she was trapped under plastic.
"Um, we're not laying Tommy Archer to rest," the director shouted. "Talk, chatter, chant, 'Go,
Tommy!'"
Myla figured that was as good a command as any for her to talk to Ash. "So, my parents have
really missed you coming by for dinner." It was true. Lailah had sadly cleared the place setting
next to Myla's yesterday for the third time that week. Myla missed him too.
"Oh," Ash said, a slightly pained expression on his face. "It would be weird for me to keep
mooching off you guys, with, you know, everything."
"It's not mooching," Myla giggled, loosening up a little at Ash's odd, constipated look. "I bet
you've been living on Pop-Tarts and takeout. You're always welcome. Lucy will make your
favorite."
"Beef Wellington?" Ash's mouth curved up in a small grin. Myla felt hopeful. Maybe the way
to a man's heart was through his stomach. She'd always believed that your hair, clothing, and
attitude meant much more than a home-cooked meal. But at this point, she wouldn't have been
surprised to find she'd had it wrong all along.
A few hours later, they'd watched the cheerleaders pyramid up and stunt-fall down a billion
times. Now they were acting as the backdrop as the production crew worked to get several
takes of Jake's big Hail Mary pass. Myla was still nestled in Ash's grip, like they were here on
a date. Neither of them had brought up the Lewis fiasco. It was too awkward a topic for the
situation. And Ash had seemed proud of her when Myla told him about her truce with Jojo.
She made a point not to bore him with details of Jojo's makeover.
In front of them, Billie, Talia, and Fortune were discussing Amelie Adams, who was standing
in the shadows of the bleachers in a white asymmetrical minidress with a ridiculous frilly halo
perched on her red curls. Amelie was scolding Kady Parker, who--for the scene--was
supposed to have greased the grass where the cheerleaders formed their ill-fated pyramid.
Billie surveyed the white-blond ends of her long tresses, her cornflower blue eyes crossing
atop her nose--a perfect copy of Ashley Tisdale's new one. By the same doctor. "Amelie looks
so good with red hair. Maybe I should go red too." She exaggeratedly leaned across Fortune's
lap. Fortune squirmed, folding her arms over her narrow rib cage. She was sensitive about
having the widest hips of the group and tried to bring attention to her ample chest. Billie batted
her thickly mascaraed eyelashes at Grant.
"I was going to do that when my hair grows out," Talia said, adjusting a strand of her awkward
bob. "My hair's so much nicer when it's long," she added, her mouth just inches from Grant's
ear.
"Yeah, I can't believe I've been a boring blond for so long," Fortune muttered, pouting up at
Grant, who looked as uncomfortable as a window shopper being swarmed by a team of
salesmen. "What color hair do you think looks best on a girl, Grant?" Myla rolled her eyes,
whispering to Ash, "Red hair, right. Maybe I should dye mine."
Ash leaned toward her, seeming to look at each individual strand of her hair protectively, his
eyes falling on the inch-long chunk of hair at the back of her neck. In a furor, Myla had
violently snipped out a long strand of her hair that years earlier she'd dyed a punk-rock emerald
green at Ash's suggestion. Myla felt a tiny, not unpleasant, chill weave its way from her neck
down her spine.
"Don't go red," Ash said, his voice thick and mournful. "I love your hair." He knew he'd said
the wrong thing the second the words were out of his mouth. Saying he loved anything about
Myla to Myla right now was too fraught with significance, and he knew he needed to keep
things casual. But he couldn't help it. The idea of Myla changing anything about her beauty was
sacrilege.
Myla bit her lip to stop herself from saying something bitchy about how she wasn't at all
serious. Instead, her lips tilted into their half-smile and--locking her jade eyes on Ash's--she
said breathlessly, "I won't."
Her heart thumped in time with the BHH marching band's percussion section. She felt closer to
Ash in this stupid fake-couple setup than she had in months. She wanted to wriggle her hands
shoulder and his head. But this was still too confusing. How long would they have to pretend?
