The A-List: Hollywood Royalty #1 Read online

  scratchy comforter in Sacramento, a trail of drool on Fozzie Bear's black plastic nose. Slowly,

  she lifted her lids: The SUV was still there. She stared at the tinted windows, unable to see

  anything through the glass.

  This was it. Her parents--her birth parents--were in there, waiting to see her for the first time.

  She breathed in the dry air. Tugging her black cotton tee to straighten the seam, Jojo edged

  toward the waiting SUV. "Stay calm," she muttered to herself, praying she wouldn't trip.

  The driver reached the car first, swiftly tossing Jojo's bag into the trunk. He moved to the back

  passenger door and nodded at her, his hand on the door handle. Jojo took a deep breath and

  hurled herself into the backseat, a set of two long benches that faced each other.

  As the car pulled away from the curb, she looked up to see two very familiar faces.

  Ho. Ly. Shit.

  Lailah Barton and Barkley Everhart sat less than an inch apart on the leather seat across from

  her, hands clasped as they stared at Jojo. Lailah's dark tumble of hair fell loosely against the

  neckline of a white boatneck sweater, her famous eyes hidden behind a pair of gold Hermès

  aviator sunglasses. Her long, toned legs were crossed neatly at the ankle, though she nervously

  jiggled a Manolo-clad foot. Next to her, Barkley, in a pair of jeans and a white button-down,

  was all shoulders and chiseled jaw, his boyishly rumpled dirty blond hair looking like it needed

  a trim.

  In sixteen years of living in Sacramento, Jojo had racked up three celebrity sightings: (1) Gwen

  Stefani, but it didn't count since she and Willa had paid to see her in concert; (2) some skinny

  dude from an ancient season of the Real World, who'd come to their school to talk about drugs;

  and (3) the back of Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, during a field trip to the state capitol

  building.

  Now she was sitting across from the king and queen of Hollywood. Also known as Mom and

  Dad.

  "Barbar," Jojo said to herself, except she accidentally said it aloud. She winced. All those pep

  talks in the mirror, and she'd seriously just said her parents' tabloid nickname to their faces?

  She wondered how fast the car was moving, and if it was safe to jump out.

  Lailah pulled off her sunglasses, probably to stare Jojo down as she politely asked her to leave.

  But then Barkley smiled, displaying his famous dimple. Lailah's stunning violet blue eyes--just

  like hers, Jojo realized--misted over.

  "Mom and Dad is fine . . . Josephine." Barkley chuckled as Lailah tightened her grip on his

  hand.

  "If you're comfortable with that, of course," Lailah added, her eyes hopeful beneath a dark

  fringe of lashes.

  And then it hit her: They were nervous, too. Lailah's foot was still jiggling, and Barkley looked

  like he had a metal rod for a spine. Jojo was surprised she couldn't hear their hearts beating

  across the backseat.

  She grinned, suddenly at ease. "Mom and Dad is great. And you can call me Jojo."

  At that, her parents' tentative expressions faded. Before Jojo knew what was happening,

  Barkley and Lailah were on her side of the aisle, folding themselves into seats on either side of

  her.

  "We're so glad you're here," Lailah breathed, her graceful hand touching Jojo's hair.

  "I still can't believe it," Barkley said, tenderly grabbing Jojo's hand.

  And then, without asking permission--because it hardly seemed necessary--her parents

  wrapped her up in a tight, breathless hug.

  Even though Sacramento was hundreds of miles away, this felt oddly familiar. It felt like

  coming home.

  CAN'T GET NO SATISFACTION

  Ash rolled over on his maroon sheets, thin rays of sunlight poking through his blinds. He

  didn't want it to be Sunday. From Friday afternoon on, his life had been perfect. Why spoil it?

  He inched closer to Myla's lithe frame, careful not to wake her. She'd been napping on and off

  since she got back, and he loved watching her sleep. Even better was when she woke up in a

  haze and they kissed and cuddled and ate takeout from the Ivy off Lucite trays in Ash's bed. He

  loved having her all to himself, too: Myla had set her phone to go straight to voice mail so her

  gossipy friends couldn't reach her.

