The F List: A celebrity romance Read online

  I nodded like I was considering it. I picked up my beer and caught Johno watching me. His mouth curled into a smile, and he gave me a nod—as if he knew exactly what was going on in my head.

  If he did, I wish he’d explain it to me.

  44

  #iknowwhereemmais

  EMMA

  “Slow down,” Wesley hissed.

  I obeyed, letting up on the gas pedal as the Mario-driven cart careened toward the curve. Beside me, Wesley yanked the wheel hard to the left, then right. From my spot on the floor, hidden under his bed, I peered through the bed skirt and applied more brake.

  The set up was built for one person, with gas and brake pedals and a steering wheel with boost buttons built in. We had divided up the controls so that we could both play — I laid on my stomach with the gas and brake pedals in hand, and he sat beside me, his back against the dresser, and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. The arrangement worked well since he struggled with orchestrating both sets of controls at the same time.

  Cash had gotten him the set for his last birthday, but this was the first opportunity I'd had to use it with him. Usually, I tried to get him outside. Given that I was a bit of a fugitive at the moment, his bedroom seemed a safer spot.

  Wesley had had no difficulty in grasping the concept of hiding. He had grown excited the minute I’d tiptoed into his room, then nodded with glee as I’d raised my finger to my mouth and asked him to stay silent. Now, he made a loud screeching sound as his car skidded around the track, knocking another cart out of bounds.

  We finished fourth, and he cheered, dropping the remote and holding his hands above his head. "WINNER!"

  I smiled, setting the pedals down, and stretched as best I could.

  “When do you have to leave?” It was his standard question, always posed as soon as he saw me, then peppered at me every fifteen minutes of my visits.

  I rolled onto my side and found one of his Hot Wheels cars, then flicked the back of it so that it journeyed across the tile and bumped into his leg. “I thought I’d have a sleepover. What do you think about that?”

  He rolled down on his stomach so that he was eye line with me. “I’ve never had a sleepover before. Is it allowed?”

  I frowned. “I’m guessing it is not allowed, so I’ll leave before you wake up, and we’ll have to keep me a secret.”

  “Like a pirate castaway?” He said hopefully.

  “Exactly.” I grinned at him. “Think we could do that?”

  He nodded, and for the next five hours, I stayed hidden. First under the bed, then sitting in the corner hidden behind the recliner. We played Mario Cart, then a game of Uno, then he left to participate in group time and exercise.

  I curled into a ball on his bed, hidden by the covers, and thought through this. I knew the rounds and staff schedules. I could easily avoid seeing someone and had my volunteer uniform on if someone did spot me on my way out. Inside the gates, the staff was focused on where the residents were, not looking for anyone else.

  Night fell, and I made a pallet on the floor of Wesley's closet while he ate a group meal. Once he came back, I moved there, my knees pointed to the ceiling and listened to Wesley talk to his brother. I held my breath when Cash asked him about his day, but Wesley lied with a surprising amount of talent, though he was a little overdramatic in his steadfast assertion that NOTHING exciting to him happened, all day. NOTHING.

  "You sound sad," Wesley said. "I'm sad too because nothing happened today. I didn’t play Wii, or Uno, or Hot Wheels cars.”

  “I’m not sad,” Cash said. “I’m just tired.”

  “Is the show going to be good?”

  Cash chuckled. “I don’t know, bud. It’s kind of up in the air right now. We lost one of our actresses.”

  I stayed very still, tilting my ear toward the door as I tried to hear.

  “Look under the bed,” Wesley said promptly. “Most things roll under the bed.”

  Cash laughed. “I don’t think she rolled under the bed, Wes. I think she ran away.”

  “Like Peter Pan?”

  “Yeah. Like Wendy from Peter Pan. But she doesn’t have a group of other kids with her.”

  “Remember when I ran away?”

  This was a story I didn't know, and I curled onto my side and tucked my hands under my ear, listening for more.

