by Zoey Dean
Lewis grinned wolfishly, pulling her into the guesthouse's living room, which had an airy,
beach house feel to it. The living area was one big room strewn with artfully rumpled sofas and
love seats in off-white linen surrounding a low white coffee table. An oversize photo of the
Santa Cruz boardwalk--an amusement park in Northern California made famous in The Lost
Boys--took up half of one aqua blue wall.
The low thrum of the Strokes' new album issued from an iPod in the corner. Myla glanced
around, looking for Ash. He wasn't here, but Geoff was--with Billie sprawled comfortably in
his lap. If Geoff was here, Tucker would follow, and eventually so would Ash. Ash and his
boys were lost without one another. Perfect.
Lewis lifted a bottle of chilled Veuve from an ice bucket near the door. "I propose a toast," he
purred, grabbing two champagne flutes from a faux-weathered armoire.
Myla nodded. She was feeling pretty celebratory herself. Lewis poured some Veuve into the
flutes, and she plucked one from his hand.
He leaned in so that their faces were inches apart. "I'm so glad you ditched that loser, Gilmour."
Myla took a sip of Veuve, enjoying the bubbles as they fizzed down her throat.
"Me too." She flashed Lewis her irresistible half smile.
Now if only that loser Gilmour would actually show up.
"So, did you just fall from heaven, angel?"
Ash sauntered past the pool, winding around that prick Barnsley Toole, who, Ash noticed, was
on his second outfit of the night. He was throwing choice pickup lines at a girl who looked like
she'd just stepped off a bus from the Land of Gullibility.
Ash wandered first in the direction of the main house, but, remembering Jojo's pissed
expression, stopped when he saw Tucker walking toward the guesthouse. Or VIP lounge, as
that idiot Buford was calling it.
The guesthouse's door was wide open, and Ash laughed to himself. Some exclusive VIP
experience. Still, Myla couldn't resist a VIP anything. Ash hoped she was inside, waiting for
him.
The main room was nearly empty, with a few couples sprawled on couches. Ash saw his
friend Geoff rubbing Billie Bollman's feet, a pickup move Geoff reinstated every time he
watched Pulp Fiction.
"Geoff, you see Myla?" Ash asked urgently.
Geoff looked up over Billie's maroon-painted toenails. "Um, yeah, I saw her," his friend
drawled slowly. He was too drunk or stoned to be of any use. Ash waved off Geoff's response
and made his way down the hallway.
He headed toward the greenroom, which had been his and Lewis's favorite spot back when
they were friends. Instead of carpet, the green-room floor was covered in thick green grass that
felt real. Lewis's dad, a former player for the Oakland A's who now ran a consultancy firm for
teams building and upgrading their stadiums, had used the material on a soccer stadium in
Chicago. His memory flashed to the day Lewis's father had ordered the turf for this room. Mr.
Buford had instructed Lewis and Ash to pick out the furniture, and Ash had come up with a
bunch of mondo-size orange felt LoveSacs. Lewis's dad had loved the idea, and Ash
remembered how proud he felt to have an adult's acknowledgment for a change.
Ash froze as he approached the green room's doorway. Now, on one of those very beanbags,
sat Myla, a champagne flute dangling from her fingers, leaning back alongside Lewis.
Myla shifted on the oversize beanbag, leaning against Lewis's muscular chest and laughing at
the bad joke she hadn't been paying attention to.
"You are so hot," Lewis said, for about the fiftieth time that night. Yawn. He was looking
down at her with dark blue eyes that bore not a hint of brain activity behind them.
"You're not so bad yourself," Myla said robotically. Suddenly she became aware of the fact
that Ash was standing in the doorway. Her whole body tensed, and she tried to focus all her
attention on Lewis, even though her eyes wanted to lock gazes with Ash.
Lewis breathed hot on her cheek, and before Myla knew what was happening, his lips were on
hers. He used so much force and speed, it felt like he had two tongues.
