No Strings Attached (36 page)

Lindsay interrupted his musing. “Anyway, if you're so sure of impending disaster, why don't you leave? What's keeping you here?”

Another question he'd asked himself.

Nick answered for him. “El, leave?” He looked meaningfully from near-naked Lindsay to shapely Sara, and shook his head. “Snowball, meet hell. This place is as near to heaven as my boy is likely to get.”

Lindsay chuckled. Sara laughed nervously.

Eliot colored but didn't dispute his friend. He got up and strode into the house for a cool drink. He knew the real reason he'd stay. It wasn't about the hot babes living under the same roof. Eliot had no shot with Lindsay, no matter how much she flirted with him.

And despite Nick's encouraging him to go after Sara, she was a real long shot, what with the boyfriend back home and the way she looked at Nick. Besides, she'd confided in him about some purity pledge she'd taken, had shown him a ring that symbolized her commitment to stay a virgin until marriage. So no, Eliot wasn't staying in the hopes of getting lucky. What kept his feet glued to the shaky California terrain was Nick. Something wasn't right with his friend.

“You okay?”

He spun around. Naomi was settled in the corner of the striped couch, with what looked like a screenplay splayed over her knees.

“Yeah, I just came in for a cold drink. Can I get you something?”

She shook her head and returned her attention to the script.

Out of curiosity he asked, “Are you trying to break into showbiz too?”

She didn't look up.

Crack! Boom! Pop!

The house rumbled beneath her. It sounded like the deep growl from the belly of a beast—or was that her own body? Naomi was quaking, shivering, despite the blanket she was snuggled under. She hugged her knees, squeezed herself farther into the corner of the sofa between the pillows. As if that could protect her.

She tried to focus on the dialogue of the script Sara had given her to read, hoping to blot out the loud commotion just outside the sliding doors. Why Sara insisted Naomi read it, she couldn't figure out. It wasn't a part Sara was up for; this was some random story about a policeman and a runaway. Sara probably thought Naomi related to the plot: That's how little Sara, or anyone, knew.

The story wasn't half bad, but the part of the runaway, Moxie, was not one she related to at all. Naomi had not run away.

She put her head back into the script, but it was no use. The blasting fireworks panicked her, brought up memories she'd worked hard to forget. As for the burbling buddies in the backyard hot tub, they just distracted her.

“Awesome!” She heard Nick reacting enthusiastically to the fierce display of a Fourth of July sky pageant. “Oh, man, that
rocked
!”

“Look at the stars, those colors!” Sara marveled.

“That's what it's like every time Jared and I hook up,” Lindsay teased Sara. “The earth
moves
, we see stars! You should try it.” Word had spread quickly through the share house about Sara's moral convictions. Naturally, Lindsay took every opportunity to taunt her.

“Quit it, Linz,” Jared interjected. “Sara Calvin will be our first virgin movie star.”

Naomi knew Jared was still furious that Sara had brought her into their house. And since the high and mighty Jared was chief pooh-bah, it was a wonder Sara had prevailed. There were moments, like now, she wished Sara had not. It wasn't for lack of gratefulness. She was plenty thankful to Sara. She just wished she didn't have to be.

Pop! Pop! Crack!

Another chorus of fireworks exploded, louder. Naomi jumped. Whoever was launching these was close to the house. Too jittery to sit in one place, the formerly homeless girl sprang off the couch and strode over to the sliding doors, where she could now see, as well as hear, the show going on outside.

It was after nightfall on July Fourth. The five housemates had squeezed into the hot tub. She could almost see the fireworks reflected in their shiny, happy faces, their unscarred eyes. From this rarefied perch high in the Hollywood Hills, they did have an amazing view of spectacular light shows, above and below them.

There was room for her in the hot tub. Sara had offered her a bathing suit.

No way. The idea of hanging out with this bunch freaked her out.

The feeling was mutual.

They tolerated her. It'd been a little over a week and she hadn't assaulted anyone, stolen anything, smoked or snorted any illegal substances, nor snuck any lowlifes into their house. Moreover, she helped Sara with the chores. Didn't mean she was now welcome.

