A-List #8, The: Heart of Glass: An A-List Novel (A-List) Page 4

  Sam held up a hand to cut him off. "Dustin Hoffman. Rain Man. Freaking brilliant performance."

  "He ought to want something else more than a statue," Poppy sniffed. "Come on, Bodhi, let's go back to the studio and work some more."

  She led him back through the open doorway. This time, Sam watched her yoga teacher closely. Yes. No doubt about it. Bodhi's gaze followed her ass with something less than an honorable spiritual glint in his eyes. Much less.

  That was all the confirmation that Sam needed. Either Poppy was doing the guy, the guy was doing Poppy, or they were pretty damn close to one, the other, or both.

  Her father would shit Twinkie-pops if he found out. What a fantastic development.

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  That Old Ojai Magic

  Dee Young could hear the roar of the crowd through the monitor in Evolution's dressing room in the bowels of the Staples Center, the huge basketball arena in downtown Los Angeles. Her father had produced their first album, and the guys in the band had an almost blind faith in his musical judgment. Tonight, they had "arrived," as they were about to open for U2 in front of twenty thousand people, at the most prestigious venue in Southern California. It didn't matter that they'd released exactly one single on alt radio, called "Monsoon." Thanks to the power of Graham Young, that single had hit the charts the week before at number thirty-two with a bullet.

  Dee had been present for the negotiations since she was working for her father during the summer as his special assistant, as well as taking summer school classes so that she could officially graduate from high school after her second-semester crackup. She'd only been at it a couple of weeks, but so far she loved the job. She relished the chance to spend so much quality time with

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  her father. Most of all, she felt like the job offer from him was a vote of parental confidence, especially given her recent long stint in a psychiatric facility up in Ojai.

  Ojai was where you ended up when you went on a road trip to Vegas with your friends and heard so many voices in your head you couldn't tell what was real and what was not. Ojai had been weird. So calm, so quiet, so many people solicitous of her every mood and word. But she'd met some nice people there--it wasn't only old crazies who went batty

  --the doctors and psychiatrists had been helpful, and the pharmacy well stocked with all the latest in legal psychotropic pharmaceuticals. Now she was on the right meds and felt a clarity that she hadn't possessed in years.

  And, for the first time in Dee Young's eighteen years on the planet, she was really and truly in love. In. Love. Oh sure, she thought she'd been in love before; in fact, she had a nasty habit of falling head over heels for whatever latest guy was on her radar. For some bizarre reason, in the past, almost all the guys she'd adored had turned out to be gay--or had gone gay immediately after dating her.

  Jack Walker, Dee's new boyfriend, had just finished his freshman year at the same college as Ben Birnbaum, Princeton, and he was definitely not gay.

  She'd made a good choice. With rust-colored hair, quirky Elvis Costello-style black glasses, and a thin, lanky frame, Jack was attractive in a very different way than the Beverly Hills rich boys she'd known all her life.

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  He was smart and extremely ambitious; Dee thought maybe this had something to do with the fact that he'd grown up in a working-class neighborhood in Newark, New Jersey. He was also multiply talented in a wide variety of positions--professionally and other ways.

  "I've got my fingers and toes crossed," Dee announced, holding up crossed fingers, although crossing her toes inside her leopard-print Christian Louboutin sling-backs proved a little more difficult.

  Jack's lanky body was stretched out on the brown microfiber couch in the corner of the reasonably spacious dressing room, next to an elaborate buffet spread.

  "I think we're alone now," Dee teased, as she heard the actor Matthew McConaughey--a personal friend of the lead singer, Darwin--introduce Evolution to the crowd. She shimmied on top of Jack until her cheek pressed against his.

  "You know, we can hear the band in here," Jack murmured, his hands cupping her butt. "So really, we could stay and multitask. . . ."

  He gave her the kind of sizzling kiss that made her melt.

  Their only limitation was the length of Evolution's set--a mere thirty minutes. When Jack heard the band announce that their last number would be coming up (they were closing with "Monsoon"), he suggested that this might be a good time to get up and for him to go get some beers. "Can't stand pale ale. I bet U2 has

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  some Guinness in their dressing room. Want to come with?"

