Jane followed him inside and realized that she had never been to his new apartment before. The last time she had been in Braden’s home was before Christmas, when he lived in Jesse’s gorgeous, sprawling house on Laurel Canyon, and she would run into him in the mornings sometimes. She was often dressed in one of Jesse’s big white shirts, and Braden usually only had on pajama bottoms. Which had been pretty uncomfortable.
“Nice place,” she remarked. “I love your decor. It’s very understated.” She grinned and bumped him lightly.
Braden laughed. “Yeah. I haven’t gotten around to buying much furniture.” He walked into the small galley-style kitchen and opened the fridge. “Beer? Wine? Soda?”
“I’d love a glass of white wine, if you have it.”
“Coming right up.”
Jane sat down on the blue futon sofa that along with a cluttered brown coffee table and a tall chrome lamp were the only furnishings in the living room. Braden joined her a moment later with two glasses of wine, elbowing away a pile of dog-eared scripts, copies of Variety, a half-empty bag of Doritos, and Clue.
“Sorry about the mess, I wasn’t expecting company,” Braden apologized. “So. How’ve you been?”
“I want to know about you first,” Jane insisted. “Tell me about your movie! I’m so happy for you!”
“Thanks. It was totally last-minute. My agent called me a few days ago and said that Addison Preston was shooting an action movie and that one of his actors had dropped out because of a conflict. I read for the part yesterday, and he offered it to me last night. Crazy, right?”
“Last night? Wow, are you even packed?”
“Yeah, sort of. I can finish later tonight. After I destroy you in a game of Monopoly.”
Jane giggled and punched his arm. “You are so on!”
For the next few hours they caught up on each other’s news . . . and drank more wine . . . and ordered in Chinese . . . and played one round of Monopoly (Jane won) and one round of Clue (Braden won) . . . and then moved on to gin rummy. Jane couldn’t remember the last time she and Braden were so relaxed together. There was no drama tonight, no pressure . . . just two friends enjoying a cozy evening in.
During the second round of gin rummy, Braden happened to mention—like it was no big deal—that Willow had a new boyfriend who worked with her at Alt magazine. Jane took in this information as she exclaimed “gin!” and fanned out her cards; she tried to act totally casual about it, but inside, she felt her heart flutter. She wished the news didn’t affect her, but it did.
Before Jane knew it, it was almost eleven o’clock. She forced herself to rise to her feet, even though Braden’s futon couch was so comfy that she could just curl up right then and there. “I’d better go. I have to be at work early tomorrow,” she said ruefully.
“Yeah, no worries. I’m sorry I kept you up so late.”
“This was so much fun. I can’t believe you’re going away for two whole months.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll call you from there, okay? I’m pretty sure I’ll have cell reception and internet. If I don’t . . . well, I’ll talk to you in May or whenever.”
“Don’t be dramatic. You’re going to a movie set, not to war,” Jane teased him.
“Yeah, well.”
Braden gazed at her, and she saw something in his hazel-green eyes: something wistful, warm. She tried to turn away from his gaze, pretending to rifle through her purse for her car keys . . . but she found that she couldn’t. He was not just a friend to her—he had never been just a friend to her—and she knew now that she had never been just a friend to him, either. She raised her eyes slowly and met his gaze openly, honestly, letting him know in the heavy, charged silence between them how she felt about him. And then the next thing she knew, he was pulling her toward him, and she was standing on her tiptoes and raising her face to his, and they kissed. What are you doing? she asked herself. But she couldn’t stop . . . neither of them could. They sank down onto the couch, still kissing.
Chapter 8
You Have to Lie to People if It’s for Their Own Good
Trevor leaned back in his chair and stared out the window. The view from Fiona’s conference room was different from his usual view: There were no buildings, no billboards, just a little park with Japanese landscaping, complete with a koi pond. He knew Fiona was inspired by nature, or at least that’s the image she chose to convey to her clients. He, on the other hand, was inspired by artifice, by the unreal, by the fake it till you make it vibe of L.A. He loved the feeling that anything was possible in this city, as long as you had the brains and the energy and the sheer, unapologetic gall to invent it. Or to invent yourself.