It was easy to know what Jared thought of her. Garbage. Trash. Human debris. Not that McSmoothy said as much to her face. His act was neutral, but he wasn't much of an actor.
Jared still wanted her out. Lindsay wanted what Jared wanted, and gave him all he asked for—and judging by the frequent noise from his bedroom, they were making each other very happy.

Jared and Lindsay, too impressed with themselves for words, were glued at the hip in the Jacuzzi, lasciviously feeding each other bits of sushi. Lots of tongue action, putting on a show for everyone to see.

Eliot was mooning after Sara, who was lusting after Nick, whose dark eyes were focused only on the spectacle in the sky. Naomi chuckled. The pious girl was havin' all sorts of trouble with that temptation law, or commandment, or whatever it was. Every night, during her prayers before bed, she kept praying that she wouldn't fall into temptation.

Naomi didn't think He was listening. Not that she believed much in God, or in any higher power. Maybe she had once, a long, long time ago. But that belief had long ruptured, had gotten buried beneath the rubble of what was once her life.

Compared to what she'd been through, the little domestic dramas playing out here were laughable. These five had no idea how lucky they all were. Naomi checked herself: She'd been pretty lucky too, that Sara had come into her life when she did.

The good-hearted country girl was the real deal, a rare
deal, a true believer. Doing the humanitarian thing, befriending Naomi instead of what most people did: avert their eyes and walk by the beggar girl, or toss a few coins in her cup and continue walking. Worse were those who wanted something from her.

Sara didn't want anything. She wasn't trying to proselytize, pimp, or procure her services in any way. Sara never pressed her to find out what had happened to Naomi, why she was on the streets. The tall girl with the wavy blond hair was naive enough to just want to help.

Still, no way would Naomi have come home with her. But the day she finally said yes was the day the street had gotten too dangerous: Some low-life skinheads had threatened her, and she'd been terrified.

And despite the roommates' resistance, things were okay so far.

During the day, she went to work with Sara on that
Caught in the Act
TV show. No one asked her who she was or why she was there. They just took her for another lowly intern and piled drone stuff on her—Xeroxing, filing, fetching coffee, taking notes. She was too smart to get comfortable, though.

Her “pay” for working on the TV show with Sara and helping around the house? Food, clothing, shelter. Naomi had her own room of sorts: the basement of the share house. The most important compensation, however, was safety. For
now, Naomi was safe. And now was all she, or any of them, really had.

Naomi put the script down and wandered back into the kitchen, where a sink full of dirty dishes awaited. She didn't really have to, but she needed to keep her shaking hands busy, so she began to scrub and dry each glass, spoon, fork, dish, and coffee mug.

Her eyes wandered out the window over the sink to the backyard. Nick was slurping down a Bud Lite from the bottle, leaning against the back of the hot tub, eyes closed. He had that model pose down. He was harmless, she thought, sweet, dumb, and meaty. He'd been friendly from the start, and now regarded her as a mere curiosity. He didn't ask a lot of questions or stare at her relentlessly like his roommate.

El-geek, as she secretly thought of him, peppered her with “kind” questions. She was supposed to think he cared, but she saw right through him. In his mind, she was some runaway, a poor, pitiable soul who'd come to Hollywood looking for fame and fortune, falling instead into a life of drugs, prostitution, homelessness, hopelessness. A cliché.

If only they really knew.

She'd give the himbos from Michigan one thing: They were devoted to Sara. Whatever the tall, tawny Texan asked, they'd do. Like hauling a couch from the game room to the basement, clearing and cleaning an area for her to sleep.

Sara brought out the best in those boys.

And the worst in that Lindsay creature.

Around Sara, Lindsay was snotty, superficial, jealous, and bitchy. Putting her down at every opportunity. Lindsay was supposedly trying to mount a big “comeback,” but so far, she hadn't gotten any acting parts. The only thing that cheered her was that Sara hadn't either. Chuh! Even the homeless girls on the streets were more supportive of one another.

Sara had another audition coming up this week. Naomi had been helping her rehearse.

