“I’m glad you’re enjoying it. When you’re raised by a single mother, you learn your way around the kitchen. Out of all the gourmet dishes I cook, guess what my son’s favorite is: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches! That’s all he wants lately. That and cornflakes.” Evan emptied the bottle of San Pellegrino into Esme’s glass.
“Thank you, dear. Callie went through a similar phase when she was a little girl, too. Macaroni and cheese, morning, noon, and night.”
Callie sat on Evan’s knee and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Grandma, Evan loves my pictorial.”
“As he should, honey.”
“I picked up a copy the day it came out. Out of a ten, I give it an eleven.” Evan winked. She snuggled deep in his lap while he stroked her back. “I especially love the outdoor shot of you lying on your stomach with the ‘Calliewood’ sign in the background.”
“I looked at it yesterday and I must say—not just because she’s my granddaughter—Callie’s pictures came out better than the other girl’s. Not that Gabrielle isn’t—wasn’t—gorgeous, but God didn’t intend breasts to look like beach balls.”
“Gabby called them her ‘money makers.’” Callie sipped her Syrah. “She didn’t think there was anything particularly special about herself. She would have been floored to see people’s reaction to her performance.”
Evan agreed. “She was one of those rare breeds who was beautiful both inside and out. Gary dined with her and Tom many times and he told her she was on the edge of a major career upswing. Unbelievable how things get nipped in the bud, isn’t it?”
Esme shook her head. “Tragic. Absolutely tragic.”
“Let me pour some more wine for you ladies.”
“Just a splash, Evan. If I have more than two glasses I’ll be jitterbugging on the table. Callie, dear, when will you know more about the TV show?”
Evan’s blue eyes flashed. “TV show? What’s this news?”
“I forgot to tell you!” said Callie. “Paul said there’s a major chance NCA! could become a series. I should know more in a few weeks.”
“Look at you! That’s fabulous, doll. I propose a toast: to Callie and your new project. Oh, by the way, Men’s Report released their annual list for the hottest one hundred women in the world and guess who clocked in at number eighty-eight?”
Callie blushed. “Really? The list came out today?”
“Sure did. I read it online this morning.”
“Paul mentioned I’d make the list. He’s friends with the editor. It’s all about who you know, I guess. It’s nothing I earned.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, babe. That’s quite a bragging right,” said Bedroom Eyes. “Consider where you were this time last year.”
“True. Eighty-eight, huh? Not too shabby for a girl from Michigan.” The three clinked their glasses together.
Esme took a hearty sip and smacked her lips. “Well, how about that. My granddaughter is one in-demand commodity.”
“You’re not embarrassed, Grandma?”
“Embarrassed? Of who, you? Never, honey! Admittedly, things are much more risqué than when I was young. And I’ll confess I don’t see why people have to expose their cans to make something interesting. But that’s just the way things are nowadays. You’ve accomplished so much in such a short amount of time; how could I possibly be embarrassed?”
Callie grinned. Things were finally on track; she had a handsome, über-successful boyfriend and a doting grandmother. A promising career loomed on the horizon—and, just as important, she didn’t have to compromise her integrity by selling out her slain friend and hire a bloodsucker like Kat Killian. It was hard imagining back to the time when she waited tables at Harry’s. Just a year ago she couldn’t book a gig to save her hide! For far too long, every day crept by the same monotonous way: wake up in the cramped apartment, stinking of grease from working the previous night, demoralized from serving cantankerous customers who thought it her duty to be their whipping post—all the while dreaming of a gig to save her from hash-slinging misery. Nothing out of this world, but she could now afford two thousand dollars’ rent, a Z4, and a steak at Dan Tana’s. And all because of a low-budget celluloid savior with a snicker-inducing title.
“You’re flying to New York on Friday for the East Coast premiere, aren’t you, doll?” Evan said.
“At the crack of dawn—six A.M. I’m not much of a morning person, as you know.”
“No one in L.A. is. It blows my mind when I drive past Starbucks at eleven in the morning and it’s packed. You can tell these blokes just rolled out of bed. How long are you gone for?”
“Until Sunday. You’re sure you don’t want to come with me, Grandma?”