  Her back was to him, her shiny, long hair splayed across the pillow. Ash gently ran his

  fingertips over it. It had never felt as soft as it did today. Though he knew it was probably just

  her Bumble and Bumble Creme de Coco masque, Ash felt like her hair had softened from

  being within his reach again.

  Myla was the person he talked to, hung out with, his best friend. Not having her around all

  summer had meant he was bored, especially since everyone else had been traveling or working

  as interns in the "development" departments of their parents' studios, agencies, and production

  companies. Ash had tried to swing an internship at his dad's label, More Records, but his father

  hadn't wanted him on board. "An internship? You mean free labor? I'd be getting what I paid

  for, wouldn't I?" Gordon Gilmour prided himself on such choice nuggets of wisdom,

  dispensed in short bursts during the infrequent cell phone conversations he had with his son.

  For his part, Ash hadn't tried all that hard to convince his dad to give him a job. He was

  seventeen. He had music to listen to, rock bands to dream up, and the occasional waves to surf.

  Who needed a job?

  Still, Ash had gotten lonely. Really lonely. Gordon lived in Malibu with his new supermodel

  wife and their two young kids, leaving Ash practically alone in the Italian Renaissance-style

  home Gordon still kept in Beverly Hills. After divorcing his dad, Ash's mom had moved to

  Austin, Texas, capitalizing on her ex-husband's music scene credibility to start the Gilmour, a

  music venue for hot underground rock bands. His older sister, Tessa, had chosen to stay in

  Berkeley for the summer--she'd be a junior there this fall. For three whole months, Ash had felt

  like an island, actually looking forward to the days the maids came to clean. A guy could only

  get baked and play "Stairway to Heaven" on Rock Band so many times.

  Ash lay back down on his pillow, wishing he and Myla had more time before school started

  tomorrow. They hadn't gotten to do any of their usual summer stuff, like throwing huge theme

  parties at Ash's house, going to concerts at the Roxy and the Troubadour, floating on rafts in

  Myla's pool, and drinking cocktails they'd invented themselves. Plus, he'd finally gotten his

  license. They could have road-tripped to Coachella this summer instead of having one of their

  drivers take them.

  Myla stirred, rolling onto her back, her chest barely covered by her Hanky Panky lace cami.

  Even though Myla was self-conscious about her small chest, Ash loved it. She reminded him

  of one of those 1960s mod girls, with the little dresses and the go-go boots. Ash had a thing

  for girls in boots. Maybe from all the superhero comics he'd read back when he still hung out

  with his next-door neighbor Jacob.

  "Morning," Myla said, half-opening her green eyes.

  "Morning, you." Ash reached for the strand of green hair right at the nape of her neck. He'd

  been relieved at the airport to see it was still there, and that she still wore her Green Lantern

  ring on the chain around her neck. After a summer of barely hearing from her, part o
f him had

  worried she'd moved on. "Still jet-lagged?"

  Myla shook her head. "I finally feel like a human again."

  "You still haven't told me about your trip, what you saw, what you did." Ash laughed

  suggestively--they had been too busy getting reacquainted in other ways. Well, not that way-he and Myla hadn't done it yet. But soon. He was sure of it. They would be ready.

  "Do good this, do good that." Myla yawned. "Blah, blah, blah. Then seven actually fun days in

  Paris. Isabelle says hi, by the way."

  "Oh." Ash lazily rubbed the soft skin in the bend of Myla's elbow. His eyes fell on the webcam

  he'd bought her for her Mac Air laptop. He'd asked for an address where he could mail it this

  summer--he'd wanted to talk to her, face-to-pixelated-face, on their anniversary--but she'd never

  responded. He'd also bought a promise ring, a platinum and emerald version of Myla's bubble

  gum ring, that he'd planned to give to her over the webcam.

