Hollyweird (4 page)

Snap. Flash. Snap. Flash.

Kansas, Journey, Blue Oyster Cult, Led Zeppelin. My elation ballooned with every beat. The whole thing became a fantasy come true. The kind of moment I wished I could capture in a magic bottle to revisit at a later time, because as strong a memory as I knew I'd created, nothing could compare to this reality. My face actually ached from smiling so much. Then Dakota grabbed me by the hand, twirled me into his chest, and dipped me low. My heart battered against my ribs, my breath stalled, and I gazed up into his laughing, smiling eyes … eyes that suddenly glowed crimson and cruel.

What the hell? I blinked, sure the flashing light bulbs had scorched my irises, but his fiery gaze still burned into me.

The hairs on the nape of my neck prickled and my eyes bugged. The acrid taste of fear seared my tongue and an insane fight-or-flight adrenaline rush surged through me. I tensed and jerked back against the arm bracing me, breaking Dakota's hold and crashing to the floor.

“Hey. You okay?” he asked, giving me a hand up and a quizzical look.

His eyes were brown, not red, and held their normal puppy dog earnestness.

“F-fine,” I stuttered, flashing a quick glance at Des.

“And here I thought
I'd
embarrass myself,” she teased.

I gave a half-hearted smile and then slid my glance toward Jameson. He'd taken two steps forward, his jaw clenched tight. “Okay?” he mouthed.

I nodded and tried to shrug off my unease. Surely my eyes were just playing tricks on me.

Right?

Jameson

Dammit all to hell.

I knew Dakota wouldn't be able to keep to himself. The douche had predictably charmed the girls with his “aw, shucks” appeal and impossible good looks. (He could play that brown-noser, Eddie Haskell, in a remake of that old sitcom
Leave It to Beaver
.)
And what did I do? I stood behind the photographer, arms folded, fists hidden, acting like nothing was wrong.

Everything. Was. Wrong.

I could see Dakota's desire for Aly and Des growing, and I had to wonder if they were a part of the plan. How could they not be? In his excitement, Dakota had nearly revealed his true nature.

And Aly had noticed.

Fortunately—or unfortunately, I'm not sure which yet—she'd just as quickly dismissed Dakota's gleaming eyes with faulty logic. “Must've been all the camera flashes,” she murmured.

If only.

“And that's a wrap,” the photog called. The crew cheered and the girls groaned.

I rushed toward Aly, masking my relief they were done. Time to get the twosome out of here relatively unscathed.

I laid a protective hand on Aly's shoulder. “Have fun?”

“A blast,” she said, looking up at me with a bright, conflicted gaze. “But I think I need a nap now.” She laughed around a yawn and shook her head. “Who knew modeling could be so tiring?”

“A little R&R by the pool, some food”—
a little distance from Dakota
—“and you'll be good as new,” I assured her with a tight smile.

“Sounds good to me. Food always sounds good to me,” Desi said, rubbing her tummy. “But I really don't want this to end. Best. Day. Ever!”

I'd just decided to offer myself as a sightseeing guide, so the fun wouldn't have to end, when Dakota swung his stupid-ass bangs out of his eyes, gave them one of his sunny smiles, and said, “I'd love to take you guys out later.”

Crucify me now.

Could this guy make my life any worse? I itched to punch his too-perfect face, but instead ground my teeth until pain pulsed through my jaw.

“We'd love to!” the girls excitedly agreed.

“I don't know,” I hedged. “Aly just said she was tired.”

“Don't worry, man.” Dakota gave me a good-natured slap on the shoulder. “Nothing gets started at Chastity 'til late. Plenty of time to rest.”

“What's Chastity?” Aly asked, then stammered, “I mean, uh, I know what chastity is, but—”

Dakota chuckled. “It's only the hottest dance club in all of L.A.”

He slung his arm around Desi and I thought she might melt into the floor like microwaved butter. “How 'bout we meet at ten?”

“It's a date,” Desi said, her cheeks pinkening at the implication.

I stopped myself from rolling my eyes at her naked adoration.

“Sweet,” Dakota said, and then gave her a gentle chuck under the chin. “Jameson will get you there.”

