No Strings Attached (28 page)

She'd spent her enforced separation from L.A. working on her looks, her ticket back. Lindsay wasn't deluded. She was far
from Ms. Uber-talent, but close enough to the scene to know talent's limits. In this town, a rockin' bod combined with A-list connections were far more potent than any ability you might have.

Taking the looks route hadn't been easy. Denying herself in America's heartland, where the major food groups were corndogs, Krispy Kremes, and Dairy Queen shakes, was a bitch. Hitting the local YMCA instead of a real fitness center, working by herself instead of with a trainer, had sucked. No one helped, no one encouraged her. Not the children of the corn, as she secretly called the kids at Grenfield High, not her cretin cousins, certainly not her parents. They thought she was nuts.

“Lindsay, sweetheart,” her mom (who probably felt guilty living off her all those years) kept at her, “you don't have to be skinny; you're perfect the way you are. You don't have to be judged by how you look. You can grow up normal now.”

What Mom never understood? Lindsay didn't
do
normal. Not back then, and not now. She'd turned eighteen in May, graduated high school, tucked in what was left of her stomach, and headed back to Hollywood, head, tush, and tatas held high. Slim and curvy where baby fat once rolled, defined cheekbones where chubby cheeks were often pinched, she'd grown tauter, totally tantalizing. And bore ambition to match. Forget the TV “sitcomeback.” Or playing some drug addict in an indie movie to prove her acting chops.

Chew this! Her goal was no less lofty than icon. Lindsay Pierce aspired to be a brand. Complete with makeup (“Get the Lindsay Pierce look!”). And fashion (“The Lindsay Pierce line is sold exclusively at Bloomingdale's!”). And major accessories (“Bracelets, scrunchies, toe rings, designed by Lindsay herself!”). Of course, there'd be a fashion doll. And a fragrance. Everyone who was anyone did perfume. She read
Us Weekly
. She kept up!

Hooking back up with Jared Larson was a means to an end. Jared's dad owned Galaxy. Jared could get her a high-powered agent, who'd snag her star-making movie roles. Convincing her ex-bf to help? Let's just say that when she saw her ex-boyfriend's ad on Craigslist, it was a done deal.

“The truth, Lindsay—why are you really back?” Jared demanded.

Oy. Still with the interrogation. All she needed was crappy lighting and stale coffee, and this could be a scene from
Law & Order
. Why was Jared so jumpy? She attempted to peel away, if not the towel, the layers of lies he was bound to be telling. “Does Uncle Rob know you're living in his house—and renting out rooms while he's away?”

“Do Mom and Pop Pierce know where their oldest daughter is?” he volleyed back.

Lindsay laughed. She'd missed more than Jared's body: Swapping one-ups with him was one of the best parts of their
relationship. They
got
each other. “I didn't run away. My folks know I'm here. Besides, I'm eighteen—legal. In case you hadn't noticed.” For emphasis, she puffed her chest out, tossed her copper tresses back.

“Okay, yes, my uncle knows I'm here.” Jared was pink again. Lindsay wasn't sure if her chest had caused him to blush, or he was lying.

“And Rob's okay with this?”

“Why wouldn't he be?”

Lindsay could think of about a zillion reasons but didn't press. “I take it your father doesn't know what you're up to.”

“Not exactly.”

“Hmmm.” Lindsay narrowed her eyes. “We can safely assume Daddy Moneybags isn't financing you—otherwise, why the need to collect rent?”

Jared conceded that his father had cut off his credit cards—temporarily.

“And the crowd, our old friends? Tripp, Caitlin, Ava, MK, Julie B …? None of them know the truth either?” That was a guess.

Jared held her gaze. “I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell them.”

Lindsay licked her lips.
That'll cost ya,
she thought. But didn't say aloud. Instead, she closed one eye in pretend concentration. “So lemme get this straight. Your dad thinks you're at
community college making up your failing grades. To be sure you don't screw around, he's cut off your credit cards. Your friends believe this hooey as well—except they assume you're plastic-fantastic, flush. It wouldn't occur to your uncle that you're squatting in his crib. Hence, you're living here for free, making money off other people. Is that about right?”

Jared's curvy lips tightened into a straight line.