  Dee smiled, her eyes glimmering. "I need to use the bathroom. Be down in a minute."

  "I'll have them poured."

  Ten minutes later, she stepped out of Evolution's dressing room just in time to see the band return triumphant from their performance, with a bevy of gorgeous girls in tow. After some quick hellos and a few "good show" hugs--even though Dee could only account for the audio portion, and even then she'd been pretty distracted--she slipped into the corridor.

  "Dee? Dee Young? Is that you?"

  Someone was calling to her. She turned. A tall, muscular guy with curly blond hair was waving to her. No. It couldn't be. Aaron Steele? What was Aaron doing here? She hadn't seen him since Ojai.

  Aaron jogged down the corridor, picked Dee up--it wasn't hard, since she'd never topped a hundred pounds in her life--and swung her around. "Dee Young. I honestly never thought I'd see you again."

  "You look great."

  He really did look great, especially compared to the first day he'd arrived at the institute. Though everything at Ojai was supposed to be confidential, word of new arrivals traveled fast. Aaron was the son of a screenwriter famous for his humongous belly--ditto beard and ego. Also famous for blasting the gambling industry, the screenwriter was fond of hurling equally harsh criticism

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  at his wife and children, which had contributed greatly to Aaron's arrival at Ojai.

  When he had been brought in to the institute, transferred from the psych ward at Cedars Sinai, Aaron had been in really bad shape. Which made sense, because he'd been on a weeklong bender involving most every drug behind the counter at your local pharmacy and then some that hadn't yet been approved by the Food and Drug Administration, and weren't likely to be approved, either. After his father had discovered him listening to the Ramones' "I Wanna Be Sedated" over and over on his iPod, unresponsive to other stimuli, and he'd been rushed to Cedars-Sinai in an ambulance, Ojai became the logical next stop.

  At the Ojai Institute just north of Santa Barbara, Aaron stayed in the facility's equivalent of intensive care. Dee had only met him a day before her release, when they'd taken a walk around the grounds together. It was her last day of treatment; it was his first day out. He was lucid, thoughtful, and charming. He took her hand when they walked--a kind and friendly gesture that almost made Dee want to delay her release so she could get to know him better. She'd always liked his father's films, at least those before the tell-all book.

  "You're out?" Dee was thrilled to see Aaron in a normal setting like a rock concert, instead of at a psychiatric rehab facility. "Congratulations."

  Aaron shook his head. "Still up there. It's a safe place for me. But I'm starting to get some day passes.

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  I'm really getting into music, so my shrink thought it would be beneficial for me to be here tonight. I play bass. Did you know that?"

  "No, I didn't. But no one's afraid you'll take off?" Dee asked. One thing she remembered from their day together at Ojai--he'd asked her not to hold back. She could ask him anything. He would answer honestly. He hoped she'd feel comfortable enough to do the same with him. It was part of the famous Ojai treatment protocol.

  "They know I don't want to. I'm telling you, Dee, that place is turning my life around. I haven't thought about my own future in two years. And now I'm already planning what I'm going to do when I get out: to w
ork on my music."

  "I understand." Dee nodded passionately. "If it wasn't for Ojai, I'd still probably be totally messed up. Instead, I'm just moderately messed up."

  Aaron threw his head back and laughed like she had just delivered the line of the century. It made her feel amazing.

  "That's for sure," he agreed. "The first step to getting moderately messed up is realizing you're totally messed up. I knew there was a reason I liked you."

  Impetuously, she hugged him. "I'm just so glad to see that you're going to be okay. What are you thinking about doing when you're out?"

  "I've always been interested in the music business. Maybe I'll go into a music management program

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  someplace. Or open my own recording studio. Doesn't your dad do something like that?"

  "Definitely. You'll have to meet him sometime. I'd love to introduce you."

  "I'd like that. A lot. I've never forgotten that walk we took," he murmured, as they broke apart.

  "I liked it too."

  "It was special, Dee." Aaron gazed deeply into her eyes. "Can I tell you something honestly? Ojai honestly?"