"Eyes on the field, everyone!" the director shouted through his megaphone. "This is Tommy's
big moment. Reavis has won the big game! The cheerleaders are out, so it's all on you guys to
celebrate the big victory. Remember, after this, you can go home!"
The crowd began to chant, "Tommy! Tommy!" Myla and Ash chanted too. Every so often,
Ash looked at Myla with a goofy "I can't believe we're doing this" grin.
On the field, Jake cocked his arm back like a statue of an Olympian god as three members of
the opposing team--who looked more like freshly released inmates than high school students-hurtled toward him. He released the ball into a perfect Hail Mary pass and the spinning mass of
pigskin soared down the field like it was missile-guided.
"Holy crap, Jake," Ash said approvingly. Without thinking, he squeezed Myla closer to him,
watching in suspense as the ball sailed downfield. As Myla nestled against him, Ash could feel
how easy it would be to slip back into their old ways. The Golden Couple. Their being together
was like predestination, which he'd learned about in world religions class. Were they only
capable of two extremes? Either being a full-blown couple, or out-and-out enemies? He must
have been nuts to think they could find middle ground.
The ball landed easily in the receiver's hands, and the crowd went wild. Billie, Talia, and
Fortune group-hugged a puzzled-looking Grant. Jojo and the band crowd stood up, waving
their brass wildly. Even Lewis Buford, several rows back, stood and yelled, "Yeah,
motherfucker!"
Ash and Myla were on their feet, cheering and hugging like the rest of the crowd. Ash looked
down at Myla, his eyes gleaming. Their faces were less than a foot apart, and Myla felt the
tingling sensation she got whenever Ash was about to kiss her. Civility truce be damned. She
loved Ash. She gave him her most meaningful stare and her most telling half-smile. Kiss me,
she willed her eyes to say.
Then he leaned back, held up his palm awkwardly, and said, "High five!"
What. The. Fuck. High five? Was he twelve? Myla forced her jaw back into its locked and
upright position and limply slapped his palm.
Ash smiled as he stood, and as he pulled away from her, Myla felt like he took all the oxygen
in the air with him. "Well, I gotta go. See you around?"
Her voice catching in her throat, Myla nodded. They'd known each other better than anyone
else for three years. She'd taken care of Ash when he was sick. They'd slept in the same bed.
And now they were high-fiving?
TRAIN WRECK CONDUCTOR
Ash turned onto Moreno and reached for his phone, ready to call Mulberry Pizza for a large
pepperoni-and-mushroom pie. After his weird encounter with Myla, he wanted nothing more
than to sit in his room, play the new MGMT EP on repeat, and eat until he fell asleep.
Just as he was about to hit Mulberry's number on speed dial, his phone lit up in his hand, his
dad's scowling
face on the screen.
Ash picked up. "Hey, Dad," he croaked, knowing immediately what this was about and
wishing he hadn't answered.
"Hey, Ash," Gordon said, in a too-chipper-to-be-talking-to-your-son voice. Ash could hear the
sound of hot-tub jets bubbling in the background. "So, did you forget our plan?" Gordon was
using his salesman voice, which Ash recognized from years of his dad's bargaining. As a kid,
Ash and his father had bargained and bartered over all Ash's chores--"Son, I thought you were
gonna clean your room so we could go to Toys 'R' Us," "Ash, didn't we say you couldn't have
Jake over until you finished your spelling worksheet?"
"Um, no, I didn't forget," Ash swerved in his one-handed turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard,
nearly clipping a limo making a left into the rear drive of the Beverly Hills Hilton.
"Daisy needs a tour guide, kid," Gordon said. The goofy way he said "kid" made Ash cringe.
Why was he being given an annoying grown-up responsibility if he was still a kid? "She said
she can't get a hold of you."
"I had to be in a football game scene for Class Angel. My phone was off," Ash said, hitting the
brakes hard to avoid a cluster of ladies laden with shopping bags as they crossed Santa Monica
at Rodeo Drive.