“Whew! Keeping up with Jared's web of lies. Feels like old times. I love it!”

Maybe he saw the wheels in her head turning, maybe he realized her arrival here was gonna cost him, one way or another, but Jared obviously couldn't resist lobbing one back. “I'd be careful about worshipping old times, Lindsay. You can't go home again.”

She stiffened. “What's that supposed to mean? Another convenient quote from the master of deception himself?”

Jared burst out laughing again. She'd been right. He couldn't stay mad at her. He shook his head, still chuckling. “I didn't think metaphors could get any more mixed up, but once again, you prove me wrong.”

“Let's try basic arithmetic. Here's the math as I see it: You want four roommates. You've got two guys coming later today, one girl arriving tomorrow—and now there's me. Add up so far?”

“You want to move in. How are you going to pay the rent?” He folded his arms over his rippley-smooth chest.

Just for fun, Lindsay uncrossed her legs.

“In U.S. currency, I mean.” Jared would not be distracted.

“No problem. I'm going to get a gig. But,” she added before he could chime in, “no way I'm paying what the others are! Not if you want me to keep—let alone keep track of—all your little secrets.”

Jared's jaw tensed. He looked even more luscious when pissed. “That's blackmail.”

“You say blackmail,” she chirped, “I say quid pro quo. Which is how this town totally operates. Anyhow, it's not like I'm gunning for a free ride. I'll pay for my keep. One way or another.”

Ignoring her implication, Jared said, “Do you even have an agent?”

“I'm not currently represented.” She delivered the line in her best Hollywood-speak. “I thought you could help me out. I had no way of knowing about your little spat with Rusty Larson, head of the biggest talent agency in town.”

Jared sighed. “We'll find a way to get you an agent.”

Lindsay lit up. “I knew it! I knew we'd get back on the same track. It's bra—”

He held his palm up. “Don't even try.”

“Can I try something else?” She untied her halter top. If that didn't loosen his libido …

“Holy crap! They're gonna do it … right here … in public!”
Eliot's bug eyes nearly popped out of his head; the roadmap he'd been clutching slipped to the ground. “It's not technically public if it's a private backyard, but …”

Nick gaped, speechless. Right in front of them, better than big screen, more 3D than HD, was the most awesome scenic view they'd had the entire road trip. This skinny dude—gotta be Jared, the kid who'd put the Roommates Wanted ad on Craigslist—with this
bodacious
chick, sharing a chaise lounge in the backyard, sucking face, pawing each other, going at it, hot and heavy. A towel was slowly slipping off his butt and she was topless, man! The couple was oblivious to anything else, including the presence of the two best friends who'd driven out from Michigan to spend the summer in L.A.

Nick felt overdressed. Clearly, dude, life out here was
waaay
more casual than in West Bloomfield. He'd have to adjust.

Eliot, unsurprisingly, was in deep distress. “N … n … ni … Nick … I think they're gonna do it!” He gulped. “We gotta let them know we're here.”

“Chill, E,” Nick shushed him. “These are our roommates. And you never get a second chance to get your first impression. Somethin' like that.”

“This isn't right,” Eliot whispered frantically. “We shouldn't be standing here. Let's go back to the car … until … uh, they're done.”

Neither moved.

Nick had spent most of the three-day drive wanting to pop his best friend. No more so than right now. Why couldn't Eliot just zip it, enjoy the show? The entire trip, Eliot had whined about “things that could go wrong.” He'd conjured an encyclopedia of worst-case scenarios, everything from catching Legionnaires disease if they stayed overnight in “that fleabag motel,” to food poisoning from the freakin' Waffle House, to carjacking. “We're running out of gas. We'll be stranded in the middle of nowhere” was on permanent loop.

There were times he'd wanted to pull over and leave Eliot in the middle of nowhere.

You'd think by the time they'd reached Los Angeles, the
E-man would have chilled out. Not so much. The shotgun-riding worrywart was sure every other car on the freeway had targeted them for a drive-by. When they pulled off the 101 at the Hollywood Hills exit, Eliot had been convinced Nick was going either “the wrong way,” or “in circles.” Kept whining that the car, Nick's 1997 Chevy Nova, wasn't going to make it up these steep hills, they'd be killed in a head-on with an oncoming car, just around the next hairpin turn. “This can't be the right neighborhood,” Eliot whined. “We're lost. We should call Jared, give him our cross streets. He'll tell us how to get there.”

