Hollywood Hills (11 page)

Holly.
Alexa cupped her chin in her hand. Even though she knew Holly was potentially doing something dull with Kenya, Alexa couldn’t stop the bizarre thought that popped into her head: I
wonder if she’s having a better time than I am.

“Look—Tom Cruise!” Holly cried, pointing.

“Judy Garland’s over here!” Kenya exclaimed.

“Who’s Carole Lombard?” Holly asked. “She’s right below me.”

“Beats me,” Kenya yelled back from down the
boulevard. “But I’m dancing on Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire!”

Laughing, Holly glanced up to see Kenya twirling on the sidewalk. Over a big dinner at Musso & Frank, the girls had caught each other up, Holly filling Kenya in on the past year—“You ran away from a track meet to go to Paris?” Kenya had gasped while Holly shushed her—and Kenya opening up about her UCLA crushes, while admitting to not having found a serious boyfriend yet. “There are just too many options,” Kenya had explained with a mock dramatic sigh. “I don’t know if it’s something in the water, but the boys in this city are damn nice-looking.” Holly had nodded, remembering the sexy celebrities at The Standard and the cute surfers on the beach.

Now, with the sun setting behind them, the girls were strolling (and dancing) along the stretch of Hollywood Boulevard known as the Walk of Fame, where the sidewalk was covered in five-pointed stars, each imprinted with a different famous name in bronze.

“So is
this
the surprise destination you promised?” Holly called to Kenya, her mules planted firmly on Carole Lombard’s star.

“No way,” Kenya replied, crossing over several more stars to get to Holly. “We have yet to achieve tourist heaven. Allow me.” Linking her arm through
Holly’s, Kenya led her along Hollywood Boulevard, passing the sprawling Kodak Theatre—“Home of the Oscars,” Kenya pointed out and Holly snapped a picture with her cell phone—before reaching a grand old movie palace designed to look like a red-and-gold Chinese pagoda. In front of the theater, celebrities’ foot- and handprints were preserved in sand-colored cement. “Grauman’s Chinese Theatre,” Kenya pronounced. “I came here on my first day of freshman orientation at UCLA, and realized ‘Okay, yeah. I’m in Hollywood.’”

Thinking of her similar epiphany when seeing the Hollywood sign, Holly smiled and joined the other tourists who were vainly trying to cram their Nike sneakers into movie stars’ delicate footprints. With Kenya at her side, Holly glanced down and studied the inscription between Marilyn Monroe’s and Jane Russell’s prints:
GENTLEMEN PREFER BLONDES
!

“Bullshit,” Kenya declared. “Everyone knows brunettes have more fun.”

Holly glanced gratefully at Kenya. Tyler, Meghan, and Jess were all stay-in-and-watch-
Grey’s-Anatomy
-on-iTunes-types, so back home Holly had always relied on Alexa for nighttime escapades. But now, it was kind of refreshing and, well,
fun
to be out on the town with someone other than Alexa, someone who was older and different and no longer lived in Oakridge.
“I’m so glad we got to meet up tonight,” she told Kenya truthfully.

“Same,” Kenya replied, bumping Holly with her hip. “You know, if Alexa is, like, having breakfast in bed with Jonah tomorrow morning, feel free to come meet me on campus if you want. I don’t have class until the afternoon.”

“I’d love to,” Holly replied, nodding enthusiastically. “I don’t know
anyone
in LA, so—” She was interrupted by her cell phone ringing in her clutch. Holly figured it had to be Tyler; she’d left him a rambling message about her ocean rescue before heading out to meet Kenya. But when she pulled out her cell phone, it wasn’t Tyler’s name flashing on the screen at all.

“Belle Runningwater?” Holly read aloud, and Kenya’s mouth fell open. “I met her at a party last night,” Holly explained hurriedly. She hadn’t thought the super-busy actress would actually call, and she felt excitement course through her.

“I watch
Wild Land
every week!” Kenya whispered, grinning, as Holly flipped open the phone. Clearly, Kenya made exceptions to her no-fawning-over-celebrities rule.

“Holly?” Belle screamed into Holly’s ear; reggae music was blaring in the background, along with
high-pitched laughter and someone shouting, “
Call my agent to discuss that!
” Holly strained to hear what Belle was saying. “I’m—at—the Cabana—Club—-with friends!” Belle managed to yell into the phone. “Come—meet me!”

“Where is it?” Holly yelled back as Kenya raised her eyebrows.

