Under the Lights

  Under the Lights

  Dahlia Adler

  Copyright © 2015 by Dahlia Adler

  Sale of the paperback edition of this book without its cover is unauthorized.

  Spencer Hill Contemporary / Spencer Hill Press

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Contact: Spencer Hill Press,

  27 West 20th Street, Suite 1102, New York, NY 10011 Please visit our website at www.spencerhillpress.com

  First Edition: June 2015

  Dahlia Adler

  Under the Lights: a novel / by Dahlia Adler – 1st ed. p. cm.

  Summary: Frenemies Josh and Vanessa are forced to co-star on TV, making for a tricky triangle when she falls for her publicist’s

  (female) intern.

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this fiction: Advil, American Express, American Idol, Bacardi, Band-Aid, Bang & Olufsen, The Beatles, Ben Sherman, Beverly Hills 90210, Beyoncé, Bikram Yoga, BlackBerry, Blu-ray, Botox, (Los Angeles) Clippers, The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, Coke, Cosmo, Diet Coke, Entertainment Weekly, Escalade, FaceTime, The Foo Fighters, Fred Segal, Fresca, Grand Theft Auto, Gray’s Papaya, In-N-Out, Instagram, iPod, Jack Daniels, Jacob the Jeweler, Jeep, Keurig, Korea Times, Louboutins, Louis Vuitton, NIN, Nirvana, Oreo, One Tree Hill, Patrón, Ping-Pong, Pinkberry, Post-it, Pumas, Radiohead, Rage Against the Machine, Range Rover, Screen Actors Guild Awards, Skinnygirl, Skype, Sherlock, Snow Queen, Stella Artois, System of a Down, Taylor Swift, Thermos, Transformers, Twitter, Yoda, Yves Saint Laurent, Vanity Fair, Victoria’s Secret

  Cover design by Maggie Hall

  Interior layout by Jenny Perinovic

  Cover image by Jen Grantham

  ISBN 978-1-63392-017-0 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-63392-018-7 (e-book)

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Yoni and to Maggie,

  for holding my hands through the best and the worst, both behind the scenes and under the lights

  Chapter One

  Josh

  Either my best friend or my assistant is about to punch me in the face. As usual, the fact that they’re dating really isn’t doing me any favors.

  “You barely even looked at any of them,” Ally Duncan complains through gritted teeth. She’s been working for me for over a year, but her patience hasn’t grown any in that time. I’d assume she just needs to get laid, but given she’s been with Liam Holloway for almost as long as she’s been with me, I’m all too nauseatingly aware that’s not an issue.

  “Josh, can you stop being a dick and just pick a script so she can get out of here?” Liam sounds pissed, like he’s the one responsible for finding me a new project. Which, maybe he should be. If he’d convince his damn girlfriend to stick around LA instead of running off to college, I wouldn’t have her shoving scripts in my face, desperate to make sure I’ve got one last job before she abandons me.

  “How about you stay, and I let you pick one for me?” I suggest to Ally, handing back the pile of scripts. “There. Problem solved.”

  She snorts. “Sure, I’ll just tell Columbia I’m turning them down so I can spend another year getting your dry cleaning and picking out jewelry for every girl you nail.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” I remind her.

  “Yeah, because my deferring last year was so obviously about my desire to be your slave.” Her phone beeps with a text, and I catch a quick roll of her eyes as she checks it. “It’s Van. Again. I gotta go.” She presses a kiss to Liam’s mouth before getting up from the pool chaise they’re sharing and muttering loudly enough for me to hear, “Get him to pick one already, will you?” She drops the pile in his lap.

  He squeezes her hand briefly, and we both watch her ass as she walks out to her car.

  Liam turns to me as soon as she disappears. “Dude, you have to stop that.”

  “What?” I ask innocently, taking a sip of beer from the bottle on the table next to me.

  “She’s going to New York, period. Refusing to pick a script isn’t gonna keep her here.”