  “I do. I was very scared.”

  “Are you scared for the actress?”

  “No. She’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.”

  Wesley was silent for a long moment. “When are you coming to see me?”

  “Not for a month, bud. Unless we get a break, but the schedule is every day right now, which is during visitors hours.”

  “Sneak in,” Wesley insisted.

  “I can’t sneak in, buddy. That’s not allowed.”

  I eased open the partition door and looked at Wesley, who was starting to get worked up. I could see it in the stubborn set of his lip and the clench of his fist. I met his eyes and tapped my finger against my lips in a reminder to him to stay quiet about me.

  “I got to go, Wesley. Sleep tight. I love you.”

  “Love you too,” he mumbled, sullen. He ended the call and swung his legs off the bed, then pushed onto his feet. Getting onto his knees, he crawled over to my opening in the door. “Hey,” he whispered.

  "Hey. Good job keeping our secret." I held out my fist, and he gently bumped it with his own.

  “Can you sneak my brother in here too?”

  I scrunched up my nose. “I don’t think so. He doesn’t have my super special pass.”

  “Maybe he can buy one. He has a lot of money.”

  “Hmmm…” I nodded. “That’s one idea. I’ll think about it.”

  "Okay." He put his palms on the floor and lurched to his feet. "Good night, Miss E.”

  I smiled at his nickname for me. “Night night.”

  He fell asleep quickly, the sound of his snores comforting in their regularity. It took me a lot longer. This situation was fucked up. I was hiding in the closet of a care facility, with who knew how many people looking for me. I'd punched Cash Mitchell, who was probably pressing charges against me. And, paired with the Vidal assault case, I was turning into a danger to society. I had gone my entire life without violence and was suddenly swinging fists as if I was a prizefighter. What the hell was I thinking?

  I should have just kissed him. Kissing him wouldn’t have gotten me into legal trouble. Kissing him wouldn’t have gotten me kicked off the show, and that was probably the next step. When Nina hit Johnny on Real World Portland, she had her bags packed and was off the set before the episode was even over. Michelle would probably fire me as a client, and Vidal would crow success over this until he was blue in the face.

  At least I had been able to come here. I’d had my ranch uniform and badge in the trunk of my car and come straight here, parking on the far side of the lot, behind the school bus they use for excursions. I'd gone in through the kitchen, had avoided other staff and slipped into Wesley's room undetected. And no one, including Bojan, knew that I volunteered here.

  I was safe for now but had to go back to the mansion in the next few hours. Once the 6 a.m. morning shift started, there would be people everywhere.

  I closed my eyes. Or, maybe, I could just stay here forever.

  45

  #hey

  CASH

  I was in bed when Emma came into my room. I heard the door click open and rolled over, expecting to see a crew member, and half-sat up when I saw her delicate profile move through the darkness.

  She sat on the edge of my bed. “Hey,” she said softly.

  I said nothing. Underneath the sheet, I was naked, which was unfortunate, but I'd jacked off sometime around three a.m. and hadn't bothered to pull my underwear back on.

  She reached over and gingerly touched my jaw. “I’m really sorry.”

  I turned my head, pulling away from her touch. “It’s fine. Doesn’t hurt, though I’ll proba
bly bruise.”

  "I didn't—" she paused. "I shouldn't have hit you. I'm really sorry. I swear, violence is not my go-to. I just… I just got confused."

  “We thought it might have been part of your script.”

  At that, she flushed. Looking down at her hand, she shook her head. “No. Absolutely not. That was all stupid me.”

  “You might want to look into anger management.”

  “I need to look into a lot,” she admitted. “Anger management being trumped by a list of things.”

  “Like what?”

  Her eyes met mine. “Like…” She paused, and I could feel the war of emotions in play. What to admit, what not to, how truthful to really be, during this moment of peace.

  I wait and mentally urged her to just spit it out. If I was ever going to stop hating this woman—I needed her to open up with me.