  "Oh yeah, happy anniversary," he said, hating how whiny his voice sounded. "July twentyfirst. Three years." He felt like a baby, but saying the words out loud made him feel as alone

  and frustrated as he had on the actual day of their anniversary. He'd sat waiting at his computer

  for some acknowledgment of his e-mail, but Myla had been MIA. Like she'd been all summer

  long.

  Myla sat up, the covers rumpled around her waist, instantly defensive. She'd actually sat

  around at a crappy Internet café all day on the twenty-first, feeling neglected and sad. What she

  hadn't realized--until her mom laughingly pointed it out--was that because of the time difference

  it was still the twentieth for Ash. She would have written him, but he was supposed to come to

  her. She was the one suffering thousands of miles away, not him. Then, on the right day, she'd

  been traveling by Jeep to Bobby's mud-hut village, and she hadn't been able to get back online

  for a week. Plus, her family kept going from one place to the next, so she never had even a

  semipermanent address for the camera Ash wanted to send. "I didn't forget. That was the same

  day Bobby met his parents in some crazy village in Madagascar. Outside Betatao or something

  like that. Even dial-up was impossible, or I would have e-mailed you back sooner. I'm sorry."

  Ash, still in just his hunter green boxer briefs, rose from the bed and walked over to his desk,

  wishing he hadn't mentioned their anniversary at all. He flopped down in his Aeron chair in

  front of his MacBook Pro, slouching dramatically with his back to her. "Whatever. Let's not

  fight."

  Myla reached for her bag, grabbing her James Perse tee and throwing it on over her underwear.

  She wanted to pull Ash's stupid floppy hair right now, he was being such a baby. She was the

  one who'd spent her summer sleeping under mosquito nets and craving iced blendeds. Like

  she'd wanted to spend her summer vacation a million miles away from her boyfriend. "What do

  you want from me?" She stood up, pulling her shirt down so it covered her boy shorts. "I

  tried."

  Ash just stared at his Facebook page. "Yeah, you tried," he finally said, not looking at her as he

  clicked through his friend Tucker's photos from Rome.

  Myla flopped down on the bed, twirling her ring around on its gold chain. She was back for

  thirty-six hours, and he was trying to drag her into an argument? No way. Today all she

  wanted was to watch movies in Ash's dad's super-air-conditioned screening room, cuddling

  and feeding Ash popcorn.

  "You know, up until now I thought I was the girl in this relationship," Myla teased, walking up

  behind Ash and putting her hands on his bare shoulders. "But you're acting kinda needy."

  Ash shook her off, his eyes still centered on his screen. He started checking his Gmail.

  Myla felt irritation prickle her caffeine-deprived skin and pulled her hands away. What was his

  problem? A good boyfriend would have planned some amazing welcome-home day for her,

  but Ash wanted to sulk? "Just because you had nothing to do all summer, don't take it out on

  me."

  "I was busy," Ash countered, picking up a shirt off the floor and pulling it on. "Busy thinking

  about you, since you didn't keep in touch."

  Myla turned to face him. With her hand on her hip, she was framed perfectly in Ash's closet

  mirror, so he could get an eyeful of her front and back. It would have made a cool album cover,

  Ash thought, if she wasn't so obviously pissed off.

  "I'm so sorry your social life sucks so bad that because I couldn't get a fucking Internet

  connection in New Delhi you were like ... bored." Take that, you codependent baby, she

  thought. Her eyes landed on Ash's guitar stand. Hanging from it was a beat-up Rolling Stones

  shirt that was a memento from their first date, a concert they'd gone to in eighth grade. They'd

  gone to the Avalon to see the Rolling Stones play a secret set for a very small crowd. It was

  Myla's first concert. She and Ash had gone backstage and met the whole band, who were

  totally old and a little gross but had been really nice and signed the shirt for them. An aspiring

  rocker, Ash had been in heaven, but he'd said they should share the shirt from then on. It

  wasn't the most flattering thing, but she loved to wear it. The scent of Ash's room clung to its

  soft cotton, making it beyond comforting.

  Ash brushed her off. He sat back down at the computer, turning away from her again. "Don't

  worry about my social life. I had plenty of opportunities."