  I raise my eyebrows and take another sip. “For someone who’s supposedly in love with her, you’re pretty damn chill about letting her go.”

  “I’m not letting her do anything,” he says tightly. “This is her dream. She makes her own choices, and I respect them and want her to be happy.”

  “So you’re just…totally cool with the fact that your girlfriend is moving three thousand miles away. For four years.” Liam is so full of shit.

  “She’ll be home for breaks and summers.” He’s obviously given himself this pep talk a few times. “Anyway, what am I supposed to do? Tell her not to go?”

  I shrug. “Why not? I tell her that every day.”

  “Because you’re a selfish asshole.”

  “Maybe, but at least I won’t be spending four years jacking off to Skype.”

  Liam scowls at me, and I’m guessing my grinning only makes it worse.

  “Man, you’re too easy,” I tell him, taking one last swig before putting the bottle down. “Gimme those scripts.”

  He hands over the stack, and I lie back and check out the first one. The title screams sci-fi, and I toss it aside without reading it.

  “I thought you were gonna take these seriously.”

  “I am. And I seriously do not want to put on some lame-ass futuristic outfit and prance around like a Han Solo wannabe.” I check the next one. Hmm, Meagan Scanlon. It’s tempting to consider, given she’s definitely one of Hollywood’s more bangable writers, but the title’s a dead giveaway that this is yet another one of those Jane Austen chick-flick things. Pass.

  “What’s wrong with that one?”

  “I have no interest in playing Bridget Jones with a dick.” My phone rings, and I put the scripts aside and check who’s calling. Wyatt. “Hey, cuz.”

  “Hey, your assistant still leaving?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I’ve got a friend who needs a job.”

  I snort. Of course he does. My cousin attracts losers like a game of beer pong at a frat party, and has a new favor to ask of me every hour. That’s what happens when your growth spurt never comes and you realize you peaked at eleven. “Is your friend hot?”

  “Depends. How gay are you feeling today?”

  “You stupid dick. I told you—no male assistants. Call me back when you find a hot female friend who needs a job washing my car in a thong.” I hang up and toss my phone on the pile of scripts.

  “I thought the whole point of hiring Ally was that you wanted an assistant you weren’t gonna try to nail,” says Liam.

  “Yeah, well, I’m trying not to be too picky.”

  “But no male assistants?”

  “I don’t want anyone around who’s gonna steal my shit. That means clothing or chicks.”

  “Did you seriously just refer to girls as your ‘shit’?” Liam rolls his eyes. “Christ, no wonder you’re single.”

  “Actually, I’m single because it’s fun as hell, chicks are boring after a day, and I like to sleep in the middle of my bed.” I toss the last script—one of those ensemble pieces of shit that drop your cred faster than a crotch shot—and grab my phone back to mess around on the Internet. I fucking love adoring tweets. “Remember when you used to enjoy being single?”

  “About a billionth as much as I enjoy not being single.”

  I roll my eyes.
“You’re so whipped.”

  “If you think I’ve got any shame about that, you’re talking to the wrong guy.”

  “Don’t I know it.” The truth is, for all the shit I give him about Ally, it’s cool to see Liam this happy. He’s been through so much, I can’t be pissed about this, no matter how badly I miss my top wingman. And at least Ally doesn’t suck at life. “I forget sometimes that you’re one of those happy pod people now.”

  “You will be someday, too,” he assures me with a smug grin. “And when that happens, I’ll laugh my ass off.”

  “Not a chance. Lifetime bachelor, man.” I bring the beer back to my lips, but it’s so warm it’s like drinking piss. I put it back down. “You wanna grab some boards and go down to the beach?”

  “Pick a script, Chester. Seriously. You haven’t done anything but Aspen ads in months, and Ally’s worried about you. Just try one so she can stop feeling like she’s leaving a baby on a convent doorstep by abandoning you for Columbia, will you?”

  “Oh, fuck off.” I reach back into the pile and grab one, then hand it to Liam without even looking. “There, now you can tell your girlfriend you did your job, which is really her job. And since I actually have you without her for five seconds, can we talk party?”

