Hollyweird (5 page)

“And your faith was shaken,” he finished gently.

I locked my gaze to his. “Shattered.”

He nodded his understanding. “What happened?”

His asking didn't bother me. In self defense, I'd quickly learned how to answer in a very matter-of-fact manner. “She was coming home late from work,” I said by rote. “The winds were wicked bad and a drunk driver couldn't hold his car steady. He lost control and hit her.”

Looking at Jameson, I didn't sense any pity, only a natural curiosity and kind comfort. Maybe that's why I found myself saying more than I usually did. “I never left her hospital bed. I prayed, begged, even bargained with God to save her. Didn't matter.” Like my tone, the sweet aftertaste of Cristal turned bitter on my tongue. “She died two days later.”

“Aly,” he said, his voice low and tender, “I'm sure—”

I touched his knee to stop him. “It's okay. I've heard all the platitudes. God has a plan, it's
His
will,
He
called her home. They all sound nice, and I admit it would be naïve, not to mention incredibly egotistical, to think there isn't something, some
one
, greater than us all, but I can't see how my mom dying served a greater good or what plan her loss fulfilled. And that leaves me not knowing what I believe at all.” I blinked away burning tears. “I know one thing, though. I don't want this”—I waved my hand around to encompass the world at large—“to be all there is. It may take me a while to figure out how far my faith extends, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't include creatures of the night anymore.”

Jameson bent back, looking over my shoulder toward Dakota and Des before leaning in to whisper in my ear. “What about the devil? Or … angels?”

His hot breath made me shiver, as did something in his expectant tone.

“I don't know.” I shrugged, wishing I had a better answer. “I was certainly brought up to believe in them. I just wonder if I believe because I was taught to do so”—I pressed my palms together in prayerful pose—“good Catholic that I was, or because I'm too scared of the alternative.”

“The alternative being that this is all there is.” Jameson mimicked my world-encompassing wave.

I nodded, feeling he really got me.

“It's not, Aly,” he said with such intense conviction I found myself almost believing him.

“How could you … ” My question faded as Jameson stiffened beside me, his dark, suddenly enraged gaze directed over my shoulder.

I pivoted, suspecting,
knowing
,
what I'd see and still it came as a shock. Desi Marie Moreno, my BFF, the Woodstock to my Snoopy, Flounder to my Ariel, Snuffleupagus to my Big Bird, was macking on Dakota Danvers like a Chinese Suckerfish slurping down algae. Heat flashed to the top of my skull and the champagne bubbles in my tummy popped in protest. Besides shocked, I didn't know entirely how to feel.

I mean, I've heard of those marriage amnesty lists, where married couples vow complete fidelity unless by some wild turn of fate and circumstance they have the opportunity to get it on with one of the celebrities on their list. It's a joke, a fantasy. My mom used to remind my dad that given the opportunity to play doctor with Patrick Dempsey she would not hesitate. Really though, no one ever has those chance encounters with their A-list object of desire and even if, by some miracle, they did, what were the chances they'd be able to seduce said celeb? I mean, my mom was a pretty hot mama, but McDreamy wouldn't have looked twice at her. (No offense, Mama.)

Yet Des, who obviously wasn't married, had gotten her chance celeb encounter and now she was, indeed, making out with him. A part of me wanted to give a girly squeal, because
HULLO, SHE'S KISSING DAKOTA DANVERS
(although swallowing him might be more accurate), but another part of me felt horrified and skeeved out by the whole thing. He could have anyone at any time, so why make illegal moves on a seventeen-year-old? Because he could? 'Cause she seemed ready, willing, and handy? Or was I selling Desi short and he really liked her?

Before I could sort out my thoughts or have a braineurism, Jameson laid his hand on my back and said, “We've got double trouble.”

I followed his look. “Oh, shit.”

Missy.

Watching her stalk her way across the club gave me all the excuse I needed to bodily grab Des by the shoulders and pry her from Dakota. “The Devil wears Prada is here and she looks steamed,” I hissed in her ear.

Glassy-eyed and puffy-lipped, Des looked up at me through the horny haze blurring her mind.

“Missy is here and our ass is grass,” I repeated.