  "What opportunities? Tucker and Geoff were in Rome, so I know they didn't invite you to

  some radical bong-smoking fest with those Circle K burnouts in Culver City." She shook out

  her jeans with a snap to punctuate the statement. Tucker Swanson and Geoff Schaffer were

  Ash's closest friends, and the ones Myla disliked most.

  "No, not Geoff and Tucker. Cassie Eastman." Ash half-spun in his chair, sounding pleased

  with himself.

  Myla thought of the big-chested blonde in their class at BHH. "Easy Eastman?" she asked,

  hoping that she sounded derisive rather than scared. Ash couldn't have been hanging out with

  that skank, could he? She started to pull on her jeans, quickly realizing they were backwards.

  "Call her whatever bitchy nickname you want," Ash said coolly. If he just kept his voice

  mellow, Myla would get really worked up and jealous. Then he would confess that nothing had

  happened with Cassie. He had bumped into her at the Barnes & Noble at the Grove, and she'd

  practically undressed while hitting on him. If that weren't gross enough, he'd been instantly

  turned off when he saw her carrying Clay Aiken's new CD. Besides, she was no Myla.

  Myla righted her pants. Had Ash really hooked up with Cassie Eastman? Myla knew that Ash

  had been waiting a long time to have sex . But would he just throw away their history for a

  good time with the least challenging girl at BHH? "At least my boobs are real," she spat. It was

  the best she could think of.

  "Really nonexistent, maybe," Ash said, immediately regretting it.

  Myla felt like she'd been slapped. He knew that would hurt. He could joke around about her

  family, her personality, even--on rare occasions--her taste in shoes. But rule number one was

  you did not dwell on her membership in the Itty-Bitty Titty Committee. Myla bit her lip,

  fighting back tears. At least he was showing what he really thought about her body. She'd

 
spent all summer wishing she wasn't thousands of miles from Ash, and he'd spent the summer

  hitting on other girls? "Why don't you call Cassie, then? She sounds like the skank of your

  dreams," she muttered, trying to keep her voice from cracking.

  "You know what? Maybe I will." Ash inched to the corner of his room where his guitar stand

  stood. On it hung their shared Rolling Stones shirt. He always put it on when he was having a

  bad day. It smelled flowery and sweet, like Myla.

  "Are we done, Ash?" Myla took her phone from the nightstand and tossed it angrily into her

  bag, not looking at him.

  Ash slumped onto his overstuffed hunter green couch, running his fingertips along the sagetinted piping. He reached between the cushions, feeling the box that held the promise ring. He

  choked down the bile welling up in his throat, angrily squeezing the ring box. No way was he

  going to give Myla some huge, meaningful gift when she was ruining what was supposed to

  be an amazing reunion. And he was done with this stupid argument.

  He nodded, slowly. "Yeah, just go."

  Myla's knees trembled, and she fought to remain standing. Ash was supposed to rush to her.

  Embrace her. Say, "I'm an idiot, Myla. I know you would have called if you could have. I'll

  make it up to you." Not dump her.

  She coolly plucked the Rolling Stones shirt from the guitar stand, her face inscrutable.

  Ash watched Myla, his stomach lurching. He thought he'd said yes to ending the argument, to

  Myla leaving until they both cooled off. But had he instead said yes to them breaking up?

  "I guess that's that, then," she said, dropping the shirt into her vast bag. She vanished from

  Ash's room without turning back to look at him once.

  LIMITED TIME OFFER

  "More couscous hash browns, Jojo? Or eggs Benedict?"

  In all her screen roles, Lailah Barton had never served a soul. With a laser-beam stare that

  communicated sex, wealth, power, and steely determination, she was always believable as the

  woman who got what she wanted--top-secret information, the upper hand, the unattainable guy.

  And yet here she was, her dark hair pulled into a librarian's bun, holding a platter of eggs under

  Jojo's nose.

  But Lailah Barton was no average suburban mom. With her hair up, Jojo could see Lailah's