Lewis ran a rough hand through her hair. Take that, Ash, Myla thought, and kissed Lewis right
back. She hadn't planned to take it this far, but she couldn't plan everything out, now could she?
Ash felt like someone had pushed pause on his life. And now, he was just stalled in this
doorway, frozen in the worst scene of all his seventeen years.
Myla, his Myla. Her thick glossy hair spilled over Lewis Buford's fingertips. Her long, lean
thighs rested over Lewis's legs. Her lithe waist clutched tightly by Lewis's meaty paw. Her
dark red lips locked in a deep kiss. A kiss administered by Ash's worst enemy. Ash gagged,
tasting stale Stella.
While Myla was away, he'd had nightmares like this. In them, Myla was always hand in hand
with some random guy she'd supposedly met in Africa or Asia or somewhere. She'd show up
at Ash's door and kiss the guy in front of him. He always woke up with a start right after the
part where Myla turned her half smile on him and casually said, "We're done."
But at least in those dreams, it was always some Peace Corps dude Ash didn't know. This was
way, way worse. Lewis Buford had squelched Ash's musical career. He'd stolen his best song,
too. He'd tried before to make a play for Myla. Now it was Lewis who sang onstage. Lewis
who'd stolen Deadly Kiss as his record label name. And Lewis happily entwined with Myla.
He didn't know if he wanted to pull Lewis up by his collar and punch him, or lift Myla up and
carry her away, or reverse the fact he'd ever been born.
Finally, finally, Lewis Buford's grip on the back of Myla's head loosened. She pulled away,
faking a dreamy look. She wanted Ash to think Lewis was the best kisser ever.
She casually leaned back on the beanbag, her eyes landing on Ash. He'd taken a few steps into
the room, and loomed over her and Lewis. His chestnut eyes glinted down at her with anger
and disgust.
Myla felt her face draw itself into a mask of tension. Her heart started to beat in double time.
She forced herself to breathe, even though an air bubble lodged itself between her throat and
her chest.
Where was the satisfaction? She was supposed to feel victorious. She'd had the last laugh.
Right?
Yet she felt like crying. Shame coursed through her body as Ash wordlessly regarded her, his
eyelids lowered as he looked at her like she'd just crushed his favorite guitar.
"So this is why you invited me?" Ash finally spoke. "Just part of your plan?"
Suddenly cold, Myla pulled her hoodie tight around her, sitting up as straight as she could in
the LoveSac. "No. I mean, I don't know." She felt queasy, but not from the vodka and
champagne mingling in her stomach. Her stomach felt like it was plunging over and over again,
like she was on a roller coaster that only went down.
Lewis lazily threw his arm over Myla's shoulder, kneading her arm. "She came for me,
Gilmour."
Ash didn't look at him. His eyes never left Myla as he backed away like she was a rattlesnake
in the grass at Griffith Park.
Myla had never seen Ash's face so still. Usually his eyes at least twinkled with a random
thought or a joke or some mischievous idea he'd had. Right now, he looked like a replica of
>
Ash Gilmour, stored behind glass and immobile. Myla shivered, feeling alone and hopeless.
This was low. Even for her. She might as well be on an ice block in the middle of the ocean,
instead of this beanbag chair. She reached for her gold chain. It was broken. It dangled, open
on one end, from her neck.
Ash watched her fumble with the chain, his face still a blank mask. He turned on his heels
without a word to her. "Go to hell, Buford," was all he said as he stalked off.
Myla felt like she was already there.
NUUK, NUUK, WHO'S THERE?
"It's okay, Jojo," Fred's voice soothed, static crackling over the line. "Worse things have
happened."
"Not to me," Jojo mumbled, running the toe of her shoe over the gravel in the driveway. "I
really screwed up." She paced near the end of the circular driveway, waiting for the Everharts'
town car to show up. The air was cool and dry up in the Hollywood Hills, and Jojo wished
she'd brought a sweater.