"For four days, Ash Gibson Gilmour?" Gordon said, his upbeat tone giving way to veiled
irritation.
Ash pulled the phone away from his ear and flipped it the finger at the use of his full name,
shrinking into the leather bucket seat. It was true, Daisy had called countless times over the last
few days and he'd sent the calls to voice mail, figuring his dad would call himself if it was
really important. When he'd agreed to his dad's plan at Spago the other day, he really hadn't
thought it would mean Daisy would actually call him. And he was kind of annoyed with his
dad's power. A couple little you're the only guy for the job remarks, and somehow Ash had
agreed to take on what was really just dirty work.
"I was busy," Ash lied, turning onto Beverly Drive, through Beverly Gardens Park. He turned
onto Carmelita, toward home, his ravenous appetite for Mulberry's oily slices gone.
"Daisy is waiting for you at the W in Westwood. Be there in fifteen minutes, sport," Gordon
said. "I know you don't want to. But my house, my rules. And it would mean a lot, bud."
Before Ash could protest, his dad had hung up.
Fifteen minutes later, Ash stood at the chrome front desk of the W, which looked like a giant
staircase laid on its side. He was all business as he asked the pretty desk clerk, whose blond
afro matched her golden tank top, to call Daisy's room.
She dialed, shaking her head at Ash after thirty seconds had passed. "I'm sorry, there's no
answer in Miss Morton's room."
"Okay, thanks," Ash said, smiling. He was off the hook. He'd send his dad a picture of himself
waiting in the W lobby to prove he was there--and Daisy, his pill-popping, non-bathing
prodigy--was not. Maybe he'd still get that pizza after all.
Ash walked through the lobby, toward a dimly lit seating area the W called the Living Room.
The room's flattering mood lighting made the half-dozen wannabe screenwriters hunched over
laptops look almost like GQ models instead of agoraphobic insomniacs. Ash plopped down
onto a chair that was nothing more than a huge cushion with legs. He was about to take his
photo when a familiar voice rang out.
"Is that Ash Gilmour? Finally arriving for little ol' me?"
Ash looked up. Daisy lay like an abused rag doll across a long white sofa. She clutched one of
the couch's striped pillows to her chest, covered by a flimsy tank top emblazoned with black
type that read, How Much? Her glittery yellow tutu rode up around her waist, exposing her
plaid boy shorts. One leg stretched across the table, her other bent at an uncomfortable fortyfive degree backwards angle on the couch. Both her feet were clad in R2D2 slippers.
"I'm ready to go," she said, leaping up from the couch, her limbs splayed like none of them
belonged to the same person.
Daisy looked worse standing than she did lying down. Her short hair was matted in back, a
snarl of purple and fire engine red locks clumped to her skull, and one eye drooped closed
under a heavy layer of glittery eye shadow. She looked like an asymmetrical disco queen who
needed a V8.
"Okay, let's go," Ash said, grabbing her wrist and pulling her toward the door.
Daisy let out a low whistle. "You're a rough one, eh? I like it." A little wobbly, she leaned into
him. She didn't smell like booze, so Ash wondered if she was drugged up. She waved like a
hyper child at the hostess and every person she passed, yelling, "I'll see you later. And you!
And I hope you too!"
Ash rolled his eyes. Anyone else would be getting paid to put up with Daisy's crap. All the
compensation he'd get was a "thanks, sport." If he was lucky.
After prying Daisy from the arms of the valet, who she insisted on hugging goodbye, they
were safely in the car. "Safely" being a relative term, as Daisy pushed buttons, rolled her
window up and down, and reached for the steering wheel as Ash drove.
Ash searched his head for something to do. He'd never played tour guide to a rock star before
and felt like he needed to come up with something to keep his charge occupied. It dawned on
him that Daisy was a girl, and might like some of the things Myla did. "Where to? Barneys?