Ah! Her eyes cleared. Ugly reality pierced the veil. She smoothed her skirt, patted her hair, rubbed her passion-plumped lips, and peered around as if trying to place her whereabouts. Then, “Hide the booze!” she hissed. In a panic, she shoved the Cristal bottle (which I really wanted to keep as a souvenir) and glasses at Dakota. He waved his hand and someone immediately swept away all evidence of our imbibing.

This could be good or bad. Good, because I felt pretty sure we were in over our heads, or bad because Missy could go all Froot Loops and lock us up for the rest of our vacay.

Dread pretzeled knots in my stomach as I watched my sister part the sea of clubbers with nary a word nor a touch. Her skintight ruby dress and crimson lips were a slap in the face of
Chastity's
pristine dress code, and every fiber of my being screamed she knew it and relished every wide-eyed, shocked look of admiration.

When she reached our table, I toyed with the lace in my dress but made up my mind to own this situation and play it to the hilt. Good former Girl Scout that I was, I'd prepped for this sitch just in case.

“Hey, Missy! So glad you could make it,” I said.

Hands on her waist, hip cocked to the right, she gave me a viperous smile. “Are you now? You were expecting me?”

“Of course!” I looked to Desi for confirmation.

“Absolutely,” Des chimed in. “Didn't you get our text?”

Missy's eyes squinched up in suspicion. “Text?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I texted you—”

Missy shook her head, blond curls flying. “Uh uh. I never got your text.” She thrust out her hand. “Give me your phone.”

I handed over my Blackberry and watched her scroll through my sent messages.

“You sent it to the wrong number,” she snapped.

“What? No waaay.” I hoped I acted shocked enough. “Let me see.”

Missy shoved the phone under my nose. “It's 4321. Not 4312.”

I gave her a sheepish look. “I'm sorry, Miss. I guess I transposed the numbers.”
Just as Des suggested.
This way it looked like we'd tried to do the right thing without actually having Missy in our biz. 'Til now.

“You're not fooling me,” she snapped before jabbing a French-manicured finger at me. “If Dad found—”

“You're not going to tell Dad anything,” I sniped back. “ 'Cause if you do, I'll—”

Dakota cleared his throat.

I froze, suddenly remembering who I was with and where I was.

“Oh, hell's bells,” I said with a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

Missy gave Dakota an appraising look and he spread his arms wide across the back of the couch as if inviting her to a closer inspection.

“You must be Dakota,” she said, her tone leaping from pissed to purring in a hot second.

“The one and only,” he said with a cocksure smile. “And you must be Aly's super-sexy older sister.”

Missy practically meowed at the compliment. Wincing, I peeked at Des, who scowled and then laid a proprietary hand on Dakota's shoulder. Her ire only got worse when Missy glided into the spot on the other side of him. Dakota turned to face her, not only dislodging Des's hand but very rudely turning his back on her.

Awkward.

“How come you weren't at the photo shoot?” he asked her.

“ 'Cause I'm an actress, not a model,” Missy said in a droll, “like duh” tone.

“She's a wannabe,” Des snapped, leaning over Dakota's shoulder.

“Gonnabe,” Missy corrected. “That's why I agreed to watch these two,” she told Dakota. “So I could catch my lucky break.”

Des snorted. “You've got as much shot at that as catching a football.”

“I'm going to be a star like Sofia Vergara or Madeleine Stowe.” She turned challenging eyes to Des. “Watch me. I spent today searching for auditions and getting to know my way around town.”

“I believe you,” Dakota soothed. “And today is your lucky day. Out here it's all about connections and you, baby, just made one.”

Missy gave him her patented little-girl-lost look, the one she practiced in the mirror. “Really?” she asked, and ran one of her talons down his chest. “You think you could help me?”

“I know I can.” Dakota grabbed Missy's hand and pulled her off the couch. “Let me introduce you around.”

And just like that, Dakota Danvers ditched us.

Jameson

“She going to be all right?” I mouthed to Aly, so Des couldn't hear.

After Dakota dumped the girls, I'd hustled them out of
Chastity
as fast as I could and driven them back to their hotel. I'd planned to escort them to their room, make sure everything looked safe, and tell them to pamper themselves with room service and spa treatments courtesy of Dakota until I could figure out what to do next.