After calling for the car, Jojo had called her dads. She was ready to end her life in Hollywood
and escape to Nuuk. She'd told them everything. Well, almost everything. She'd edited her five
drinks down to one and told them she'd puked on Barnsley Toole, but not that she'd been
making out with him when it happened. "You didn't screw up. I mean, I speak for both of us
when I say that we're disappointed you were drinking but maybe you learned something about
your limits," Bradley soothed. "We don't want you to regret leaving so quickly. Lailah and
Barkley love having you. Maybe you should sleep on it."
Jojo heaved a deep sigh. She wouldn't sleep tonight. She'd pack. And tomorrow, she'd take the
first flight out of Beverly Hills.
"I'll do that," she lied, anxious to be with her dads again, far away from the remnants of her
briefly fabulous life. Really she was going to head home, grab her things, say goodbye, and
head straight for LAX. "I promise. I love you guys."
"We love you too," Fred and Barkley uttered simultaneously.
Jojo hung up, wishing she'd turned down Myla's invitation to come to the party tonight. Why
couldn't she have taken things more slowly? What had made her think she could be plucked
from steady-as-she-goes Sacramento and land on her feet in the Hollywood high life? She'd
been such a fool, thinking it was so easy to be Little Miss Fabulous just because of her famous
parents. She should have tested the waters a little. Instead, she'd jumped in and drowned.
Now sober, Jojo realized her feet were killing her. She headed to the center of the lawn, where
she'd seen a white gazebo covered in bougainvillea flowers that grew through the latticework.
She plopped down on a wicker chair inside the gazebo, her eyes on the long driveway. The
front yard was quiet, everyone still in the house or out back, listening to the band play.
Unbuckling her left shoe, she heard crying coming from the other side of bougainvillea.
Shoe in hand, Jojo tottered on one wedge and one bare foot across the lawn. On a long stone
bench just outside the gazebo, Myla had her knees pulled up and her head down, a ball of thick
long hair and expensive denim. Jojo tapped Myla on the shoulder, the hem of her dress
touching Myla's boots.
Myla looked up, her eyes glistening with fresh tears as old ones made their way down her
cheeks. Leave it to her to be a blubbering mess and still look beautiful. Jojo knew her own eye
makeup was smeared across her cheek and her hair was a mass of tangles.
"What are you doing here?" Myla asked, slowly unfolding herself. Her legs dangled off the
edge of the bench.
"Waiting on my ride." Jojo bent, unbuckling her other shoe. "You can stop crying. I'm leaving.
For good. You can have Mom and Dad all to yourself again."
Myla furrowed her brow, pulling her sweatshirt tight around her. She scanned Jojo from head
to toe with wide, honest eyes, as though examining her for damage. It was the first time Myla
had looked at Jojo without malice, jealousy, disgust, or fake sisterly love.
"I'm not crying over you," Myla said, like it was the most ridiculous thing in the world. "I'm
crying over Ash." She shifted away, leaving Jojo staring dumbly down at a bright pink
bougainvillea blossom.
"Ash?" Join the club, Jojo thought, an image of Ash rejecting her replaying in her head. Even
when she was a billion miles away, going to Viking school in Nuuk, Jojo knew she'd
remember Ash. Hanging out with him had made her feel like anything was possible in L.A.
"I really don't want to talk about it with you." Myla's voice sounded little in the darkness, and
for the first time ever, Jojo felt sorry for her.
She sat down on the bench softly. "Fine," she sighed, playing with the straps of her shoes as
they dangled from her hand. "But the day you saw us hanging out? That was just to get to
you." Jojo wasn't sure what made her admit it, but seeing Myla like this made her feel guilty
holding it in.
Myla twisted on the bench. She looked at Jojo questioningly.
"He wouldn't go to all that trouble to make you jealous if he didn't still care about you," Jojo
said simply, wishing she'd understood that an hour ago, before she'd made a mess of her life.
As much as it hurt to say it, it was the truth.
A fresh sob escaped from Myla's throat.
"But he came here so we could make up. And then he saw me kissing Lewis Buford," Myla
heaved. "His archnemesis."