“On Ivar—off Sunset—right behind—Amoeba Music!” Belle replied. “DJ—amazing—oh, God—just saw Lindsay—Lohan—she hates me—gotta—-run—” And then Belle was gone.

“Are you familiar with the Cabana Club?” Holly asked Kenya as she snapped her phone shut. Belle’s garbled directions hadn’t made much sense to her.

Kenya stared back at Holly, her expression incredulous. “I thought you didn’t know anyone in LA.”

Minutes later, Holly was back in the Hybrid, following Kenya’s car down Sunset Boulevard. By now it was deep nighttime, and the windswept strip was alive and glittering; Holly was transfixed by the bright, blinking lights of the House of Blues and Whisky a Go Go, and yes, the glowing red sign pointing to the castlelike turrets of the Chateau Marmont. Three girls in teeny sherbet-colored dresses and skinny heels, followed by a lanky guy who looked suspiciously like Topher Grace, crossed the boulevard to
get to a club, and a bouncer unclipped a velvet rope for them. Holly rolled down her windows and breathed in the scent of evening jasmine, and she felt a sudden, overwhelming rush of possibility. It felt, she thought, almost a little bit like falling in love.

After Holly and Kenya had turned their cars over to the Cabana Club valets, they walked across the outdoor patio. There was a reflecting pool, lit-up palm trees, a giant waterfall, and huge beach balls that bounced around among the sleek guys and girls. Holly decided that the atmosphere felt more casual, beachy, and less celebrity-obsessed than The Standard had last night, and she felt herself relaxing. She was even surefooted enough to tell the bouncer that she and Kenya were here to see Belle Runningwater, and her manner must have seemed assured, because he nodded and let them pass.

“Okay, I’m your biggest fan,” Kenya said as she and Holly made their way through the gold-and-brown interior. “You handled that better than an LA
native.
”

“I don’t know how,” Holly admitted as she scanned the dancing crowd for Belle’s long black hair. “I’m usually such a baby about that stuff.”
But am I?
Holly wondered. Maybe she didn’t give herself enough credit for how much she’d grown over the past year—or even the past day.

She and Kenya came upon Belle on one of the elevated dance floors, shaking her slim hips to Matisyahu. Belle immediately enveloped Holly in a hug, greeted Kenya warmly, and introduced them to her group of friends, none of whom Holly recognized from television. In fact, the girls, in stovepipe jeans, leggings under skirts, and long, beaded necklaces, seemed fairly…normal. Holly realized she’d hit it off with Belle last night because she
wasn’t
the kind of girl who necessarily befriended other celebrities.

“I’m going to text some of my friends and tell them to meet us here!” Kenya called to Holly over the music, then hurried off the dance floor toward one of the mocha-brown booths. As Holly felt Belle tug on her wrist to draw her into the dancing circle, she was flooded with a startling sense of…belonging. The sensation was unfamiliar; Holly hadn’t exactly been an outcast in high school, but she’d never felt as if people had clamored for her attention, either. Yet here, in social-climbing LA, the most un-Holly Jacobson place on earth, she felt as if she’d managed to find a group of people who were on her wavelength. She felt like she was exactly where she wanted to be.

Before Holly could dwell on that surprising thought, her cell vibrated in her clutch. Taking a pause from dancing, she removed it and smiled when she saw that it was Tyler.

“Are you at a concert?” Tyler shouted in her ear when Holly picked up. Over the din, she could make out that he sounded a little annoyed. “I can’t hear you!”

“I’m at a club near the Sunset Strip!” Holly cried in response, taking a few steps back from the flailing, sweaty crowd.

“Tell—amazing—surfing—story—”

Holly could only make out Tyler’s every other word. “Let me call you back,” she said, snapping her phone shut. She told Belle she’d be back, then turned and elbowed her way out onto the patio. Holly fanned her flushed face with one hand and leaned against a palm tree, not far from a group of hyper girls in belly-bearing Juicy sweats who were flirting with sloppy-looking guys in sideways trucker hats (“
so
2004,” Alexa would sneer if she were there). “I’m pitching my script to Wes Anderson,” one of the boys was crowing, while one of the girls was boasting about a callback she’d gotten for an under-five on
Veronica Mars.

Holly smiled at all the LA-speak; she actually found it more funny than irritating. She was opening her phone to redial Tyler, when the cell buzzed in her hand. Distracted by her entertaining neighbors, and the blur of color and light, Holly answered without checking the screen.

“Tyler? Honey?” she asked.

“Uh, no.”

It was a boy’s voice—deep and slightly raspy. Holly froze, her automatic reaction whenever a guy she didn’t know called her. She let her hair fall back to her shoulders. “Who is this?” she asked, feeling a tremor of recognition.