Esme shook her head. “Honey, I’ve had a ball, but I’m looking forward to trotting around the house in my robe and slippers and sleeping in my own little bed. New York’s too fast-paced for this old girl.”
42
“Callie Lambert, you’ve set women back one hundred years!”
“Is it really necessary to portray women as homicidal nymphomaniacs?”
“Ms. Lambert, you’re nothing more than a raging opportunist capitalizing on your deceased costar’s sexuality! For shame!”
Militant feminists. Barf. Callie chuckled to herself; it was more than a little fun rattling their cages while putting forth zero effort. Aside from the half-dozen hecklers, the premiere at the Ziegfeld was a smooth affair, more chill, in fact, than the event in L.A., with fewer reporters and cameras. The familiar fluff questions besieged her (speckled with the occasional solemn query)—not that she expected more from a movie about oversexed cheerleaders. To her disappointment, she recognized only C- and D-list actors and reality show veterans (“Please, skank. Did you really expect Johnny Depp to swing by?” gibed Tyler.) Whatever. She was the girl of the hour and the only actor from NCA! who showed. Paul, Will, Wendell, and Sherri accompanied her to dinner at the Waverly Inn afterward.
“I have an interview lined up tomorrow with WABC, and after that it’s off to Letterman,” Sherri said. She reached in her Amaretto sour and snacked on a maraschino cherry. “You’ll do fine. Real softball stuff and you’ll be done by six. And then Saturday I have a reporter from The Post coming to see you. You won’t even have to leave your hotel room; I’ve arranged for him to meet you in your suite. I’ll be there, too, of course. So, spill—what are you wearing tomorrow for the show?”
“The dress you’re wearing tonight—and don’t take this the wrong way, ’cause you look gorgeous—is a little conservative.” Will knocked back a shot of Jack.
“Exactly,” said Sherri. “We’d like you to wear something a little more va-va-voom. Formfitting, lots of cleavage.”
“It’s called Nympho Cheerleaders, for God’s sake,” added Wendell.
Callie looked at the dress that clung to her body like a wet T-shirt; this was considered conservative?
“Show the goods, get the press, you know the drill,” Sherri said.
“Umm … how about a low-cut mini dress? I packed a fuchsia Versace.”
“Perfect!” said the Wilders in unison.
“Can you hide a push-up bra underneath it?” asked Sherri. “You have nice breasts, but they need just a little … help.”
“She looks fabulous just the way she is, Sherri,” Paul said protectively.
“Of course she does, Paul, I’m not denying that. And I don’t want to sound like a bitch—”
“You just are,” snickered Will.
“That I am, I’ll give you that. But the name of the game is T and A, and I want her spilling out as much as possible. If I had my way, I’d send you out in a bikini. Hey, it’s my job to say these things.” She shoved another cherry in her mouth and twisted the stem off with her stubby fingers.
“I get it, guys. I’ll do my best to prop the girls up,” Callie said. Hail, hail, push-up bras! In Los Angeles, her natural B-cups were on par with the rack of a ten-year-old. She had willed them to sprout into monsters during her teenage years but it
wasn’t meant to be. Breast implants crossed her mind, naturally, especially after working alongside Gabrielle—wouldn’t anyone have a complex about their breast size after standing next to Gabrielle?—but the thought of stuffing saline or silicone sacks in her body unnerved her. Besides, why look like every other girl in town?
“So, level with us, Callie,” Sherri said with a wink. “What’s really going on with you and Evan Marquardt? Pictures don’t lie.”
“We’re friends.”
“Just friends? Come on…” Sherri propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward. She wiggled her spiny eyebrows.
“Close friends,” said Callie.
“How close is close?”
Callie fidgeted with a piece of hair escaping her updo. “Um … well…”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, just admit it already. He’s a great catch; if I nailed him, I’d yell it from the top of the Empire State Building!”
“Sherri, who are you kidding? You do that now as it is,” snorted Will. “Doesn’t matter how he earns his bread, he could just as well be a handyman for all you care.”
Sherri cackled. “Right you are. Hey, my fat ass has to take it where I can get it, unlike our starlet here.”
