Rules of Seduction

by Jenna Mullins

  “Like . . . ?”

  She puts a mock-thoughtful look on her face. “Like, touch him when you don’t really need to touch him. Squeeze his bicep. Pat his shoulder. Hug him. That kind of stuff. Oh, you could have them play a romantic song at the party and ask him to dance and you could say it’s ‘your song’ with Tate and then demand that they play it during all his scenes on set.”

  “What?! That’s ridiculous,” I laugh. Elise keeps going, making up stupid rules obviously in an effort to make me laugh and relax my nerves. After a while, I start chiming in.

  “Find a way to compliment some part of his body every third sentence,” I offer.

  “Learn about his favorite hobbies and pretend you are into them, too. Instant bonding!”

  “Somehow make an inside joke between us. Bros love inside jokes!”

  “Giggle and laugh at his charming jokes at all costs.”

  “What if his jokes are lame?” I ask Elise. She pats me on the back and leans down so we are both looking into the mirror with our heads side by side.

  “Dani, you should know by now that if you are seducing someone, every single thing out of his mouth will charm you, whether it does or not.”

  I look at her blankly.

  “Oh, Dani,” Elise says with a sigh. “I know what you want to do. Get out that purple notepad of yours and write these rules down.”

  Rules of Seduction

  Smile, smile, smile . . . and when in doubt, smile more!

  Do not make fun of him (seriously, Dani).

  Show a little skin.

  Make him feel manly, i.e. let him open up a jar of pickles for you.

  Wear a bold color of lipstick; you’ll stand out.

  Toss your hair over your shoulder when talking to him, and make sure you spray perfume on the ends!

  A little body contact goes a long way, so always, always be touching him.

  Laugh at his jokes, even when they aren’t funny.

  Don’t reveal anything personal about yourself; it will make you less mysterious.

  I tear the list from my notebook, and hand it to Elise. She looks at it. “Can I borrow your pen?” she asks. I hand the ballpoint pen over to her, and she scribbles in one last thing. When she hands it back, I look to see what she’s added:

  10. Don’t fall in love with him.

  I look up at her and reach for her hand. “Elise, I promise,” I say, gently squeezing her fingers. “I may not know how to seduce a guy, but I know how to be a good friend.”

  “I know, Danika,” she says, squeezing my hand back. “That’s why I asked you.”

  One and a half glasses of champagne later, my hair is perfectly curled and brushed out to look messy and wavy, and my eyes have never looked so blue, underneath thick liner and smudged gray shadow. My lips look so full and plump I keep checking to make sure I’m not puckering them myself.

  I look . . . hot. It’s strange. I’ve never been hot in my entire life. And it only took an hour.

  I even let Elise convince me to wear a dress. It’s tight and a little too short for my taste, but it’s a deep purple, which I like. Then again, it has a cut-out exposing my upper back, which I don’t like.

  “Elise, this dress is too tight. You can see the outline of my nonexistent boobs,” I complain while she helps me into some nude heels. They pinch my toes. I want to take them off immediately.

  “You look amazing. Don’t worry about your chest. That’s why I gave you the dress with the open back. People will notice that more than they’ll notice your lack of attributes.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Monique gives me one final spritz of hairspray and orders me to flip my head over so she can get underneath. When I almost fall over doing that, I know it’s going to be a long night.

  “So, Tate invited me to the party tonight, but I told him I was sick,” Elise says.

  I stare at her, mouth open. “You’re not coming with me?”

  “No, how are you supposed to flirt with him if I’m there? And I don’t want him to know that we are friends. Besides, I think it’ll be nice if I play a little hard to get with him,” she says with a wink and a smile.

  “Okay, I guess.” The thought of trying to flirt with Tate without any support or direction fills my stomach with dread, but then I remember one of the bonuses (besides the food) about going to this party: Camden will be there.

  I must have physically responded to my happy thought of Camden, because Elise slaps me on the back.