“Ten,” I dutifully repeated. I could only imagine what Dakota had in store for these not-so-lucky contest winners, but I'd be damned if I'd sit idly by and watch that bad boy despoil two innocent bystanders.

But what the hell could I do?

Especially since I was pretty sure Aly thought I was just jealous—and maybe I did begrudge Dakota stealing her interest, however falsely—but I wasn't envious of Dakota's chiseled good looks or his effortless magnetism. No, I was just pissed he thought there was no stopping him. He'd always gotten what he wanted, where he wanted it, when he wanted it. And it went far beyond general star treatment.

But try explaining that to a hot girl while keeping her safe from God knows what.

ALY

Chastity
was anything but chaste. That was probably the point. Ha ha, hee hee … a touch of irony.

I couldn't laugh.

Instead, my eyeballs goggled as if they were attached to Slinkies.

Sure, I was from Colorado, but if you've seen some of my Legacy High classmates, you know I wasn't some sheltered bumpkin. We're talking major Mile High sleaze. Thong straps here, bra straps there. Cleavage and coin slots. Hi-lo, peek-a-boo, barely there, commando. I hardly consider myself a prude, even if I am in the minority that thinks sexy should be a subtle tease and not an in-your-face flaunt.

But here … whoo-boy.

Instead of calling this club
Chastity,
they should've called it
Carnal.

The waitstaff wore white leather. I'm sure the owner intended for white to represent said chastity, but it was offset by skin—lots and lots of bare, glistening, baby-oiled skin. The shirtless waiters made the Chippendale dancers seem more like chopped beef than beefcake, especially when you noticed—and you couldn't
not
notice—their tight,
bunless
leather pants. The first time I saw the cutout in the back of their trousers I blushed catsup red, but their bare
ass
ets did manage to distract me from my worry about being under twenty-one and in a bar. Instead, I found myself counting how many times their firm little butts got slapped, while also trying not to study them too closely. (I'll tell you this, though … I bet they were sore at night's end.)

As for the waitresses, they wore form-fitting leather boy shorts, itty-bitty fringed and crystal-beaded bikini tops that by the very laws of physics had to be secured with double-stick tape, and four-inch crystal high heels. The perfection of their bods, no matter how surgically enhanced, made me want to hide myself away in a shapeless burka. My favorite eyelet sundress suddenly seemed … pukely Pollyanna.

Throw in white Grecian columns, white marbled floors, white marshmallow puff furniture, and white low-lying clouds from an invisible fog machine and it looked like a hedonistic heaven heavily populated by beautiful people pressed flesh-to-flesh on the dance floor. Off the bat I recognized an underaged Disney actor, whose bumping and grinding looked anything but squeaky clean; a rising pop star who joyously danced to her own hit song; and an over-thirty heiress who still refused to grow up or do anything more consequential with her life than shopping and preening for the paparazzi.

In watching the crowd I also realized if you didn't arrive with a date, you'd no doubt leave with one. The packed floor didn't leave room for personal space. You were going to get friendly whether you wanted to or not. In fact, the raw intimacy that writhed there made me want to fan myself. Fortunately, small, intimate sitting areas were clustered around the perimeter with one VIP area, a white gossamer-draped tent set on an elevated dais that overlooked the entire club.

Des too, goggled at our surroundings. “The only thing missing is a harp and some feathery wings,” she gasped.

“Check it. There”—Jameson pointed to an ornate, golden harp sitting in a corner like a decorative fern—“and there,” he said, nodding his chin toward a downy pair of oversized angel wings mounted above the crystal bar. His expression remained inscrutable, but I heard the suppressed distaste in his tone.

“I don't suppose there's a dart board with white feathered darts?” Des asked hopefully, and I motioned for her to shush.

“Darts?” Jameson asked in surprise.

Ignoring my “zip your lips” hand signals, Des said. “You should see Aly. She can beat anyone. I've tried
convincing her she could play her way into a fortune because no one would suspect her of being a dart shark, but she's too nice.”

Jameson turned to me with raised brows. “Really?”

“My dad taught me.” I gave a demure shrug. “It's a hidden talent.”

Des spun on her heels to get a slow, 360 view of the club. “I can't decide if this is my worst nightmare or a dream come true I never knew I had.”

