel jeans. "If it isn't my favorite bartender."
"And if it isn't my favorite ex-girlfriend," Ben replied. He flashed a huge, handsome grin. "What can I get you?"
Cammie flashed her most winning smile at him and resisted her natural inclination, which was to say, You. Me. And the Presidential Suite at the Hotel BelAir.
"What's the specialty concoction tonight from the Ben Birnbaum magic blender?"
"Coconut creme-papaya smoothie with a vitamin B boost. Will make you forget that Jamba Juice was ever invented."
"I'll take a half," she decided, "and the other half Jamaican rum."
Ben laughed. "Make it a quarter, and you got it. Go have a seat, I'll bring it to you."
Cammie spotted an empty pair of red-and-white striped lawn chairs under a eucalyptus tree and commandeered them both, putting her feet up on the one that would be Ben's. While he blended her smoothie, she fended off an approach from a Japanese artist
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dressed in
severe black, and also a cute guy who claimed to be one of the writers of the new hit show Heroes.
Suddenly, a half-glass of coconut smoothie materialized in front of her--Ben had snaked it around from behind. "I made it a third rum. Call it a compromise," he murmured in her ear, sending shivers down her spine. "Enjoy."
Cammie raised her glass, which held the same off-white, creamy concoction as Ben's did.
"Here's to ex-boyfriends and -girlfriends," she proposed. "Because you never know."
Ben clinked her glass and then sat in the chair she'd saved for him. "I'll drink to that."
"So, speaking of . . . How are you dealing with Ben-and-no-Anna?" Cammie tasted the drink. It was easily one-third rum. And not bar pour, either. Good stuff.
"The word's out, huh?"
"It's all over MySpace. Also aintitcool.com. And then there was the full-page thingie in the Hollywood Reporter," she joked.
Ben stretched and rubbed the back of his neck, which made his biceps bulge nicely. "I forgot about the Beverly Hills gossip line. The underground railroad had nothing on you guys."
For a moment, Cammie bristled. Just what did he mean by "you guys"? She wasn't that big of a gossip. She was too busy being the star to spend that much time on other people. But she decided to let it go. She
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wasn't here to bitch. She was here to make nice. Very, very nice.
"Everyone saw you at graduation," Cammie replied strategically, stretching out her legs for maximum visual impact. "Everyone saw Anna get into that guy's--"
"Caine. His name is Caine."
"How biblical. Yeah, I met him at Sam's party out on the Look Sharpe. Tattoo Guy. Pretty odd for Anna, but whatever. She blew you off for him?" Cammie was careful to sound as incredulous as possible.
Ben shrugged. "Maybe you ought to ask her."
Cammie took another sip of her coconut smoothie. She felt some coat the skin above her plump upper lip and licked it off slowly, knowing that he was watching. "It's not like she and I are the best of friends, Ben."
He shrugged again. "You're doing community service with her. Which, incidentally, is hilarious. Don't you talk?"
"Two ex-girlfriends comparing notes. I can't think of anything more banal. Except maybe some Penny Marshall movie I'd never see."
"I wouldn't put Anna in the 'ex' column. I'd put her in the 'we're taking a breather' column."
Cammie playfully nudged the toe of her boot into his calf. "Get over it, Ben. I doubt very much that she's tooling around with Tattoo Guy and telling him that she's taking a 'breather' from you." She watched that zinger cause a flicker of doubt to cross Ben's face.
"She's pissed at me," he admitted.
"She pisses off easily. Where's the love?"
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He swung his legs off the chair. "She'll either get over it or not. I'm not dwelling on it, if that's what you mean."
"How long are you planning to wait?" Cammie looked at him closely.
"Till I get sick of waiting, I guess."
"That's almost frighteningly mature," Cammie mused. "Is that what happens after a year at Princeton? Because if it is, I'm never going to college."
He laughed; Cammie could always make him laugh. That was what kept them together when they were a couple, back when he was a senior and she was a junior. Well, that and physical chemistry so hot it made her feel dizzy.
"Well, I just wanted to say that if you need a shoulder to cry on, I'm here," Cammie continued intimately. "Adam's in Michigan, so I've got the time. And even if you tie me up, tie me down, and kiss me all over, I'm not fooling around with you."
Ben cracked up. "Liar."
"You know, the bizarre thing is ... I really do love Adam. But what can I tell you, Ben? I'll always have a weakness for you. So don't tempt me, and I'll try not to tempt you. Deal?"
He nodded, regarding her with something that seemed to approach respect. "Deal."
"If I break my promise, the smoothie gods will strike me down with a bolt of liquid lightning."
"Then I'd say you're the one who's almost frighteningly
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mature," Ben observed. "Hanging out with Adam did that for you, huh?"
"He's a great guy. He's deep and kind and . . ." She shrugged. "Probably way too good for me."
"Ah, Cammie. There is no one else quite like you." Ben leaned forward in his lawn chair and enveloped her in a quick hug.
She let it go at that. She wasn't about to let on that her mind wasn't nearly as faithful as her body.