  “See! You look happier already! This will be fun and painless, I promise. Okay, so we talked about all of Tate’s previous roles . . . do you remember them?”

  “How could I forget about Ex Isles?” I say with a shudder as I think about the first TV show Tate starred in. It was about a guy who got trapped on an island with—you guessed it, all his ex-girlfriends. It lasted five episodes. Five episodes too long if you ask me.

  “It was terrible, but at least it put Tate on the map! And he’s become a much better actor since that role. Well, you probably know that since you’ve seen him act on Vamp Camp, right?”

  Actually, I tried to avoid Tate all day long today, but I don’t say anything, just nod and smile.

  “Great. The bill for your makeover is all taken care of. A present from yours truly.”

  “Elise, you didn’t have to . . .”

  “Nonsense. You are doing this for me. The least I can do is help you the best way I can. Text me when you get home!”

  Elise hugs me good-bye and wishes me luck before gently pushing me out the door. I realize that I have to walk the eight blocks to the party, which on any other day would be a cinch. But with these heels, the walk will be a real challenge.

  After a couple minutes of teetering and tripping, I manage to get into a rhythm that doesn’t make me look like a baby deer trying to walk for the first time. I go over Tate’s acting gigs in my head to distract myself from the sheer terror that wants to grip my body. Not only am I about to enter a room full of actors, actresses, and big TV people, but I’m also about to hit on Tate. He probably has girls hitting on him all the time. He won’t even look twice at me.

  But then I pass by a store window and I catch my reflection again. It might be the champagne kicking in, but the girl in the window looking back at me wouldn’t be scared of Tate. She’s ready. And confident. And pretty. And if she walks without hunching her shoulders, she looks lethally tall. She would be excited for the challenge, because she’s a man-eater.

  Well, at least she looks like a man-eater. All I have to do is consider this the role of a lifetime . . . and act my ass off.

  Chapter Eight

  The line to get into Laurel Hardware is around the block, and that line is full of girls who are mostly taller, skinnier, and even more scantily dressed than I am. At least nine paparazzi are lingering on the sidewalk, dressed in all black with giant cameras around their necks and cell phones glued to their ears. They must be waiting for the next celebrity so they can descend. A couple of them stare at me as I get closer, but quickly determine that I’m not famous.

  I slow my walk, which doesn’t help with the shoes pinching my feet, and try to figure out what to do next. I know my name is on the list to get in, but do I have to wait in that line? Or can I just walk to the door? Did Camden put just my first name on the list? Will I have to flirt with the bouncers? I don’t know how this stuff works.

  While I’m deciding what to do, a chorus of high-pitched screams erupts behind me. I turn and spot Tate getting out of a giant black SUV right by the valet station. The girls in the line are basically clawing each other to snap photos with their phones. The paparazzi surround him before he even steps out of his car.

  With a lurch, I realize how likely it is that every girl, woman, and even some of the men have the same mission as me tonight: seduce Tate Lawrence.

  My head starts to spin at the thought, but I shake it off. I crane my neck and see that Tate’s with at least three women, who are also dressed all in black (must be
the uniform of industry folk who are non-actors) and clutching more than one Blackberry in their hands. They must be his handlers, or agents, or . . . something.

  Either that or he’s cheating on Elise with three girls at once.

  I rise up on my toes to see if I can catch his eye, which almost sends me literally head over heels. Maybe I can go in with him. But he’s too busy signing autographs and taking photos with fans. Just when he starts to turn my way, my ankle finally rolls and I lose my balance.

  “Shit!”

  I lurch forward, barely stopping myself from face-planting into the sidewalk. Off to a roaring start, Dani, I scold myself as I get my legs underneath me. It doesn’t look like anyone really noticed my awkward stumble, save for some nearby valet drivers who are openly laughing.

  I’m going to salvage this night; I need to get into the party and fast. I give myself a once-over to make sure I’m not oozing any blood. My shoes (er, Elise’s) are scuffed and my ankle will be sore for the next couple of days, but I’m otherwise unharmed.