Bloomingdale's? Saks?" Ash named Myla's favorite haunts near Rodeo Drive.
Daisy made a gagging noise. "Do I like look a fucking priss to you?" She rooted around in her
"purse," a vinyl kids' pencil case with Dora the Explorer on one side. "I have directions." She
fished out a piece of W stationery, on which were surprisingly neat penned directions to an
address in Hollywood.
"Well, okay," Ash said. "Where are we going?"
Daisy put a finger to her lip in a shush gesture. "Secret. You'll see when we get there."
With the directions in hand, Daisy became oddly serious, navigating and pointing out
landmarks from the passenger seat.
"You're not even going to give me a hint?" Ash asked, not moving his eyes from the road as
Daisy stared out the window. They were stuck on the busiest stretch of Hollywood Boulevard.
An army of tourists waddled along the crosswalk, headed from Mann's Chinese Cinema to the
El Capitan. Daisy screeched with delight as two impersonators of Captain Jack Sparrow, an
overweight version of Elmo with matted fur, and a Supergirl who'd long stopped being super
anything wandered in front of the Camaro.
"Maybe I should give up this music thing and do that," Daisy said, not answering Ash's
question, as a nearly seven-foot-tall black man in red platform boots, hot pants, and fierycolored angel wings sauntered past the car. "Get my photo taken with American sods on
holiday."
"Sounds good," Ash said blankly, wondering why Daisy would choose to shop here. The
Hollywood & Highland shopping center had nothing you couldn't find everywhere in L.A.
Actually, it had nothing you couldn't find everywhere in America. Ash mentally went over the
mall's stores, trying to figure out where Daisy wanted to go. Forever21, a Virgin Megastore,
Sephora, Guess, Lucky, Victoria's Secret. He winced at the idea of Daisy buying underwear.
But then Victoria's Secret probably didn't carry bourbon-fl
avored edible undies.
"Yeah, I'd be good at it. Dressing up," Daisy said, picking at some crust of indeterminate origin
on her tank top.
They parked, and Ash followed Daisy past the stores. "Everything closes soon, you know," he
told her. He glanced at the time on his iPhone. He hoped this wouldn't take all night.
"Yeah, but the bars just got busy," Daisy said, striding toward the pedestrian crossing on
Highland. They crossed and she beelined for a hole-in-the-wall bar called the Powerhouse,
sandwiched between a Chinese restaurant and a Western Union. Against his better judgment, a
vague flare of intrigue flashed in Ash's brain. As grimy as the place looked, at least Daisy
wasn't making him chaperone her to some designer store or poser nightclub.
"Follow me, love," she said, pulling him inside.
The Powerhouse was not a nice establishment, which probably explained why neither of them
was carded. The bar was a dirty gray steel, every leather stool torn or held together with duct
tape, as though the decorator had been going for something called Urinal Chic. Few lights
worked, and with no windows to the outside, it resembled a poorly lit subway stop out of a bad
horror movie. Scattered around were old men with missing teeth, a few homeless guys nursing
drinks as they guarded all their worldly possessions, and several terrified-looking hipsters
who'd probably gone in search of a real dive bar experience and gotten more than they
bargained for. Maybe a poser nightclub would have been a safer choice, Ash thought.
Seeing Ash looking around warily, Daisy patted his arm. "Don't worry, it's all bark, no bite.
They're just supposed to have really great live music, and small crowds 'cause it's kind of a
dump. The CityBeat reporter got it right." She smiled, her glossed lips parting to show off her
gleaming teeth. She turned toward the bar, standing on tiptoe and placing an order. She
stretched past a few overdressed guys who looked like lost members of Franz Ferdinand, who
both stared at her shapely legs peeking out of the tutu, and the bare skin of her back where her
tiny T-shirt rode up. Neither guy made an effort to hide the fact they were checking Daisy out,
as if her looking so right-out-of-bed gave them a right to ogle. Ash glared at the guys, feeling