I'd already unlocked the door and done a cursory check of the room while Aly threw her purse and keycard on one of the queen beds and kicked off her shoes. Des, on the other hand, was flitting around the room like a psychotic pixie. A constant stream of word vomit erupted from her mouth, and some of her more creative cussing simultaneously impressed me and made me fearful of a punishing lightning strike.

“She'll be fine,” Aly said, joining me in leaning against the door. “You know the five stages of grief?”

“Grief?” I looked at her in confusion. Sure, I knew the stages. It hadn't been so long ago that I'd dealt with them myself. “Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance.”

“Right.” A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that Des was not paying attention to us, but Aly leaned in close just the same. “Well, this is part of what I like to call the Five Stages of
Des
pleasure: Denial, as in ‘oh no he didn't,' followed by Pissed, Pissier, and Pissiest, and finally Avengement.”

I nodded, glad I wasn't the focus of Desi's despleasure. “And where's she on the pissed scale now?”

Aly studied her BFF for a sec. “Definitely Pissier. She hasn't thrown anything yet.”

Running a hand along my jaw, I gave Aly a “you're serious?” look. “Maybe I ought to—”

She stayed me with a hand on my chest. I looked down, where her palm pressed against me, and wanted to cover her fingers with my own.

“Don't go near her,” Aly said, and then, suddenly self-conscious she had me pinned to the wall, yanked her hand away. “Not unless you're wearing a cup.”

Unconsciously, I clutched up and shifted my hips back.

Aly smirked. “It's best just to let her run out of steam.”

Des was still rambling and ranting as she paced a warpath between the beds. She didn't look like she'd chill anytime soon. “Seriously?” I said with skepticism. “No worries?”

“Naw, it's all verbit.”

“A Desism,” I guessed.

“You're catching on.” She smiled and tilted her head. “Any guesses?”

I thought about it. “Verbal shit?”

She tapped her nose. “You got it.”

“What about step five? Avengement?” I asked.

“Ah.” Aly nodded. “Mostly, she just likes to mastermind epic plans of revenge, but she rarely acts on them.”

I narrowed my eyes. “It's the ‘rarely' that makes me nervous.”

Laughing, she said, “Maybe you don't entirely despise your boss after all.”

I could never despise my REAL boss.
And I might abhor Dakota enough to let Des have at him, but I cared enough about Des to keep her from doing something she'd regret. “I'd just as soon divert trouble,” I said, speaking the truth.

“The Brazen Bull!” Des shouted.

I gave Aly a “WTH?” look, but she just rolled her eyes.

“Since her epic plans often include things like that”—she nodded backward, indicating Desi's random outburst—“thumb screws, the Iron Maiden, and the guillotine, I don't worry too much. Now, if she could actually get her hands on one of those contraptions, that'd be a whole different story.”

“The Brazen Bull?”

Aly winced. “You don't want to know.”

I gave Des a considering look. “Medieval torture?”

Aly gave a blasé shrug. “Everyone's got their morbid fascination.”

That declaration drew my attention back to her. “Do they now?”

“Mine are dolls,” she said in a tight whisper, then shuddered. “They scare the crap out of me.”

I smiled.
God, she was adorable.
The more time I spent with her, the more drawn to her I felt—and that could only lead to trouble, since human/angel relationships were forbidden
. Not good.

I had to get out of here. Get some distance. Remind myself what my boundaries were.

“Dolls are disturbing,” I agreed, then hurriedly added, “Listen, if you're sure she's … ”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, if you have to go, don't worry. We'll be fine.”

She said the words, but I noticed a fleeting shadow in her eyes, like maybe my sudden about-face had hurt her feelings.

I couldn't allow that.

“You could always tell Des we've got mad weaponry on set.” I gave Aly a wink. “Maybe she'll devise a break-in.”

“Hush,” Aly said, finger over her lips. “If she hears that it'll be all over.”

“You know she's going to crash.”

“Yeah, once the angry adrenaline is gone, she'll conk.”

“Make sure she eats. You too,” I suggested, knowing they were drained after the day they'd had.

“I'll order up every ooey, gooey thing on the room service menu,” Aly said. “Chocolate, it does a body good.”

Chuckling, I told her I'd call later. And I would. After I got far enough away from Aly, I would remember what really brought me here.

Which reminded me, I better go find Missy …