  I do my best to walk confidently up to the door, or as confidently as a human can walk when she has nearly broken an ankle and is very uncomfortable in her new clothes. There are two very large men flanking one very tiny woman at the door. She has a clipboard, which means she has the power.

  All three of them eye me skeptically as I saunter up, but I put on my most charming smile. I hope this will be less painful than my fall.

  Remembering one of Elise’s rules—which I need to practice if I’m going to get this scheme over with—I flip my hair, which ends up sticking to my glossy lips. Great.

  “Hi, I’m—”

  “It’s a closed party,” the woman cuts me off. “You are welcome to wait in line. They might let people in a little later.”

  “Um, I think I’m on the list?”

  “Press?”

  “Press? Oh, no. The name is Dani Young.”

  The woman looks at me for one long second before turning to her list. She flips page after page, and I’m starting to get nervous that Camden forgot about me.

  “Camden Baker should have put me on there,” I add, standing on my toes to try and glance at the list over her shoulder. My ankle instantly screams in protest and I teeter a bit before one of the bouncers steadies me. I hear some of the girls at the front of the line giggle, and when I turn to look at them, they instantly stop laughing. But they definitely don’t stop looking me up and down. Almost like they’re judging me. Correction: they are judging me.

  I give them my best shut-up glare, but they just laugh harder.

  “Dani Young, here you are,” the woman says as she highlights my name at the very bottom of the last page. “Non VIP.”

  The bouncer slaps a bright yellow bracelet on my wrist that must mean I’m a very non-important person. Then they step aside and gesture toward the door.

  “Head on in,” the woman says before turning back to her list. I make sure to give the snickering girls in the line a triumphant look before walking in the door.

  Laurel Hardware is a two-story restaurant, but tonight it’s been turned into a packed club. The high ceiling has large wooden beams crisscrossing the expanse of the space. Everywhere I look is wood: wooden bar, wooden tables, wooden walls. But there’s enough exposed brick and ductwork to give it a modern feel. The lights are dimmed low, but pink and yellow flashes illuminate the sea of people crammed into the bottom level.

  There’s a room upstairs overlooking the crowd below, but it’s way less crowded than the first floor. It must be the VIP section. I spot at least three big men in black suits near the stairs, obviously security to keep out the riffraff. Riffraff like me.

  I make a mental note not to say “riffraff” in front of Camden. Or Tate. Or anyone ever.

  So Camden got me into this party, but judging by the explosion of non-VIP people, I won’t be able to talk to him or Tate, probably. I already feel defeated. I could try and spot Camden and try to get his attention, but if I did spot him, would he even invite me up there? He was friendly on set, but maybe I’d be pressing my luck if I insist he get me in the VIP section. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize my job only two days in.

  Even if I remember how warmly his green eyes fixed on mine when we first met.

  I have to get in there, I think. What would Elise do?

  I quickly scan the crowd upstairs. I can probably just sneak up there if I don’t flash my hideously yellow wrist around. There are people lingering on the stairs, so I bet I can just blend in with them.

  Before I can give myself time to veto the idea, I stride quickly over to the stairs and start climbing. I’m almost at the top when someone yells, “Stop!” I whip around, prepared to argue, cajole, anything, and see a man who looks to be pushing forty waving wildly.

  “You have to wait your turn!” he says. I squint at him, confused.

  “Huh?”

  “We’ve been waiting all night to interview the Vamp Camp cast. No cutting.”

  “Oh, interview. Right. Because I’m press. Yes, I’m press and I’m here to interview the cast of Vamp Camp. That’s how I get upstairs!” I say out loud, happy to have figured out a way in the VIP area that doesn’t involve sneaking around like a Disney villain.

  I give him a big, fake smile and start walking down the stairs. The line ends at the bathroom, so I decide to freshen up before facing the masses of beautiful people. Okay, before facing Camden.

  The girl who walks into the bathroom in front of me sets a small, silver object on the counter before heading into a stall. It’s a recording device. Something that a member of the press would definitely have. Something I do not have.