Trevor knew that L.A. Candy was his best invention yet. And Season 2 was already exceeding expectations. The Jane-Madison feud was a ratings bonanza, fueled by Madison’s almost daily media appearances faux crying into a silk handkerchief. Scarlett was cooperating—finally—and was even doing some media herself.
Trevor’s idea about giving Hannah her own love interest was paying off, too. Oliver was working out very well so far, although how painful could it be to pretend to like a pretty, smart, sweet girl like Hannah? Still, he had better be worth it, since Trevor had been forced to sit through several dozen audition tapes to find the right guy.
As for Gaby, well, she had a new publicist, which had annoyed Trevor at first, since publicists could be a nightmare, making all kinds of crazy demands on behalf of their clients. But this one, Annabelle, had some good ideas. Gaby did need to start dating up; Trevor had actually cringed when he saw the tabloid pictures of her with some guy named “Skull” at STK last weekend. Gaby needed to improve her image, maybe with new hair and makeup and sexier clothes. She needed star quality, or at least the appearance of it. And if Annabelle could make this happen, why shouldn’t Trevor give Gaby more airtime?
And speaking of STK . . . Trevor scrolled around on his laptop until he found the pictures of Gaby and her date leaving the popular restaurant. His assistant had a Google alert on anything L.A. Candy. All of his girls—and anyone who was associated with his girls—were being watched. They were always on his radar, and the second they made their way onto the websites and blogs, he was notified.
So. Gaby wasn’t the only L.A. Candy girl to dine at STK that night. There were pictures of Jane and Scarlett as well, leaving the restaurant—and five feet behind them were two young, good-looking guys.
When it came to paparazzi, there was a system. Trevor was a man of details, so he always picked up on the nonverbal clues. A picture of two people with zero feet between them and with their arms around each other probably meant it was just for show or to counteract a breakup rumor. One foot between two people meant they were together and were neither hiding it nor flaunting it. Two feet between the couple, or if the guy was walking directly behind the girl, no hand-holding or interaction, likely meant that it was a new, undefined relationship or simply a friendship. (If there was enough room between the two, the guy could be cropped out and the girl’s image could be used for a fashion shot.)
The five-foot buffer between Trevor’s two girls and the two young, good-looking guys (who were shadowed in the background) meant that they were together. Trevor had done some digging and found out that one of them was Jane’s old boyfriend from high school and the other was his best friend and a premed student at UCLA. A rekindled romance between Jane and her ex would make a great story line for Season 2. And judging from the photo, it appeared to be a double date? A romance between Scarlett and the premed would make an equally great story line. Yes, Scarlett already had a boyfriend, but since he absolutely could not be on the show, he was nonexistent to Trevor. Scarlett didn’t seem like the type to cheat, but Trevor was good at what he did. He knew it would only take a couple of stolen glances on the show (not necessarily at each other) and the right pop song in the background to fabricate a new relationship.
There was a knock on the door. It was Jane. “Hey, Trevor? Are you busy?” she asked
.
“Not at all. Come on in.”
Jane closed the door and sat down across the conference table from him. There were dark circles under her eyes, as though she’d been up all night. It wasn’t like her to party until dawn; that was more Madison’s or Gaby’s style. “What’s up? You look like you could use a pick-me-up. You want me to send a PA out for coffee or a Red Bull?” he offered.
“No, thanks. Listen, Trevor. I know you said it had to be this way, but . . . Madison. She’s just not working out.”
Of course. “What do you mean, ‘she’s not working out’?” he said patiently. Since Jane’s meltdown in this very same conference room last Wednesday, he’d gotten multiple calls from both her agent and her publicist, screaming bloody murder about their client having to film with Madison. What was wrong with these people? Sure, it was their job to represent their client’s best interests. But in this case, Jane’s “best interests” were high ratings, and her daily fireworks with Madison provided that.