  "Of course." Dee loved Ojai honesty. She'd wished many times that the rest of the world could have the same kind of forthrightness that her doctors constantly preached at the institute. Things would be so much less complicated and easier to deal with.

  "I felt myself start to have feelings for you that day, when we were walking. And now that I'm with you, I'm starting to have those feelings again. I know it's crazy-- we've only met once, and we've only been talking for a little while. But it wouldn't have been right not to say anything," Aaron continued. "It wouldn't be Ojai honest."

  "No, it wouldn't."

  "Now that you're out, and I'm on my way to be out ..." His voice trailed off. "I think of you as an anchor, Dee. Just this wonderful ray of light."

  Wow. She had to grin. This was intense.

  There was only one problem. She made her voice as gentle as she could.

  "I'd love to be your friend, Aaron. I really would. But... the fact is, I'm seeing someone. Seriously."

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  "Well, of course. Isn't it always that way?" He smiled thinly.

  "It's been about a month now. More or less."

  "Dare I ask who the guy is?"

  "Dee! What's the holdup?" A voice boomed down the hallway.

  Dee pointed. "That's him," she said softly, then turned and beckoned with one arm. "Hi! I'm here. Come meet a friend of mine!"

  A moment later, Jack had joined them. Tall as Jack was, Aaron had him beat by a good two inches.

  "Jack Walker, this is my friend Aaron. Aaron Steele." Dee made the introductions. It was kind of uncomfortable. She liked both these guys so much.

  "And you know each other from?" Jack asked, before offering his hand for a firm shake.

  "Ojai," Aaron explained amicably. "I was there when Dee was there. I'm still there, in fact."

  Jack eyed him closely. "Until when?"

  "I'm in for life, man. Until my doctors and I agree that it's time for me to leave. That's the nature of the Ojai therapeutic experience. It's a joint decision by the patient and the therapist. You sign an agreement going in. Dee knows all about that."

  "Come on," Jack challenged. "It's a psych institute, not San Quentin. You can't leave even if you want to?"

  "I could," Aaron allowed. "But the deal is, if you check yourself out before the doctors agree you should, you can never come back."

  Dee nodded her confirmation. She'd signed the same

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  agreement when she'd been checked in by her parents right after she and her friends had gone to Las Vegas.

  Jack shrugged. "I'm not real big on the head doctor thing. I know myself better than anyone else could know me. So, Dee and I were just about to suck down some Guinness. Nectar of the gods. You want to join us?"

  Aaron looked as if Jack had just offered him a loaded .45 and suggested that he point it at his own crotch and yank the trigger. "Uh, no. I don't think that would be good for me now. Thanks, though. It was thoughtful of you to ask."

  Aaron offered Jack his hand again. "Good to meet you. That's a great girl you're seeing. Dee, can I call you sometime? As friends? You mind, Jack?"

  Jack nodded. "It's her life. I don't tell her who her friends should be."

  There was something in his voice that made it clear he did mind, but either Aaron didn't take the cue or he chose to ignore it. "Cool." He took a small piece of paper out of his pocket and scribbled something on it. "Here's my e-mail. Send me your digits, Dee. Enjoy the concert, you guys." He turned and went back the way he'd come, his footfalls echoing in the quiet corridor.

  "Strange guy," Jack opined, as Aaron moved off.

  "Nice guy. He's really pulling his life together."

  "Take it from me. He's strange. Hang out with who you want, but . . ." Jack didn't finish the sentence. He put an arm around her shoulders. "Let's take these brews and watch U2."

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  The Anti-Hollywood Crowd

  "So, where are you right now?"

  Cammie shifted her new limited-edition silver Razr cell to her other ear so the pedicurist wouldn't overhear. "I'm in the spa at the Century City Plaza Hotel, getting my toes done. In an hour, I'm supposed to be upstairs in the Reagan room at a catered luncheon with the organizers of the New Visions fashion show, where we're going to be picking the designers who'll be showing their stuff at the museum a week from "Wednesday night. Now, this is my idea of community service."

