Boys R Us

by Lisi Harrison

  Just then, Massie padded back into the main room. Her still-damp skin glistened, looking healthy and fresh. But the second she saw Layne, her features rehardened. Claire waited for Massie to demand what Layne was doing here, but she just crossed her hands over her silk robe.

  Layne threw her sleeping bag in front of the fireplace. “So wha’d I miss?” she asked, collapsing next to Claire on the leather sofa as if Massie had spread her arms wide and told her to make herself at home.

  Claire glanced at Massie, who was refusing to meet her gaze. Then back at Layne, who looked happier than a chocaholic at Dylan’s Candy Bar. Then back to Massie. And Layne.

  How many times had Claire dreamed about this scenario, of having her two best friends together, without any problems? But now that she was actually sitting with Layne in Massie’s spa, it felt strange. The way she imagined sitting with Cam in her parents’ bedroom might feel. Something just seemed… wrong.

  As Massie opened her mouth, Claire expected a flurry of insults to fly off the alpha’s tongue. But all she said was, “Nothing.”

  “Good.” Layne lunged forward, grabbing a handful of gummies. “BTW, I made the call,” she said. “She’s expecting us tomorrow at ten.”

  Claire’s head was starting to spin from all the uncertainty. “Who’s expecting you where?” she asked.

  “No one,” Massie replied sharply.

  At the same time, Layne said, “The city.”

  All three girls paused, staring silently at one another. Massie’s mouth flattened into a straight line. Layne raised her eyebrows.

  Suddenly Massie wilted against the stone fireplace, looking pale and weak.

  “You okay?” Claire asked, concerned.

  “I don’t think so,” Massie said, her voice ten times softer than it had been just seconds ago. She glanced forlornly at Layne, then Claire. “I think I’m sick. Bad sushi. You both should probably go.”

  Bean whimpered in the corner, as if to echo the sentiment.

  “Sushi?” Layne raised her left eyebrow. “But you had grilled chicken over field greens for dinner.”

  “But we had sushi to start,” Massie snapped.

  “Wait.” Claire held her hands up. “How did you know what she had for dinner?” she asked Layne, suspicious.

  “She told me on the—”

  “Okay, seriously, I think I might vom,” Massie barked. “Both of you. Out.” With impressive force, she marched over to the door and threw it open.

  “But—” Claire started. Massie handed Claire her sleeping bag and gingerly kicked her Uggs through the open door.

  “Geez, Louise.” Layne shoved her feet into her sneakers as she joined Claire outside. “I hope you’re over this by tomorrow morn—”

  “G’night.” And with that, Massie slammed the door behind them.

  It was cold outside, and the sky was pitch-black, without a star in sight, which was appropriate, since Claire felt totally in the dark.

  THE BLOCKS’ RANGE ROVER

  14TH ST. & 10TH AVE., NYC

  Saturday, October 17th

  11:54 A.M.

  Massie examined her Onyx Stila Kajal eyeliner in her Sephora compact. It was perfect, and the true black with just the slightest hint of sparkle conveyed that she was edgy and uncompromising.

  “Did I tell you my aunt almost signed Sienna Miller?” Layne announced, springing forward in her seat as Isaac steered the Range Rover along the bumpy cobblestone streets of the Meatpacking District. “She was this close.” She held her thumb and index finger millimeters apart to illustrate. Both were tinged an unnatural orange color and smelled like barbecue.

  Massie glared at Layne’s neon fingertips, a gesture that Layne obviously mistook for interest. But Massie simply didn’t want that neon sludge anywhere near her teal Castle Starr leather jacket. She was about to embark on stage one of her comeback, and the last things she needed staining her image were Layne’s fingertips.

  “When she started the agency, none of these stores or restaurants were here yet.” She adjusted the faux–diamond studded cat eye glasses she wore without the lenses in them. “It was all slaughterhouses,” she said proudly. “She was a total pioneer.”

  Massie opened her mouth, then closed it when she saw Isaac giving her a half-amused, half-warning look in the rearview mirror. She stared out the window, remembering the last time she’d been here, shopping for the perfect outfit for her Teen Vogue shoot. She’d been in a fight with Alicia then, too.