“It’s Seamus,” the boy replied. “Seamus Kerr? I know that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, but I was kind of hoping I wouldn’t fall into that category…”

“Seamus!” Holly cried, pleasantly surprised. But why was he calling? “Oh, my God—I owe you an iced coffee, don’t I?” she gasped, upset that she’d forgotten. Holly was excellent about paying people back; Alexa, meanwhile, owed her, like, five hundred dollars after eleven years of gas money, chewing gum, and ice-cream bars that had never been reimbursed.

“No, no, don’t stress about that,” Seamus said, laughing his warm laugh. Suddenly Holly heard the beep of her call waiting, and knew it was Tyler. But she wanted to hear what Seamus had to say first. “I was calling for another reason,” Seamus added. “To see if you’d be around tomorrow afternoon…”

“What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?” Jonah whispered to Alexa, twining his fingers through hers as they meandered up the flagstone path of El Sueño.

Night had fallen, and the estate was shrouded in darkness, but tiki lamps on the main house’s deck illuminated the way. The fragrant smell of bougainvillea was even stronger in the darkness, and crickets hummed overhead. All this, combined with the delicious glass of wine she’d had with dinner, had lifted Alexa’s spirits considerably. Her moment of boredom at A.O.C. was in the past. Now she felt tingly and flushed, and much warmer toward Jonah.

Or, rather, hotter.

“Because,” Jonah added when Alexa didn’t answer right away. “I get off early from rehearsal so I thought maybe—”

“Shhh,” Alexa whispered, wheeling around, and putting her hands on Jonah’s shoulders. She rose up on her toes and kissed him.

Jonah didn’t argue; he pulled Alexa tight against him, running his hands up and down her back, his breath quick and his tongue teasing hers. In that moment, Alexa understood how fully and completely she
had
this boy. Jonah may have been the one who could get them a table in a restaurant, but
Alexa
was the one with the power now. It was a familiar sensation to Alexa—the moment when a guy completely gave in to her. Boys were
simple
, she’d realized at a young age, even boys like Jonah, who could have any girl they wanted.

“Hot,” Jonah was murmuring into Alexa’s mouth,
drawing back a little. “Hot tub.” He cleared his throat. “I have a hot tub on my sundeck,” he managed. “Meet me back out there?”

Breathless, Alexa turned toward the guesthouse to change, when Jonah called after her.

“Hey,” he said, lifting one arm. “Do you want some herb?”

“Um,” Alexa replied, surprised.
Jonah smokes pot? What the hell?
“I thought you didn’t like, uh, toxins,” she finally said. Despite all her daring when it came to boys and breaking rules, Alexa had never tried pot, and didn’t have much interest in doing so.

Jonah shrugged and gave her a winning smile. “It’s organic.”

As Jonah went to go change—and possibly roll himself an organic friend—Alexa flew into the guesthouse. Weirdly, Holly wasn’t home yet, and Alexa wondered what her friend was up to with Kenya.

After she’d slipped on the Shoshanna bikini that Jonah hadn’t had a chance to see last night, Alexa hurried outside, her dark brown Havaiana flip-flops thwacking the ground, and made her way around the sundeck of the main house to find Jonah. He wasn’t smoking up, only waiting, shirtless, in a sunken hot tub. The water was bubbling around him, and his broad shoulders and chest glowed in the moonlight as he rested his arms on the tub’s sides.

Hooray for Hollywood.

Smiling, Alexa dipped one toe into the scalding water and slowly eased herself in until she was chindeep.
Ahh.
The jets pulsed against her skin, the water almost too hot to stand. Above them, big, hazy stars sparkled, and the roar of the ocean below them was hypnotic.

“I want to photograph this,” Alexa murmured, glancing down the mountain to see the Pacific, black and foamy. Her fingers tingled for her camera, back in the guesthouse.

“What for?” Jonah asked, reaching over to pull her close. “A million other houses have this same view.” His wet chest pressed against hers as he held her waist underwater. “Now
this
is a view,” he added, rubbing his thumb along Alexa’s cheek.

Alexa, her skin flushed from the water and Jonah’s nearness, closed her eyes and lifted her mouth to his. There was something about kissing a boy in a hot tub that made any other kind of kissing seem almost unsexy. Jonah’s hands moved down to her hips, and Alexa slid her arms around his shoulders. Within seconds, they were kissing deeply, their hands growing bold, their legs entwining underwater, their breaths mingling…