“You're up for the role of who?” Lindsay's loud question pierced the air. Instinct kicking in, Naomi stealthily made her way back into the den and opened the sliding doors so she could see what was going down. She wanted to be there, in case Lindsay's claws came out. “How come I don't know about this?” she charged. “Are we keeping secrets now?”

“Tomorrow I'm reading for a guest role in that new HBO drama. Didn't I tell you?” Sara's tone was even.

Boom! Crack!
A thunder of fireworks split the sky, and Naomi flinched.

“How'd you even find out about it?” Lindsay wanted to know.

“Lionel, my agent, sent me up for it. It's just a little bitty guest role, only two scenes. That's probably why you didn't get sent for it. It's not important enough for you.”

Appeased, Lindsay relaxed, shrugged her bare shoulders.

Naomi's eyes went wide. Lindsay bought that? Geez, she's so high on herself, she can't see through the bullshit clouds.

Sara should have left it at that. But she didn't. “Got any tips for me?”

“Yeah.” Lindsay tilted her head back, poured a shot down her throat, and wiped her mouth with her arm. “Lose twenty pounds. You'll never work in this town lugging around that much weight. Real women have curves, but there's nothing real about Hollywood. Girls who get work in this town look like Nicole Richie at her boniest.”

The muscles in his stomach crunched tightly, then smoothed
out again, tightened, then relaxed. Nick Maharis, lifting weights while doing knee bends in his bedroom, was almost more than Sara could stand. And yet that's exactly what she was doing, standing in his doorway, afraid to breathe, watching those abs and quads tighten on the down motion, then biceps, triceps, and pecs stretch across his dark, hairless chest when he straightened up.

Breathing out as he pushed down, breathing in as he came up. Up, down, his gym shorts riding up his thigh, his biceps bulging. She was hypnotized.

The crunch of his muscles when he dipped down, the smooth pecs when he stood upright. Crunchy, then smooth. Like peanut butter. Licking it off his chest, how tasty would
that be? That's the ad campaign they should have gone with.

She gasped, clapped her hand over her mouth. How could she have thought that?

Nick flicked his dark eyes toward her. “What's the matter?”

“No-nothing …” she stammered, swallowing hard.

“You made a noise like you saw something scary.”

In her head, she was hearing her boyfriend's admonitions: “Don't fall for any slick lines, Sara. All those guys out there want only one thing from you.”

“Anyway, welcome to my makeshift gym.” Nick grinned.

The night Lindsay made the rude comment about Sara's weight, she'd been more startled than hurt, but it'd led to a shouting match. Eliot argued that Sara didn't need to lose any weight; Jared agreed with Lindsay that maybe her “heft” wasn't helping during her auditions.

“That's crap,” Eliot had said heatedly.

“What do you know?” Lindsay had challenged. “Ever been an actress? I don't think so.” She'd turned to Sara. “You have three choices. Starve yourself, throw up after every meal, or snort coke. Ask any model or actress—that's how we roll in this town.”

“No way! Don't you dare!” Eliot had been scandalized. “Either of you!”

Nick had genially offered to show Sara a workout routine. “To tone you, keep you in fighting form—that's all you need.”

Too quickly, she'd said yes, please, and thank you.

Now that she was here? In sweatpants and her brother's old cutoff T-shirt? Now that her eyes were glued to Nick's glutes? Her thoughts sinful? Sara Calvin knew this was a bad idea.

She was going to do it anyway.

Nick's workout equipment consisted of a set of weights, a barbell, ropes, and a huge red rubber ball that reminded Sara of a giant inflatable beach ball.

“Not exactly state of the art,” Nick conceded, “but it'll have to do for now. Can't afford membership in an L.A. gym.”

“Not yet. But when you're up on a billboard modeling for those famous designers, you'll be able to buy your own gym.”

When he laughed, his eyes crinkled up so all you could see were those long, thick black eyelashes. All she could feel was her tummy tumbling.

She should leave. Now would be a good time.

“So how do you want to begin? Stretching? Aerobics? Curls? Lunges? Weights?”

Donald's voice popped into her head. “Once you start, it's impossible to stop—you just keep falling down the well. Remember your purity pledge. Remember me. I'll be waiting when you get back.”