“I mean, she’s not letting me do my job here,” Jane complained. “She’s supposed to be helping me with Aja’s engagement party and some other parties, too. But she doesn’t know anything about event planning, and all she does is criticize my ideas for stupid, random reasons. On camera. Maybe that’s good for the show or whatever, but it’s not good for me, you know, professionally. We’re already behind schedule on Aja’s party because of Madison’s drama.”
Trevor steepled his hands under his chin and smiled sympathetically. “I hear you, Jane. But that’s something you should take up with Fiona. I’m just the producer, and my only role in all of this is to make sure my crew films your life—”
“But this isn’t my life!” Jane cut in.
“Actually, it is,” Trevor pointed out. “Like it or not, your fight with Madison is a big part of your life these days. The press is all over it, and I would look like an idiot if I didn’t include that story line in the show.” He added, “Need I remind you that you get paid a lot of money to do this? You can’t just pick and choose which parts of your life you want to have on the show. This is reality TV . . . not some feel-good sitcom where everyone always gets along.”
Jane stared at him, her blue eyes wide with hurt. Okay, so maybe he’d been too tough on her.
“Look. Jane. Just stick it out a little longer. Once these episodes start airing, the public is going to see Madison’s true colors. Everyone’s going to know that she’s the bad guy. Not you.”
“Yeah, well, maybe. I don’t know.”
Trevor studied her as she turned away from him and began twisting a lock of her hair around her index finger. She had been through a lot these past few months.
Trevor hated to admit it, but he felt somewhat guilty about encouraging Jane to stay with Jesse, especially after things got so ugly between them. Sure, the ratings had been amazing for a while, after Jane and Jesse became America’s favorite reality TV couple. But he could see the toll their breakup (and makeup and breakup) had taken on her emotionally. He hadn’t known how bad it really was until after they had split up.
He also felt somewhat guilty about Jesse’s downward spiral. Of course Jesse was responsible for being an addict—no one else. But it wasn’t pretty to watch anyone hit rock bottom the way Jesse had. Trevor had heard through the grapevine that even Jesse’s drinking buddies had pleaded for him to go to rehab. And that he had refused.
Jane glanced at her watch and rose to her feet. “I’ve got to go. I have a meeting with Fiona at eleven, and I need to prepare.”
“Wait, Jane. Have you talked to Jesse lately?”
“Um, no? Why are you asking me that?”
“Because I’ve heard he’s in bad shape. People have been trying to persuade him to go into rehab, but he’s not listening. I was just thinking, maybe he’d listen to you?”
“You want me to get Jesse to go into rehab?” Jane said incredulously. “I know you want reality for the show, Trevor. But this isn’t—”
Trevor held up his hands. “No, no. This isn’t for the show. I’m just suggesting that you have a private discussion with him, see if you can persuade him to get some help.” He added, “Jane, you used to be in love with the guy. Why not just talk to him?”
“Why do you care about Jesse? He was always about the ratings for you.”
“Fair enough. But I care about you,” he said. “I dragged you into this whole crazy Hollywood scene the night I discovered you at Les Deux. And I know what it would do to you if Jesse ended up . . . well, if something happened to him.”
Jane was quiet for a moment. “I’ll . . . think about it,” she said.
“Okay, good. And if you do talk to him, well . . . I have one piece of advice. Jesse’s not in a good place right now, inside. And when it comes to addicts, you have to tell them whatever they want to hear. Sometimes you have to make promises even if you have no intention of keeping them.”
“What are you saying?”
“What I’m saying is, sometimes, you have to lie to people if it’s for their own good.”
Jane’s jaw dropped. Trevor wasn’t sure if she was more shocked by his advice or by the fact that he really meant it. Frankly, it was probably the closest thing he would ever have to a personal philosophy.
Chapter 9
Armpit Falls
Madison leaned forward in the worn leather chair, her face half-hidden behind the latest issue of Cosmopolitan as the parade of tourists passed by. She felt like a stupid cliché from a stupid mystery thriller, hanging out in disguise in a sketchy hotel lobby. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and her eyes were obscured by a pair of last year’s Ray-Bans.