“It's … it's … ” I stammered, unable to decide between “outrageous” and “profane.”

“Mine,” a voice finished.

Dakota!

“Welcome to my club,” he said as he brushed a warm kiss on my cheek and then bent to do the same to Des.

Confession—I felt torn between wanting to sigh out loud and flinching because I still felt rattled over what had happened at the photo shoot. Not surprisingly, Dakota looked perfectly normal now. Yet I couldn't shake a residual unease.

Glancing at Jameson, my resentment flared. Would I even be having these doubts about Dakota if not for him? Probably not.

“You own
Chastity?
” Des stopped herself with a giggle-snort. “Rephrase … This club is yours?” She openly appraised the snug white jeans and Dolce & Gabbana dress shirt with black trim that Dakota was wearing.

“Yep.” He shoved his fists in his front pockets and rocked back on his heels. “It's one of my favorite investments.” He proudly soaked in the celestial sexiness before giving Des an impish wink. “And a fun poke at the otherworldly darkness of
Paranormal PI.”

It certainly was the antithesis of his show.

“Aren't you a clever beast?” Des said in a flirty tone.

I could swear Jameson barked a “ha!” and then covered it with a coughing fit. “Sorry,” he finally said, clearing his throat. “Think I need a drink.”

“Good idea, bro,” Dakota said, slapping him on the shoulder. He led us up the stairs to his private, unoccupied sitting area and we sank into a plush, U-shaped sofa. Surely a cloud would feel just as fluffy and decadent.

Des artfully arranged her retro skirt, with its tulle fullness, around her so Dakota could sit close. His gaze strayed to the ample cleavage peeking out of her push-up corset bodice. “You girls look amazing,” he said, encompassing us both in the compliment even though his eyes never strayed from my BFF.

Des gave a demure “thank you,” and I had a gut “uh-oh” reaction. The warning sirens shrieked even louder when Dakota wrapped his arm around her shoulders and snuggled her closer to his side. Joy burst across Des's face and her body oozed against him like hot candle wax.

Houston, we have a big ole freakin' problem.

It was one thing for her to crush on Dakota, another for her to fantasize “what if,” and an entirely different
matter for her to actually succumb to his much older, much more experienced advances.

Surely he just meant to be friendly, affectionate, and sweet with her?

Turning to my right, I looked at Jameson. His face was as unreadable as ever. Damn him! If he had to plant these worms of worry in my brain, the least he could do was … I don't know … tell me if I should freak or fuggedaboutit.

I cupped my palm against the back of my neck, feeling a stress headache coming on. Jameson must have seen a pinch of pain on my face because his hot hand stole over mine and rubbed the muscles at my nape. My tension bled away.

“Better?”

I nodded but didn't meet his eyes. The feel of his skin on mine was more than a balm; it felt like bliss. What was the matter with me? One minute I was mentally chastising Des for cozying up to Dakota and the next I was doing the same thing with Jameson. Of course, Dakota was twenty-four and Jameson was only nineteen, a mere two years older than me.

Dakota interrupted my rationalization when he mo-tioned to a waiter and ordered a bottle of Cristal.

“Um,” I said, “you do know we're not old enough to drink.”

Dakota snickered. “Half the people here aren't.”

“Really, Aly.” Des giggled. “Lindsay, Paris, Britney. They all drank before they were legal. The rules are different here.”

Dakota caressed Des's shoulder and grinned. “Yeah, there are no rules.”

You mean, you're above the rules.

I knew this, of course. All celebrities were. Anyone who read the tabloids or watched TV knew Hollywood was practically another planet. I really, really needed to de-priss. This trip was all about having fun. Living. Breathing.

When the champagne arrived I decided to go with the flow, figuratively and literally. When else would I get a chance to drink a four-hundred-dollar bottle of bubbly?

“To being lucky,” Dakota toasted with a devilish twinkle in his eyes.

“Aly, I will love you forever for winning this contest,” Des gushed as she clinked her glass against mine.

Smiling, I took a sip of my champagne and gave an appreciative sigh over the fizzy nirvana.

“Like it?” Jameson asked.

I licked my lips and warmed under his amused study. “I imagine stardust tastes like this,” I told him.