Jojo chuckled. "That guy? Isn't he wearing his own face on his shirt?"
Myla laughed. The tinkling, joyful sound made Jojo feel good, knowing she'd caused it. "I
know. What was I thinking? He's so gross. And now there's no going back to Ash."
Jojo lightly touched Myla's arm. "He'll get over it."
Myla didn't flinch from Jojo's hand, and Jojo smiled faintly. It felt weird, sharing this close
moment with a girl who'd made her life hell this past week. Maybe if we hadn't been sisters, we
could have been friends, Jojo thought.
Myla finally smiled, a little devilishly. "Speaking of finding giant assholes to kiss, I hear you
hurled on Barnsley Toole."
Jojo winced at the memory, just as Charlie pulled the dark town car into the driveway. Word
had gotten around fast.
"Yeah, I did." Jojo nodded, standing up from the bench. The velvety grass tickled her bare feet.
She headed toward the car, giving Myla a half wave as she climbed into the backseat. She
gazed at the illuminated stucco of Lewis Buford's mansion, saying goodbye to it in her head.
Goodbye to Beverly Hills. Goodbye to Fred Segal. Goodbye to Lailah and Barkley.
As Charlie came around to close her door, Myla noticed Jojo's Rittenhouse bag still on the
bench.
She grabbed it, jogged to the car, and thrust it through the open door at Jojo. "Puking on that
piece of crap Barnsley is the first thing you've done that I agree with. Besides picking out this
bag, anyway."
Jojo smiled wanly. "Keep it. It's not my style."
Myla shrugged, pulling the bag neatly over her arm. "See you, Jojo."
"Goodbye, Myla."
The door closed.
HEARTBREAKER
Amelie sat in the passenger seat of Hunter's Prius, eyeing the front of her house. She hoped her
mom was asleep and she could slip in wearing her sequined dress. The backpack containing
her "tutoring" outfit
was still in Jake's Corolla.
The drive from the Hollywood Hills to Toluca Lake had only taken about fifteen minutes, and
she and Hunter hadn't said much the whole ride. Amelie had tried to imagine they were going
on a weekend trip to Big Sur up the PCH. But every time she pictured him unlocking the door
to their cabin, she saw him with the brunette from the party instead of with herself.
A short-haired woman in yoga pants and a Chanel suit jacket crossed Navajo, being led by
three Labradoodles. Amelie watched her pass under a street lamp and disappear. Hunter turned
off the headlights. He rubbed his short hair, his head cocked to one side, facing her. "So what
happened back there?" He scanned her face. "Did that guy break your heart or something?"
It took Amelie a second to determine that Hunter wasn't talking in the third person. He was
asking about Jake. He thought Jake had broken her heart.
Amelie knew she could set him straight right then and there. She could tell Hunter that she
liked him. That she wanted desperately for him to see her as more than a friend, a coworker, a
little girl, whatever it was that was blocking him from seeing her as a girl his age who wanted
nothing more than to go on one date with him, just to see what could happen. But fear pushed
the words back into her throat. If she told Hunter her true feelings, it could be a disaster. She
had to see him on set and couldn't bear for things to become awkward between them.
"Yeah, he did," Amelie lied. He'd given her the perfect way out.
Hunter sighed deeply, shaking his head. "Let me walk you up."
He got out on his side and jogged around to open her door. He steered her to the front door
with his hand on the small of her back.
Only the porch light was on, so Helen must have been asleep. Amelie sighed inwardly. At least
she wouldn't have to deal with an interrogation tonight. She certainly hadn't done anything
wrong, except think Hunter's party invitation was a date. She pulled her key from her sparkly
clutch.
Hunter touched her shoulder, turning her around to face him. Standing beneath the porch's
spotlight, he looked like the ultimate romantic hero. He searched Amelie's face intently. The
moment was just like she'd imagined it, except in her daydreams, Hunter wasn't consoling her
over a crush gone wrong.
"You know that I'll always be here for you," he said, staring at her seriously. "You're like my