  He groans, and I know what’s coming. He’s convinced Ally will hate having a goodbye party, but I don’t give a crap, even though he’s probably right. If I’m losing my assistant, I’m losing her in style.

  “Don’t even think about trying to talk me out of it,” I warn him. “This party is happening, and it’s gonna be epic.”

  “Talk to Vanessa about it,” he says with a sigh. “You know I suck at this.”

  “Ah, yes, how is your former fake-girlfriend?”

  Liam glares at me. “Never mind. You’re beyond help.”

  “Oh, buy a sense of humor, Holloway. You need to get out more. What are you doing tonight?”

  “Reading scripts until Ally comes over for dinner. Probably watching a movie.”

  “You two watch more movies than anyone I know,” I say with disgust, “which, considering we’re both actors, is ridiculous. Please tell me you don’t actually watch them.”

  He shrugs, but he’s incapable of stopping a smile from spreading across his face.

  “Good man. Though I don’t know how you guys manage to do the sleepover thing so often while she’s living at home. Doesn’t she have mythical unicorn parents who actually give a crap?”

  “Yeah—that’s why we tell them she stays in your guest house when you keep her in Malibu too late. Thanks for the great excuse, by the way.”

  “Oh, come on. They don’t actually believe that shit.”

  “It’s amazing what parents will want to believe when it comes to their daughters.”

  “They must despise you.”

  He laughs. “If they do, they hide it really well. And in return, I make no references to the fact that I can find every single freckle on their daughter’s body with my eyes closed. Everybody wins.” He glances at his watch, then pushes himself up to standing. “And on that note, I gotta go. But call Van, okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” We bro-slap five, and he heads out, leaving me to my quiet backyard, a pile of crap-on-paper, and no clue how I’m gonna function without the girl who keeps my life together.

  I don’t really need a new assistant. After all, before I hired Ally, I was doing just fine with only an agent (who’s since been replaced), a manager (who quit after I hooked up with his daughter…okay, daughters), a driver, and a maid. But as I walk around my bedroom in the Malibu beach house I’ve turned into my fulltime residence, I feel like she’s inserted herself into my life as a necessity.

  Nannette’s birthday—send sunflowers! her purple pen screams from the August 4th square of the calendar she replaces on my wall every month. Always wear Ben Sherman to Esquivel—hostess is dating a designer’s brother is on a Post-it wall in the closet. Call your grandmother on Fridays at three is next to the Bang & Olufsen on my nightstand.

  Try getting your agent or manager to find out the best time to call your grandmother in her nursing home, taking into account when all her friends will be around and she can show off your name on her caller ID, essentially making her weekend. I dare you.

  That same phone rings now, which triggers a feeling of dread in my gut, like I’m one of Pavlov’s fucking puppies. Only one person calls the house phone here rather than my cell, and it’s not someone I possess any desire to talk to, ever. Unfortunately, I can’t exactly ignore her, either. I snatch the phone and drop onto my bed, answering it without bothering to glance at the screen.

  “What is it, Marsha?” I ask, already bored with the conversation that hasn’t started yet.

  “For the billionth time, Joshua, it’s Yvette. Or Mother, if you’re feeling novel.”

  I roll my eyes. Yvette is the fucking stupid name she chose when she first started auditioning a billion years ago and landed on Time Goes By, the absurd soap that’s been her baby for longer than I have. As if she’s fooling anyone into thinking she’s exotic and French instead of a one-time diner waitress from Oklahoma.

  Sort of like how she pretends she’s thirty-four, even though she’s got a nineteen-year-old son who’s more famous than she is.

  “How can I help you?”

  “You can come to dinner tonight, at the house,” she says coolly, referring to the thirty-room mansion she and my father occupy in Bel-Air, although they reside in different wings. “I thought it would be nice to eat together, as a family.”

  We have never, in as far as I can recall, done anything as a family.

  Unless it was for publicity.