He took a contemplative sip from his glass and I watched as he caressed the liquid with his tongue, allowing it to meld across the various parts of his taste buds. Unconsciously, I took a swig from my own glass and found myself mimicking his taste test. Finally, Jameson said, “It's close”—he lifted his glass so light shone through—“but lacks sparkle.”

I gave a breathless laugh, the bubbles and his sensuous appraisal having gone to my head.

“Aly … ” He said my name whisper-soft. “I like that you imagine what stardust tastes like.”

“I like that you think you know.” I ducked my head at the shiver his attention gave me. “I'm really not very imaginative. Des will tell you I'm more pragmatic than fanciful.”

“Yet you're a huge fan of a monster-of-the-week show,” he said with humor.

I lifted my glass to him in touché. “Great storytelling, a hot guy, and silly scares. Pure escapism. What's not to love?”

“Still, you don't believe in things that go bump in the night?”

“Werewolves, witches, and vamps, oh my.” I shook my head. “Naw. It's fun to imagine, but I leave the believing up to Desi.” As far as I was concerned, the real boogie monsters were the pedophiles lurking in the public library, the drug dealers making meth next door, and the drunk drivers claiming lives on the street.

“Why not just believe?” Jameson asked in all seriousness.

“Get real,” I scoffed. “If Count Dracula ever flashes me some fang, then I'll believe.” And reevaluate everything else I think I know.

“Ah,” Jameson said, as if he were Sherlock Holmes deducing a clue. “You're one of those. You have to see to believe?”

I gave a firm nod and took a sizeable sip of my champagne before saying, “Yessir. Takes the guesswork right out.”

“Maybe you have seen …
something,
but didn't recognize it.”

I gave an indelicate giggle with a bubbly burp. Slapping a hand over my mouth, I sucked in a deep breath to stave off the sillies. Composure intact, I said, “Please tell me you're not like Des, that you don't believe ‘they are among us.' ”

“They?”

I peered over my shoulder to where Des was holding a low, intimate—
was there any space between them?
—conversation with Dakota. Maybe I should—

“They?” Jameson repeated.

I shifted my attention back to him but felt tension return to my neck. “
They
being everything and everyone. Say what you will, but my girl—” I elevated my voice, hoping she might drag her attention away from Dakota, but no such luck. “My girl does not discriminate. Not only does she believe the usual creature-feature monsters are”—I made air quotes—“ ‘among us,' but she thinks aliens and angels are just as likely to walk alongside us as vampires and werewolves.”

“Had this convo a few times, have you?” he asked with a sly smile.

“Try a trillion.” In exasperation, I plunked my empty glass down on a marble side table. “She's intent on making me a believer.”
Again.

Yes, once upon a time I'd entertained the idea of everything from chupacabras to wendigos, but I'd lost faith in everything when Mom died. Now I struggled to believe in the good (although how could I when the best thing I knew had been taken away?) without throwing silly urban legends into the mix.

Jameson gave me a long, considering look while he handed me his glass to set next to mine. The silence started to grow uncomfortable and I fidgeted under his frown. Then he said, “I never would've pegged you as closed-minded.”

“Close-minded,” I squeaked. “I am no such thing.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “'K, short-sighted.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. Did he mean to get a rise out of me? I wasn't short-sighted or close-minded. I just knew the brutality of reality. “You think I'm short-sighted because I want tangible proof of something before I choose to believe in it?”

“Yup,” he said, with no little smugness. “Do you believe in love?”

My breath hitched. “Oh, well, of course.”

He smirked at my answer. “Can you touch it?”

“Not the same thing,” I argued, shaking my head wildly. “Love is an emotion. You're talking about physical—well unless it's a ghost—beings. Totally different.”

Head tilted, he contemplated my argument before saying, “Point to you.”

I smiled at my win and noticed that his eyes, despite his concession, were alight with the challenge of our debate.

“What of God?” he asked with hushed seriousness. “Believer or not?”

I squirmed. I always hated it when this particular thread came up, and it always did. “I'm not sure anymore,” I said, and my heart ached with the admission.

“Anymore?” he prompted.

“I used to believe,” I confessed, with quiet discomfort, as I broke eye contact and threaded my fingernail through the lace holes on my dress. “Then my mom died two years ago and—”