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Barbie-Doll Curves
Sam took her usual table at the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel and waited for the latest petite and dimwitted waitress to wait on her.
Sam had been coming to the Beverly Hills Hotel since she was a little kid, first with her father, and then--by the time she was in middle school--with her friends. Even as middle-schoolers, Sam and her buds didn't have to wait for Mommy or Daddy to drive them. Most were even spared the ignominious humiliation of trailing some nanny or au pair. They simply called the family chauffeur and got dropped off. Then, when they were ready to come home, they'd press speed dial and the driver would be at the hotel there within thirty minutes.
It was a nice tradition for the junior division of Hollywood showbiz royalty.
"Hey, there. Care to see the menu?" asked a waitress with long, wavy chestnut hair, the curves of a Barbie doll, and a sweet Southern accent. She was naturally gorgeous. Sam hated that in a waitress.
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"I haven't looked at a menu in here since I was six."
Sam wore oversize round black Chanel sunglasses along with her Eve of Destruction jeans and her latest acquisitions from Scoop boutique: a green silk tank top under a Versace black jacket just long enough to cover the widest part of her hips and ass.
Sam whipped off the sunglasses, knowing exactly what would happen. The waitress-actress wanna-be would realize who Sam was and then suck up to her in an effort to gain access to Sam's father and then, hopefully, a role in one of Jackson's films.
"Well, dang, why buck a trend?" the waitress asked with a sparkling smile. "Now, tell me what I can get you. Unless you want to wait." She motioned to the empty chair across the table.
Was it really possible that she didn't know who Sam was?
"The house salad with dressing on the side, the onion soup, no cheese, and an iced cappuccino, no whipped cream," Sam ordered. She had planned on a cheeseburger and fries but had come down with a bad case of size-two-waitress envy. "And you're right, I'm meeting someone. Put the whole thing on my dad's tab."
The waitress's eyebrows headed north as she finished jotting down the order. "Sorry?"
"Tab. Bill. Balance sheet. Account. Signing privileges. My father. Do it."
"Oh, they haven't told me about that yet. I'm new. First day here, in fact. Whose account would that be?"
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"Jackson Sharpe."
"Jackson Sharpe," the girl repeated. "Okay, I'll ask my manager. Anything else?"
Sam shook her head. Very odd.
The waitress was just leaving as Sam spotted Parker near the bar, heading for her table. He wore his usual jeans, a white T-shirt, and a red windbreaker, which only prompted more people to make the obvious comparison to James Dean. Sam saw her tarry long enough to flash him a dazzling smile as he slid into the empty seat at her table.
"Damn, that waitress is a knockout."
"The operative term being waitress, Parker. Meaning she's not your type."
Okay. That was sort of uncalled for, but it never hurt to remind Parker who had the power at this table. He was always on the lookout for girlfriends with money, which was fine. The thing was, Sam knew that Parker would never describe her as a knockout. No one would. Oh, she was no bowser, though she sometimes felt like one, compared to her friends. Pear-shaped. Size ten--and that was only when she was dieting. Thighs that screamed, "Cellulite as gross as cottage cheese!" across a room, even when artfully draped in
thousand-dollar pants.
"I saw Cammie at Faux," Parker said, naming a club on Sunset where everything was made to look deliberately kitsch. "Late last night. She told me about getting arrested with Anna. What a hoot."
"Who was she there with?"
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"No one. Or everyone, depending on how you look at it. She danced with every guy in the place and half the girls, too."
"Hello?" The Barbie-doll-curves waitress was back at their table, pad at the ready, her eyes fixed on Parker. "Would you like to see a menu, or have you not had to look at it since you were six, too?"
Sam looked at her closely. She had an actual small laugh line near her left eye. Forget Botox. Damn. Her tits were probably real as well.
"I know just what I want," he responded slowly, making serious eye contact.
"Do you?" She smiled like a beauty pageant contestant who knew she'd just nailed the talent portion of the competition. "And what would that be?"
"What's your name?" Parker asked.
"Citron. Yours?"
"Parker." He held out a hand. "It's a pleasure, Citron."
The waitress took it and they started chatting like she didn't have another table to look after, he was eating alone, and Sam was a department store mannequin. Citron turned out to be a recent arrival from Louisiana. She'd bummed around for a few years but would start at Loyola-Marymount in the fall and was waitressing to pay the rent.
"Someone who looks like you has to be a performer," Parker decided, his tone flirty. "Actress? Model?"
Citron smiled. There was another laugh line. "Neither. Singer. Kind of in the Alicia Keyes vein--"
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"Excuse me," Sam interrupted. "Did I turn on my invisibility cloak?"
"Oh, so sorry. Is your boyfriend hitting on me?" Citron looked neither guilty nor ashamed.
Sam smiled thinly. "He's not my--look, could you just take his order, bring food, and give us the privacy that we so richly deserve?"
Parker ordered a toasted bagel, fries, and coffee, and then turned his attention to Sam as Citron hustled off to the kitchen. "Sorry about that. Did you ask me to lunch because you miss seeing me at school every day?"
"No, Parker. I invited you because I wanted to watch you hit on the waitress."