  Adam Flood laughed through the phone. "Hey, it's all in the details. Is this the Beverly Hills version of a Chained Heat kinda thing?" he teased, naming a classic Hollywood B movie about girls in prison. It was heavy on cleavage and lascivious matrons, and, of course, decidedly low on prison uniforms and undergarments.

  "Yeah, I mack with some chick who has '666' tattooed on her forehead. Kinky stuff, huh?"

  "More like bizarre," Adam commented. "Anyway,

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  you and Anna got the best community service deal in history."

  It's amazing what a couple of highly paid lawyers and a bright DA can come up with together."

  He laughed again. "I'm sorry. It's hard to think of you actually being arrested for the heinous crime of trespassing on someone else's sandpile."

  "I know! My father is already plotting his revenge against Gibson. Getting on Clark Sheppard's shit list is never a good idea."

  It had been two days since Cammie had been arrested with Anna--there was something ironic about that, for sure, since Anna Percy would be voted Least Likely Ever to Be Arrested at a monastery. Today they would begin their so-called community service with a catered luncheon here at this hotel, one of the finest in the city. Cammie had decided to take advantage of the location.

  Cammie wiggled the toes, then turned her attention back to Adam. She missed him. A lot. He'd gone to northern Michigan with his parents for two weeks. They had been renting a cabin on Lake Superior every year since he'd been a kid. Adam had described it blissfully because he loved it there and, unlike most normal high school kids, he actually got along well with his parents.

  When he'd first told her about his Michigan retreat into rustic splendor, she'd nodded and tried to keep a perky "wow, what fun!" kind of look on her face, when

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  in actuality she found the idea of two weeks spent communing with nature utterly horrifying.

  "So, what have you been doing for fun?" Cammie purred. "Out there in the middle of nowhere."

  "Regular cabin stuff: fishing, hiking, and oh, starting on the Pomona freshman reading list--Chekhov, Carl Sagan, the Koran."

  Cammie had zero idea who any of those people were. Plus, hearing Adam mention Pomona--the small, fancy-pants college fifty miles away in Claremont that was as tough to get into as many of the Ivy League schools--gave her a minor shiver of insecurity. Adam was an excellent student and would be starting there in the fall. But Cammie wasn't go
ing to college at all. For one thing, she loathed school. For another thing, she was already filthy rich. And for another thing . . . well, those two pretty much covered it.

  "Come home soon and I'll show you what you've been missing." Her deliberate giggle made it clear exactly what "what" was.

  "A week from Saturday," Adam assured her. "You and Anna have fun on probation. I gotta go--my dad and I are going trolling for lake trout."

  Gag me with an earthworm.

  "Sounds fun. Call me later if you have cell service."

  Cammie hung up and sighed. She really wished he would just pack up his tackle box and come home. In fact, it was bothering the shit out of her that he'd even choose two weeks in the wilderness with his mother

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  and father over spending that kind of time with a far superior friend with exceptional extra benefits. Namely, herself. What kind of guy did that?

  "You must be Camilla." A middle-aged woman with a chic blond bob, clad in a baby blue knit St. John's suit, clasped both hands around Cammie's own. She had a round face, perfect ivory skin, small dark eyes enhanced with the most understated of cosmetics, and just enough Restylane in her lips to make them look naturally youthful. The gleaming Tiffany-cut rock on her ring finger was the size of a Ping-Pong ball.

  "I'm Virginia Vanderleer, head of this year's New Visions fashion show. We're so pleased you and your friend Anna decided to volunteer. She's already arrived. Come join us."

  Virginia escorted Cammie to one of the four round tables in the Reagan Room, one of the smaller of the many banquet rooms in the famous Century City Plaza. The white room itself had a high ceiling, heavy red velvet drapes, a parquet floor, and a massive American flag in the corner. There was a large, flat-screen TV at the front. There were two empty seats at the table next to Anna. Virginia gestured for Cammie to sit as she slid into her own seat. Instantly a waiter appeared and placed a jumbo prawn cocktail in front of her.

  Cammie said a quick hello to Anna, then Virginia quickly introduced her to the other thirty- and forty

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  something women at their table, all of whom were dressed in some variation of pastel designer suit, all of which looked like they had been custom designed for Laura Bush.