  That time was different, though. That time, she’d known deep down inside that they would make up eventually. But if Alicia couldn’t accept that Massie always had been and always would be OCD’s one true alpha, they were through. It was time to face the sad truth: Their friendship was more over than Paris Hilton’s film career. And it was time to move on.

  “Right here, Isaac,” Layne instructed loudly. “On your right.”

  “Have a nice lunch, girls.” Isaac pulled to the curb, idling behind a moped. “Should I pick you up at Pastis?”

  “Wha—” Layne started.

  “Uh, no thanks.” Massie slid across the backseat and onto the street before Isaac had the chance to ask any more questions or get suspicious. She slammed the car door a little harder than usual. But the slam was more of an announcement. Like the clap of the skateboard on a movie set. This was Massie Finds Best Friends: take two!

  The dilapidated building in front of her put the “crime scene” in CSI. Steel awnings stretched over the sidewalk, and graffiti covered the brick exterior. As a police siren pierced the chilly air, Massie took a step back. Should she make a break for it? Sprint for the familiarity of the snotty salesgirls just blocks away? Too risky. She’d never make it in her Marc Jacobs boots. The cracks between the cobblestones would nip at her heels and take her down faster than a pit bull. Besides, Layne was already pressing the buzzer for suite 207.

  Massie eyed Layne’s furry black thrift store coat, jeans, and sneakers with disdain. Thank Gawd she wasn’t a celebrity, and there were no paparazzi here to document this momentous-slash-desperate occasion. She couldn’t believe she was actually buying friends, and not in the old-fashioned way (with expensive jewelry). Instead she was buying them with her AmEx.

  Then again, many BFFs had started out working together. Jessica Simpson and Ken Paves. Zac and Vanessa. The entire cast of Gossip Girl. The more Massie thought about it, the more she realized that hiring a best friend was the same as buying a puppy. She’d do with these girls exactly what she’d done with Bean: charge it and take her new BFF home. After a few days of intense behavior training and positive reinforcement using treats (or in this case, accessories), the girls would come to learn that Massie was their alpha. Since she’d groomed them that way, they’d never question her. It was perfect.

  A loud buzzing noise sounded, and Layne gripped the rusty door handle. “Did you e-mail my aunt your character descriptions?” Layne yanked open the door and ducked inside. “She said she has some really out-of-the-box ideas.”

  Out of the box? Massie imagined herself shopping with a troupe of Cirque du Soleil contortionists and a juggling monkey. “The only thing I want out of the box is a new pair of Golden Goose riding boots.” As she stepped onto the elevator, Massie wondered if hiring Layne’s LBR2 (Loser Beyond Repair Relative) was a bigger mistake than her bright yellow skinny jeans from Patricia Field. What Massie needed, now more than ever, was someone who spoke fluent alpha. Someone who understood the importance of appearances. Nawt some casting renegade with a soft spot for carnies.

  Closing the heavy door behind her, Massie blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dimly lit waiting area. A giant theater marquis with the words SHOOTING STARS TALENT hung over the curved receptionist desk positioned against the far wall. A flock of nervous-looking girls were perched on the edges of vintage theater seats bolted to the exposed-brick floor. Some were speed-flipping through scripts while others were nibbling at the corners of Luna bars. One was staring lovingly at the headshot in h
er lap.

  “Those seats are originals from the Lyceum here in Manhattan,” Layne said with pride. Tilting her head back, she nodded at the framed antique movie posters that covered every inch of wall space. “Did you know my aunt went on a date with Paul Newman? She said his breath smelled like classic Caesar salad dressing, and that was way before he even made salad dressing.”

  Massie stared up at the metal pipes that snaked across the ceiling several stories above them. Before she could beg Layne to stop gushing, a fiftysomething woman with jet-black, Dita von Teese–styled, finger-waved hair, and perfectly applied red lipstick swooshed though the red velvet curtain hanging at the far corner of the waiting area.

  “L-Boogie!” the woman rasped, throwing her arms wide as she hurried toward Layne. The waiting wannabes straightened instantly, sucking in their nonexistent stomachs and reaching for headshots.

  “P!” Layne yelled back, bouncing in her sneakers.