  “Photo shoot?”

  She sighs. “No, Joshua, not a photo shoot. I just want us all to eat together. Is that so much to ask? Elaine is preparing those pork chops you like.”

  “I have literally no idea which pork chops you’re referring to.”

  “Seven o’clock,” she says huffily. Then her voice brightens a bit. “I look forward to seeing you then!”

  It’s hard to say who hangs up faster.

  I’m not sure when’s the last time I saw both my parents in the same room, but it’s obvious there’s something behind this stupid dinner, and I won’t find out what until I go. Just as well—I don’t have dinner plans anyway, unless you count the tequila I expect to be licking out of a belly button later. But I’m not meeting Paz and Hudson until eleven, so I jump in the shower, throw on jeans and a T-shirt I know my mother will hate, and tell my driver, Ronen, to be out front at six thirty—that should get me there about half an hour late.

  “I asked you to be here at seven, Joshua,” she says tightly when I arrive, her eyes narrowing on my outfit. “And is it so much to ask that you dress like an adult for dinner? If you’re old enough to live by yourself in the beach house, you’re old enough to put on a button-down. Go get dressed.”

  “You want me to head back out?” I jerk my thumb toward the door. “I mean, sure, but I won’t be back for a couple of hours.”

  “You have plenty of clothing in your room upstairs. Go change into something presentable and then join us.”

  “There is a photo shoot, isn’t there.”

  “Harold!” she calls out impatiently. As if my dad gives a shit what I wear to dinner.

  “Do what your mother says, Joshua,” I hear, and I look up to see him sitting at the kitchen counter, a bunch of papers spread out in front of him, a pen in his teeth. Clearly, he has no more desire to be here than I do, to the surprise of absolutely fucking nobody.

  I’m already sick of this whole night, so I choose the path of least resistance and haul my ass upstairs to get a shirt. It’s true I’ve left plenty of shit in this house. I make a mental note to have Ally deal with clearing it out. The less I have tying me to this place, the better.

  It’s almost eight by the time we actually sit down to the stupid farce of a dinner, and though I know I’ve never had Elaine’s pork chops before
, they’re pretty damn good. My mom amps up the small talk, putting her acting skills to maximum use as she pretends to give a shit about my life.

  “Have you talked to Calvin about your next project?” she asks me, taking a tiny bite of cucumber, not even pretending she’ll be eating more than half a salad for dinner.

  “I dropped Calvin a year ago,” I remind her dully, though that’s not exactly the truth of how it went down. “Holly Bremen’s my agent now.”

  “Right, right. Well, Holly, then?”

  “I’m having dinner with her tomorrow.” I exhale sharply and take a long drink from my wineglass, even though my mom’s preferred pinot noir tastes like ass. “Can we get to the point of this dinner?”

  “Joshua—”

  “He’s right, Yvette,” Harold says flatly. “I have work to do. If there’s something you need, just say it.”

  She sucks in a sharp, insulted breath and forces a single tear into her eye. It’s her signature move, and you’d think she’d know by now that it doesn’t move either me or my father for a second. We know all her soap actress shit backward and forward. “So much for the support of family. I’m really counting on you both in this difficult time.”

  “Your parents are already dead, Yvette, so whatever it is, just spit it out.”

  I nearly choke on my wine when I laugh. I forgot just how much of a dick my father can be.

  “My show’s been canceled,” she says icily. “You happy now, asshole?”

  Huh. For a second, I think I might actually feel… bad for my mother. Granted, she’s a pretty lousy actress, and the show’s terrible, but it’s her entire fucking life. She was on that show when she met my dad. Her pregnancy with me is actually documented in some sort of terrible borderline-incest storyline. When I was little, I used to think it was cool to watch those episodes and point myself out in her belly. At least until she’d shut off the TV because she hated the way seeing herself pregnant reminded her of having cankles.

  Harold must feel the same twinge of sympathy I do, because he actually musters up an “I’m sorry to hear that, Yvette.”