Chris the detective had called her two days ago (during an on-camera work meeting with Jane and Hannah—bad timing), saying that her blackmailer had been living in this particular hotel since Tuesday and was hanging out with a touring rock band with the extremely lame name of Dead White Boyz. According to a bellhop Chris had spoken to, she was in the habit of drinking in the hotel bar this time of day, alone.
Madison checked her watch. Three p.m. Hmm, great time of day to be boozing it up. Not that she was averse to an occasional afternoon cocktail, but still.
Luckily, Madison’s new faux boss didn’t seem to care about her comings and goings, which gave her the freedom to skip out of work early and engage in these tedious stakeouts. And also to squeeze in interviews at Us and People and a photo shoot to benefit a trendy animal-rights group that was whining about fur. Yesterday, unfortunately, the blackmailer had never turned up—plunging Madison into a deep funk relieved only by her boyfriend Derek’s surprise visit later that night. (His wife had her book club, and the brat was with the nanny.)
Madison set down her magazine, adjusted her shades, and stirred restlessly. A group of Japanese conventioneers walked by, followed by a harried-looking woman with a little girl and a screaming toddler. The girl reached over and offered her baby sister a bite of her ice cream cone, obviously trying to placate her. In response, the toddler took the ice cream cone and threw it on the ground. Nice. Madison reminded herself never to have children.
The revolving doors spun around noisily, and a girl, late teens, sauntered in. She was in full black goth uniform: mesh top, lace choker, jeans with metal rings, and platform boots. Her hair hung unevenly to her shoulders, as though hacked by a meat cleaver.
She looked crazier than she had in her mug shot.
The girl headed for the bar, just off the lobby. Madison got up and followed her, observing from a distance as she sat down on a barstool and ordered a shot of vodka from the bartender. The guy barely glanced at her, even though she was clearly not twenty-one, and reached for a bottle of Smirnoff from the shelf.
Madison, grateful that the place was so deserted at this hour, sidled up to the bar. “Hey, Soph. Didn’t know you were in town. You really should have called,” she said sweetly.
Sophie whirled around and stared at Madison in shock. Up close, her little sister looked e
ven more freakish, with her bruise-colored eye shadow and plum lipstick. Still, underneath the getup, she was the same, infuriatingly beautiful Sophie from five years ago. (She had always been partial to fads, even as a kid; obviously, she was going through her goth fad now.)
Without a word, Sophie turned away from Madison and tipped back her drink, which the bartender had set down in front of her. “Another one,” she told him gruffly.
“What’s the matter, Soph? You’ve never been the quiet type before,” Madison said.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to find out why you’ve been trying to make my life miserable these last few months.”
“I’ve been trying to make your life miserable? You’re the one who left me alone in Armpit Falls, bitch.”
Madison sat down next to her and waved away the bartender. “What do you mean, alone? What about Mom?”
Sophie snorted. “Yeah, that’s hilarious.”
“How is she?”
“She’s awesome, thanks for asking. I can’t wait to get home so I can go back to picking her off the floor every night and cleaning up her vomit. And lying to those bill collectors on the phone because she’s too wasted to keep a fucking job.”
Madison winced. She remembered their mother’s drinking binges all too well. And she felt a stab of sympathy for Sophie, dealing with it all by herself. But the feeling vanished as soon as she remembered why she was here. “Yeah, so your solution was to blackmail me?” she said.
Sophie narrowed her eyes. “You left us. You disappeared, and the next thing I know you’re on TV making millions. Yeah, I recognized you. Maybe nobody else did, but I did. And you never even called.” She added, “You walk around in your Gucci shoes acting so much better than everyone . . . that’s two months’ rent, Maddy. You’re walking around on two months’ rent.”
“I’m making millions?” Madison laughed bitterly. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Every cent I’ve made from filming has gone to pay off my credit card debt. The debt I built up trying to keep up this . . . image. I’m basically broke.”
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