Call for directions? How lame would that look?

Nick didn't need directions. Let alone nervous Nelly the nail-biter on his butt. He needed his best friend to have a little faith in him. After eighteen years of friendship, Eliot Kupferberg still thought Nick Maharis was a reckless rebel, bound for trouble. Not anymore. Nick was bound for a career as a professional model. The Calvin Klein billboards, man! His gig with a top L.A. photo agency was the first step into his bright and brawny future.

“Her p … p … pants … She's pulling them off!” Eliot cried, alarmed. “And she's … oh, shit, Nick, I know her! I recognize her, she's …”

“Sweet,”
Nick whistled under his breath.

The action on the chaise lounge ramped up. The make-out session got more heated. Arms and legs were wildly entangled
now. Jared and the chick were bumping, grinding, breathing heavily, in their own space.

“I told you we weren't lost,” Nick said.

There was nothing else to do. Nick was just gonna stand there and watch. Eliot had to take matters into his own hands. He'd noticed the cell phone that slipped to the ground along with Jared's towel. He dug into his pocket and retrieved his own cell. During the process of renting the share house, he'd already programmed Jared Larson's number in.

The Killers' “Mr. Brightside” rang out. Which apparently was Jared's ringtone. His head jerked up. And not a moment too soon. He'd been kissing her, caressing her breasts, and was headed southward. He stopped to get the phone, just as Eliot knew he would. Hollywood playas never missed a call.

Finally! Jared saw them, standing not twenty feet away, Nick gaping, Eliot with the cell phone by his ear.

The girl, openmouthed, flipped around, affording them a full-on topless view. Eliot nearly fainted. It
was
her.

“Jared Larson here,” Jared said warily into his phone.

Huh? Who did he think was calling? Eliot was confused. Jared couldn't be that dense, could he?

Catching on, Nick shot him a murderous look.

Eliot cleared his throat. “Uh … Jared? It's us. Eliot. And Nick. From Michigan. We're … uh … here.” Stupidly, he waved.

Jared shaded his eyes, kept a straight face, flipped the phone shut. “Dudes. You're seriously early.”

Nick countered, “Nah, we're right on time. Sorry we kind of walked in on you guys.”

Shit,
Eliot thought: Jared had meant California time. They weren't expected for three hours. “We're still on East Coast time,” he said by way of apology.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, Jared nodded. “S'cool. This day has already been full of surprises.”

For a guy who'd just been caught with his pants down, this Jared character was smooth. A childhood rhyme caught Eliot by surprise—“smooth as the shine on ya' granny's ride.”
Okay, I'm officially an idiot,
Eliot realized.

Jared pointed toward the sliding glass doors that led into the house. “You guys go on inside. The room upstairs with the twin beds is yours.” He nodded at the girl, who hadn't bothered to cover up. “By the way, this is—”

“Zoe!” The name popped out of Eliot. “Zoe Wong! I'd know you anywhere. I mean …” He fumbled, feeling excessively stupid, “Not that I've ever seen your … uh … or even thought about you in that way … it's not like that.”

Jared swooped in for the save. “Lindsay Pierce. She used to play Zoe on TV. Her real name is Lindsay.”

And those are real too,
Eliot caught himself thinking, and turned tomato red.

Nick thought he'd died and gone to heaven. A tune looped in his head.
I wish they all could be California girls. …
Maybe they all were! He was too macho to deal in superstitions, but this felt like a sign. Proof he'd done the right thing, coming out here for the summer. First thing they see? An R-rated scene, costarring a real, actual actress.

It didn't take a leap of the imagination for Nick to put himself in Jared's towel. He'd been a fly-guy in high school, a chick-magnet, teacher-charmer, trophy-winning athlete. With his dark good looks and buff bod, he was the guy other guys wished they looked like. In L.A., he'd be golden. This summer was going to rock harder than he'd dared imagine. He just needed Eliot to be there with him, not make them both look like hicks. He flexed a bicep.