Callie shrugged. “We’re both quiet that way, Evan and I. You have to keep some things to yourself.”
Sherri scooted her chair closer to Callie and whispered, “Just tell me one thing: Is the sex good?”
“No, not good. Great. Eyeball-rolling.”
“Mmmmm, I bet. The body on that one is something else. How big is he?”
Callie blushed.
“C’mon, between us girls. I heard he gives a donkey a run for his money.”
“Who did you hear that from?” asked Callie.
“A little birdie told me.”
Just how many women had Bedroom Eyes bedded, anyway? Callie asked herself. Obviously with his fame and gorgeous looks, the man got around—that was no secret. But he had curtailed his sexual proclivities now that they were together, hadn’t he? Maybe they should have a talk just to make sure.…
“Ma’am, may I take your order?”
The waiter caught her off-guard. “Um, sure. Let’s see … how about your truffled mac and cheese?”
“Excellent choice.”
The rest of the table ordered and Will loudly cleared his throat, solemnity plaguing his face. “Folks, Wendell and I talked with Spike today. We hate to break this to everyone, what with this beautiful dinner in the Big Apple and all the positive reviews the film’s garnering—”
“I was reading Rolling Stone on the plane today. Peter Travers gave us a terrific little review,” added Wendell.
“He certainly did. We also have a seventy-nine percent rating on Rotten Tomatoes. So, with all this exciting stuff happening, we don’t mean to burst anyone’s bubble. But.” Will paused dramatically as the waiter reappeared with an expensive-looking bottle of bubbly. “They’d like to see, if at all possible, Miss Callie Lambert—officially one of the sexiest women on the planet and the only character who makes it out alive in one piece—could reprise her role as Layla for the small screen. In fact, they ordered seven episodes without even seeing a pilot.”
“Seven?” Callie gasped.
“Lucky number seven, missy, that’s correct. They want it to be ready early next year in time for the mid-season replacements. We told Paul about it earlier.”
“I only found out an hour ago, Callie, and wanted to surprise you. We’ll go over the numbers later in private. It’s a nice offer. There’s room to negotiate, but I’m pleased.” Paul’s monstrous grin revealed two chipped teeth, a casualty of his hockey-obsessed youth.
“How does that sound, Layla?” Will said.
“It sounds absolutely unbelievable. I’m shocked—thrilled! This is crazy! Wait a minute—this isn’t a joke, is it?”
“Not in the least. Believe it, kid. The series focuses on Layla’s life after her horrific college years. She wants to be a normal girl, but, of course, she can’t because she’s not really human. It’s quirky, it’s sexy, it’s perfect for Spike’s audience. We’re just trying to settle on someone to write the script. Tom isn’t exactly turning out much material behind bars these days. At any rate, we’re shooting it after Screamfest, which is just around the corner.”
“We’re a shoo-in for Best Picture,” Wendell said.
“Let’s not start sucking each others’ dicks just yet,” said Will. “If you ask me, nothing is a shoo-in. Callie, I can’t tell you enough how much we appreciate your contribution to this film. I knew you were our girl as soon as you set foot in that room, and, by God, I was right. You did not disappoint.” Will’s gleaming silver hair and portly body made him resemble an over-gorged fox.
Callie stepped outside to share the news with Evan. Pick up, pick up, baby.… She was a victim of voice mail.
Several bottles of Cristal later, Callie collapsed in her bed at the Gramercy Park. She was reminded how much she had enjoyed herself—her head felt like a herd of Clydesdales was stampeding through it—when her BlackBerry rang. It was Tyler.
“Have you lost your mind?” Callie growled. “It’s six A.M. here.”
“I know, but I’m at an after-party in the Hollywood Hills,” he said. Voices of drunken Angelenos filled the background. “It’s really private, too, lots of celebs. I just saw Leo and Cameron and—”
“Tyler, please. Can’t you tell me about this another time?”
“I thought you’d want to know your man is here.”
“So what? You’ve met him before. Go say hi.”
“Well, I just did. But it wasn’t the way you’d expect. See, I was looking for a bathroom and stumbled across Evan in one of the bedrooms. He was a little preoccupied.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m trying to phrase this delicately, but here goes: I walked in on Evan with not just one girl—he was with two girls.”