  She swallowed. “Like insecurities. A need to be seen. That probably trumps my anger issues, which I swear—aren’t that bad.”

  A lock of her thick blonde hair fell in front of her eyes, and I reached over, then paused when she stiffened, withdrawing slightly.

  “It’s just your hair,” I said quietly. “Here.” I carefully tucked it behind her ear. “You’re always seen, Emma. You don’t have to do anything extra for that.”

  “Ha.” She looked away, and the moonlight from the window illuminated her profile. “You’re so wrong about that. You were born into the circus, Cash. You don’t know what life is like outside of it.”

  She looked down and picked at the fabric of the sheet, and I shifted away, aware of how thin the material was between us.

  "I should go." She went to stand, and I grabbed her hand, keeping her in place.

  “Don’t punch me,” I warned.

  She smiled, and I think it was the first, genuine smile that I had seen since the night of my party. “I’m not going to punch you.”

  “Stay here for a minute.” I scooted back on the mattress and patted the space. “Lay down.”

  “That’s a joke, right? I’ve seen the way you look at me. You hate me.”

  She hadn't seen the way I looked at her—not if that is what she thought. Though, I could see how things could be a little confusing. Because I did hate her—or rather, what she had become. But I could also, at times, see glimpses of a different girl. This girl.

  And she—the girl from the party—was why I was here, in this ridiculous house, with two dozen strangers.

  ‘It was ingenious, really, pulling all the camera crews off and leaving the front gate open. We were ready, of course, when she came in. We already had hidden cameras in all of the smoke alarms and vents, but I don't think any of us expected her to go into the guy's room. And when Cash invited her into his bed, I swear—the four of us huddled around the computer screen in the monitor room all held our breath. We didn't know what she was going to do. Matt thought she was going to punch him again. But she literally laid down next to him. Emma Blanton! Laying next to Cash Freaking Mitchell. Oh my god, we screen-shotted that image a dozen times. And we stayed there—for two more hours, listening to them, but they didn't say another word. They just laid there, facing each other, him underneath the sheet and her on top. And then, right around dawn, she rolled out of his bed and went to her room.

  It was epic. You wouldn’t think that two people just lying there would be epic, but it was.”

  Lauren Flan, Assistant Director, House of Fame

  47

  #walkofshame

  CASH

  I walked downstairs the next morning with no idea of what I was getting into. Emma was perched at the kitchen counter, a sprinkled donut in hand, and glanced up at me, then lifted a few fingers of her hand in a wave.

  I nodded at her and headed for the coffee, fumbling with the single-serve packet and brewer lid.

  Johno came beside me and made a show of opening the cabinet to get a cup. “When did she get back?” he muttered.

  I shrugged, then managed to get the pod in place.

  "Okay, since there are four of you here, I'll get this out now, then update Eileen and Layton once they are up." Dana walked to the center of the kitchen and tented her fingers together as if she was about to deliver something profound. I leaned against the counter and waited. Emma picked a sprinkle off her donut and avoided looking at anyone. "Yesterday was a disaster, obviously. We've spoken with Emma and the D.A.'s office, and they will not be filing charges, but we are officially on their radar, which isn't a good thing. And the press has caught wind of things. So, some rules." She cleared her throat and looked around, making sure that we were all listening. "First, and I can't believe this has to be said, no hitting anyone." She glared at Emma. "Okay?"

  Emma took a bite out of the donut and stared back at Dana with a level of backbone you couldn’t help but respect.

  "Second, every tweet, post, story, and snap has to be run by our team before it goes out. Do NOT make me take your phones from you. We need a spoiler-free season, and I want you spilling your emotions in the confessional booth, not on social media. Emma, everyone hit the confessional booth yesterday except for you, so finish breakfast and go with Jonah. Cash," she looked at me. "We want you to go in again. In fact…" she straightened up as if she'd just had an idea. "Let's get the two of you in together."

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Emma said.