  Massie was trying not to stare at Layne’s aunt. And failing. Her perfectly fitted Chanel suit accentuated her hourglass figure. Black Louboutin peep-toes showcased scarlet-polished toes that matched her fingernails and lipstick. A sparkling cocktail ring glowed on her right hand. And the tiny black cocktail hat perched on top of her head added a quirky twist.

  She was vintage alpha, all the way. Massie silently apologized for judging her based on the building’s dingy exterior. And the fact that she was related to Layne.

  “So glad you’re here!” P enveloped L-Boogie in a giant hug.

  “Ditto.” Layne beamed. She pulled away. “Love the hat.”

  “It’s from the set of Casablanca,” Layne’s aunt said proudly, reaching up to touch the hat gingerly. “I got it on eBay.”

  “Sweet.” Layne turned toward Massie. “This is my aunt.”

  “Peace.” The casting director shot her a wide, perfectly straight smile.

  “Uh… you know it.” Massie flashed a Miley Cyrus peace sign.

  “No,” Layne snorted. “That’s her name. Peace.”

  “But everyone calls me P.” Layne’s aunt winked, showcasing the purple shooting stars tattoo that arched over her left eye. “And you must be Maysee.”

  Layne giggled.

  “It’s Maa-ssee actually,” Massie said politely. “You know, rhymes with cl—”

  “Assy,” Layne blurted.

  “Oh, you are so baaaaad.” Peace playfully slapped Layne’s shoulder.

  Massie reddened. “So can we talk business, or what?” She leveled her eyes at Peace, fighting for control.

  “Thought you’d never ask, Cookie. Come on back.” Peace led the girls across the waiting room floor, throwing her hips from side to side as she walked. The wannabes leaned forward in their seats, hate-glaring at Massie for cutting ahead of them in line. Their jealousy recharged her like a post-workout ginseng smoothie. She scooted past Layne and took the spot next to P.

  “This place is great,” she said coolly, like she hadn’t really decided if it was or not.

  “Isn’t it? I’ve been in this neighborhood forever. It’s like de Niro always says—there’s no place like New York.” Peace pushed through the curtain, leading them into an enormous warehouse that had been transformed to look like an old theater. Rows of purple velvet seats faced a sprawling stage framed by heavy tasseled curtains. Overhead, in the box seats and balcony area, agency employees paced in front of their desks, pressing Bluetooths into their ears and typing furiously on slim silver MacBooks. Massie’s heart revved. P was into Mac! It was a sign from Gawd that she’d come to the right place.

  “My staff has been working twenty-four-seven to pull together your cast,” P announced, ushering Massie and Layne into the front row. “These girls are exactly what you asked for. But if you see anything you don’t like, jot it down and we’ll find someone better.” She handed Massie a Shooting Stars Talent note pad, then turned and gave a sharp nod toward the balcony.

  Immediately, the theater darkened to AmEx black.

  “Ahhhhhh,” Layne and Peace yelled together.

  “What?” Massie jumped. The chalky soy milk from her latte crept up the back of her throat. “What happened?”

  They burst out laughing.

  “We always do that when the lights turn off,” Layne managed once her hysteria calmed to a goofy giggle.

  Massie elbowed Layne in the ribs.

  “Oof!”

  “Well, I always do that.” Massie smirked.

  A platinum spotlight hit the stage as the willowy girl with light blue eyes and a pixie cut from the Web site slouch-walked from the wings. She was wearing wide-leg trousers, a white ribbed tank, and a shrunken menswear-inspired vest. She paused in front of Massie, jutting her hip to one side and planting her palm on it.

  “Nominated for a Spirit Award for her first silver screen performance last year, Lilah is America’s next indie queen,” P announced as the girl narrowed her eyes at the spotlight. “She’s also worked on the stage, recently wrapping a six-month run with the ensemble cast of Chicago.”

  Massie leaned forward in her seat, nibbling her lower lip thoughtfully. So the girl had an impressive résumé. But did she meet the real requirements?

  P must have read Massie’s mind. “Most importantly, Lilah never speaks above a murmur. She counts eating in public as one of the seven deadly sins. And she has never burped. Ever.”

  Lilah agree-stared into the spotlight.

  “She’s perfect!” Layne elbowed Massie in the ribs.