“Doing what?”
“Unless he moonlights as a gynecologist, I’d say they were having a ménage à trois.”
She yanked her sleeping mask off and bolted upright. “No! Are you kidding me?”
“I wish. Their bottoms were off and their titties were out. Bad titties, too—round and hard, like grapefruits. I could see the scars on those things before I even entered the room. Just about blinded me.”
“Oh, my God,” Callie whispered.
“You’re telling me. I witnessed things I’d never wish on any gay boy. ‘You inbred tramps!’ I screamed, ‘Get the fuck off my best friend’s boyfriend!’ Shocked the shit out of them. Must have jumped a mile, easily. He looked at me like I was a ghost, just shocked. Naked as a jaybird. I felt beyond awkward so I ran out to call you. Oh my word, this bitch is fired up. Do you want me to go back in? I’m in the mood to kick some serious gonorrhea-infected ass. Just say the word and I—”
“No, no, don’t go back in. I’ve wondered if the rumors were true—I’d heard things, but I didn’t want to believe it.…”
“Honey, believe it. I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you. He may fuck like a stallion and look like Adonis, but he’s a man-whore if ever I saw one.”
Evan, that sneaky slut! That smarmy, disgusting sleazebag! To think of him as capable of being a one-woman man. As if! He was constantly surrounded by women, how could she have thought he’d be faithful? “I’m such a fool,” she muttered.
“No, Cal, you’re not. You’re a sweet girl dating a guy who can’t keep his pants on. Happens to the best of us.”
“You’re right, Ty. Thanks for telling me. I have to go.” She had to call Evan, and not a minute later; she needed to talk now. But he didn’t pick up. Not on the second ring and not on the seventh, either.
“Hi, Don Juan, it’s Callie, remember me? Your girlfriend. Correction—your former girlfriend. I heard you had a party for three, clothing optional. Funny, I must have lost my invitation. If you like variety so much, why don’t you just be a bachelor? You have too much a
ss on your plate, huh? Well, doll, go knock yourself out. I don’t need your first-class plane tickets and I don’t need your fucking emeralds and I don’t need you! Go fuck yourself!” She threw her BlackBerry across the room. It slammed against the armoire, busting into pieces, but she was too pissed to care.
43
Unleash your inner tiger.
So read the ad for Bengal, a lounge on the Lower East Side. Callie’s imagination swirled while she sat in a chair at the Sally Hershberger Salon. She emerged with the bounciest, sleekest blow-out she’d ever received. She’d extended her stay in New York for another five days—alone time was imperative, totally underrated. Being far away from Evan and the smog-fueled congestion of L.A. was just what the doctor ordered. The farther she hoofed it in the Big Apple, the more an article she’d read in L.A. Magazine rang true: the average Southern Californian spent a quarter of their lives behind the wheel. Sad. How nice it was to actually walk and be alone with her thoughts! Simple pleasures like ordering a dog at Nathan’s and scouring the racks at Cadillac’s Castle and Old Hollywood … The primary goal, of course, was to clear her lovesick heart—and it wasn’t working. Not a single call from Bedroom Eyes did she receive, nor an e-mail. Not even a text. Every pub and person she strolled past reminded her of him, whether she was shopping for a blouse (“Made in the UK”), asking a local for directions to the nearest subway (he was a Brit), or sipping a caramel latte at a café in TriBeCa. (The waiter’s name? Evan.) Evan, Evan, Evan—all day, all night, Evan! She kicked a pebble with her equestrian boot and strolled past a pub—Riley’s. Sigh.
What she really needed was old-fashioned, hair-pulling, ass-smacking sex. And, as Candice so eloquently put it, “There’s nothing like a new cock to get your mind off an old one.” In nearly two years, Evan was the only man she had been with, and it was high time to change that. Sample some ass like one of the boys. And what better place to find a sexy piece than in one of the most eclectic cities in the world?
She dusted her cheekbones with Orgasm and slithered into a new purchase—a slinky, one-shouldered Grecian frock. The winged liner, glossy pucker, epic legs—by the time she slipped into a taxi she was hot-wired for sex.
Hollywood Strip Page 16