  It’d be kind of hard to pose as press without the correct props.

  I give my brain one second to talk myself out of what I’m about to do, but it must be broken from the pounding music because I feel no remorse as I snatch up the recorder from the counter and quickly slip out of the bathroom.

  I make my way back up the stairs, but it’s so dark I smack right into someone else.

  This place is so crowded—I’m going to lose my mind! Whoever I bumped into is leaning down to talk to me. It’s a pretty black woman who is probably a couple of years older than me. I tilt my ear toward her so I can hear what she’s saying.

  “What outlet?” she asks. I have no idea what that means.

  “What?”

  “Who are you with?”

  “Camden?” I offer dumbly.

  Her face lights up. “Camden’s website? Oh, great! We’ve been expecting you,” she tells me before ushering me up into the VIP area. I assume she thinks I’m from his official website but obviously I don’t protest since she’s leading me through the VIP area. She stops at a couch near the back of the room and gestures for me to sit.

  “If you give me a second, I’ll go find Camden!” she tells me with a polite smile.

  “Thanks!” I shout back, hoping she can hear me over the sound of Katy Perry’s latest single blasting through the speakers. As soon as she leaves I jump up in search of Tate.

  The faster I prove to Elise that Tate is faithful, the faster this will all be over and I can concentrate on my internship and my script . . . and maybe Camden.

  I search for Tate, but it’s even darker up here than it is downstairs. Every time I think I spot a blonde head of hair, the lights move, and blonde disappears. I’m starting to get dizzy when I finally spot him with one of his handlers. Her white-blonde hair, cut extremely close to her head and teased into a Mohawk, is off-set by her deep purple lipstick. She’s talking intently to Tate, who has a look on his face that tells me that he’d rather be anywhere else in the world right now.

  I run my fingers through my hair, lick my lips, and push my chest out to show that the Wonderbra Elise forced me into is working overtime. Time for seduction. But the second I get within a five-foot radius of Tate, the Mohawked woman must sense it and she intercepts me.

  “Who are you with?” she asks me impatiently.
It’s the same question I got before, but this time I’m ready for it.

  “Entertainment Weekly,” I answer automatically. I hold up my “borrowed” recorder as proof and give it a shake.

  “Fine. Two minutes, tops. And no asking about Tarantula.”

  “The spider?”

  The woman glares at me as if I just insulted her. But I was asking an honest question. What does she mean by that? I make a mental note to Google Tate’s name with the word tarantula when I get home.

  “Two minutes,” she repeats before stepping out of my way. Within the thirty seconds I’ve been upstairs, girls who are giggling and throwing their hair around so hard that I’m certain their necks will be stiff tomorrow already surround Tate.

  I watch Tate carefully, looking for any signs that he’s being more than just friendly with these girls, but it’s hard to tell. The big smile says yes, but the crossed arms say not really. He’s engaging with them, but I notice his eyes are darting around the room way more than normal. I can’t tell if his goofy grin is fake or not. Is he being nice or shady?

  Tate suddenly spots me during one of his room sweeps and grins even wider, which seems impossible. He says something to the crowd of girls and squeezes past them. They watch him go wistfully, and then something happens that has never happened before in my life: the four girls glare at me. Like, full-blown, shooting-lasers-from-their-eyes, wishing-they-were-me glares.

  A burst of confidence hits me as Tate walks over. I meet him halfway, flipping my hair more gently this time so I don’t get it stuck to my lips. I congratulate myself when the waves settle softly around my shoulders.

  “Hi, Dani. I didn’t know you were coming,” he says in what I think is a happy-to-see-you tone. Then he sees my recorder. “So, you’re an intern and a reporter? Busy girl,” he asks with raised eyebrows. “Is this an exposé on my cross-dressing? I promise you, I look terrible in gowns. My sister used to dress me up in her clothes. There are pictures to prove it, but you didn’t hear it from me.”