  I nodded. “Yeah. I thought the point of the confessional was—”

  “The point of the confessional is whatever the hell I want it to be,” Dana snapped. “And thanks to you guys, we're having to rewrite storylines for the entire season, so stop being difficult and do what you're told."

  Beside me, a trickle of dark black liquid splattered into my cup. Johno mumbled something under his breath, and Dana's attention ricocheted to him. "Johno, we're filming you and Layton today discussing what happened yesterday while you hang out at the beach. Lay off the donuts because we're going to be showing plenty of abs."

  Marissa, who had been quiet until now, pipped up. “When will we see the new storylines?”

  “Soon,” Dana promised, which meant we’d probably have them in hand minutes before the cameras rolled.

  I had a bigger issue than Marissa’s storylines—the fact that I was about to be side-by-side with Emma, on camera, while they unleashed whatever horrible questions they had lined up. Yesterday’s confessional had been a careful avoidance of minefields that I had skirted without issue, thanks in large part to my years of training as Jocelyn Mitchell’s son. My mother’s emotional manipulation made this—all of this—transparent. I wasn’t worried about me, but Emma—I had no idea how Emma would handle it.

  Dana looked down and tapped the front of her watch. “Cash, take that coffee with you. Let’s get both of you to hair and makeup before we lose another hour.”

  “Good luck, guys,” Marissa drawled. “Try not to hit each other in there.” She smiled sweetly at me as she passed, a green juice in hand. There was a clod of something in her teeth that missed the juice strainer.

  I said nothing, and she passed. Emma was still in place on her stool, one bare leg hanging loose from a pair of baggy boxers that had emojis all over it. She wore a boatneck sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder and had her hair twisted into a low and messy bun. I tried to remember what she was wearing last night when she had come into my room. Not the bikini. A collared shirt, turned inside out. I remember tracing my finger over the back of the embroidery, about to ask her about it, when she pushed my hand away.

  Now she stood and crumbled the napkin in her hand, then licked the sugar from the tops of her fingers. Between us, Dana stood like a court marshal, her gaze darting between us. Emma took her time in moving to the trash can, her bare foot (pale blue pedicure) stepping on the lid lever with almost excruciatingly slow precision. Dropping the napkin in, she moved past me and to the sink. I stayed in place, hyper-aware of her behind me as she turned on the water and washed her hands. She was a thorough washer, and I could see the irr
itation building in Dana's eyes as she watched the entire process through narrowed slits of dark eye shadow. Finally, the water flow ended.

  “I’ll be in hair and makeup.”

  I didn't turn, didn't look, but heard every sound Emma made as she left the kitchen and headed down the hall.

  Dana’s gaze flicked to me. “Did you have a good night, Cash?”

  The question was loaded with meaning, none of which I wanted to dissect. I grabbed my coffee cup and left.

  48

  #confessional

  CASH

  My parents were Catholic, when they decided to acknowledge a religion, so the confessional was a concept I was familiar with. MTV’s was set up in the laundry room, with sheets hung in front of the washer and dryer, two microphones sticking in your face, and a small loveseat crammed in between the cabinet and the wall. The loveseat was roomy for one, but crowded for two. Emma wedged herself in as best she could, our legs pinching together, then opted to sit on the arm of the sofa.

  “There, is that okay?”

  “Her head’s cut off,” an operator mused. “Can you scoot back, honey?”

  “Or slouch,” another remarked.

  There were four crew members, plus Dana, who crouched in front of the camera, a headset on, her coffee cup cradled in both hands.

  After five minutes of discussion and testing, we managed a shot that included all of Emma yet hid the fact that my elbow was brushing against a jug of detergent.

  “Emma, why did you punch Cash?”

  Beside me, she shifted, and I watched as the toe of her sandal twitched. She had a chip in the polish of her big toe, and that shouldn't have been endearing, but it was. "I don't know. He was there. He was annoying me. I—"