  Massie nodded her approval, scribbling Lilah’s name with a giant smiley face next to it on the pad.

  P clapped once, and Lilah slouched downstage right. On cue, a petite blonde in a purple silk minidress and gold stilettos hit the stage. Her platinum hair was parted down the center and cascaded down to her boobs in soft, mussed waves. Dark roots peeked out along her part, and her charcoal gray eyeliner was slightly smudged, both in a totally deliberate way. She walked toward center stage with total alpha confidence, planting one stiletto loudly in front of the other.

  “Mia loves the spotlight,” P announced. “When she’s not out partying with Rumer, she’s working on some of the hottest young television sets out there, including Friday Night Lights and MTV’s The City. She’s currently in negotiations to star in her own reality spin-off for the network.”

  “Yay-uhhhh.” Layne raised her arms over her head and rocked out, obviously impressed.

  “And?” Massie turned toward P and raised her right eyebrow.

  P smiled, crossing her toned arms over her vintage tee. “And per your request, Mia speaks zero Spanish.”

  Mia smirk-nodded.

  Massie felt a smile spreading across her face. Finally. A second-in-command who knew how to get attention, and when to keep her shiny lips shut.

  P clapped again, and Mia clacked over to her spot next to Lilah. Next, a petite brunette in a tracksuit leaped across the stage, cradling a soccer ball under one arm. Her high pony swung in rhythm behind her.

  “Jasmin is our highest-paid commercial actor,” P explained. “She’s portrayed a soccer player in commercials for products such as Powerade and Tampax Sport.”

  “Ew,” Massie blurted. Her blood pressure was starting to rise. Seeing that soccer ball made her think of Kristen, which made her think of Dempsey, which made her think of Kristen and Dempsey, which made her want to stiletto-stab something.

  “Cut!” she yelled, jamming her pen onto the pad.

  P held up one finger. “But in real life…” She paused dramatically, and Jasmin ripped off her jumpsuit, revealing a tailored Stella McCartney ensemble. The soccer ball rolled off the stage and under Layne’s seat. “Jasmin prefers Stella to soccer any day of the week.”

  Massie exhaled a sigh of relief, her heart slowing to normal speed.

  “She doesn’t own a single tracksuit, turtleneck, or hoodie,” P continued. “And her parents are legally prohibited from monitoring her school outfits.”

  “Emancipated minor,” Jasmin clarifi
ed.

  “In addition to commercial work, Jasmin has appeared as an extra in several box office hits, including—”

  “Background actor,” Jasmin interrupted. “We prefer the term ‘background actor.’”

  P shot her a look. Jasmin gulped and took her place next to Mia.

  “And last but not least…” P drumrolled her armrest. “Kaitlyn.”

  An African-American girl with dewy skin, intense gray eyes, and a short, angular bob entered. She walked in towering YSL peep-toes with as much ease as if they were bedroom slippers.

  “Kaitlyn hails from Los Angeles,” P said proudly. “She’s a West Coast girl with East Coast style. She hasn’t worn Keds since she was five.”

  Mia wrinkled her nose, as if the animal guts/garbage smell from the street had leaked its way into the theater.

  “Which, coincidentally, was the same year she swore off candy and homemade jewelry. Plus, she wears a size six shoe and her favorite hobby is sharing her killer boot collection,” P continued.

  Layne nudged Massie, who smile-nodded.

  “So?” P smiled her close-lipped scarlet smile. “Thoughts?”

  Massie was speechless. These girls were better than she ever could have hoped. No insecurities, fashion faux pas, or annoying habits. Best of all, they were there for her. To do, say, and be whatever she wanted.

  “I’ll take them all,” Massie said happily. She reached for her Coach wallet.

  P lifted a finger, stopping Massie mid-grab.

  “Ground rules first, Cookie,” she rasped. “You’re hiring these girls on a week-to-week basis. Since they’re minors, they have to be tutored for a minimum of twenty hours per week, they can only work eight hours per day, and they must be fed and walked regularly.”

  Massie concealed a smirk. They were like puppies, after all. “Done.”

  Peace winked. “Massie, I think this is the beginning of some beautiful friendships,” she said, doing a spot-on Bogart impression. Massie couldn’t have agreed more.

  CURRENT STATE OF THE UNION