The F List: A celebrity romance Read online

  “Wait.” Dana stood, blocking the shot. “This isn’t working. I need to feel more animosity between you too. Cash.” She looked at me. “It’s been less than 24 hours before you were cold-cocked by this bitch.”

  I frowned. “Don’t call her that.”

  “It’s okay,” Emma drawled. “The shoe fits.”

  I leveled Dana with a glare. “Don’t call her that.”

  She slowly squatted back down, and from this angle I could see a slice of bright purple underwear up the edge of her shorts. "Yes, keep that irritated look on your face. Just—point it toward Emma. You guys hate each other, remember?"

  Emma cleared her throat. “Anyway, it was stupid. I wasn’t thinking. I did it.”

  "Because you were mad at him? He was laughing at you," the moderator prodded. "You had just accused him of hiding the phone message because he was afraid of competing with you, and he started to laugh."

  “Yeah,” Emma managed. “I was mad. He was being a jerk.”

  I scrunched up my face at that.

  “Cash, do you view Emma as competition?”

  “No.” I hastened to explain. “I mean, not that she isn’t good enough to be my competition. But we have different audiences. There’s no reason why my agent can’t also represent her. I’m not going to lose a sponsor over her. They could have both of us.”

  “Oh, that’s kind of you,” Emma said sweetly. I looked over, and she gave me a sardonic smile.

  “What?” I countered. “What was wrong with what I just said?”

  “It’s just interesting that now you’re all of a sudden Mr. Helpful and Accommodating. Oh, Emma,” she intoned, in a masculine voice that was no doubt me, “there’s plenty of followers for all us.” She twisted to me, her eyes sharpening, and I wondered how much of this was for the cameras, and how much was authentic. “If we can all succeed together, why do you constantly attempt to keep me down?”

  “What are you talking about?” I turned to face her, my butt cramming into the opposite end of the loveseat. "I helped you. No one would know who Emma Blanton was without me.”

  “You honestly believe that, don’t you? You honestly think that you alone are responsible for everything I’ve busted my butt for?” She pushed to her feet and turned around, jabbing a finger in my chest.

  “No punching…” Dana warned.

  I grabbed her finger and rose, the action causing a mad scramble of cameras and riggings as they tried to fit us both into the shot. “I think that from the moment you ate my lunch at Frenchy’s, you’ve milked every possible interaction with me to get the biggest media coverage you can.”

  Her eyes held mine, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think we were about to kiss. I certainly wanted to. I bet her mouth took as well as it gave. If she’d fight me or melt. Kiss back or concede. I wanted to taste the sugar and donut sprinkles and deepen our kiss until her back was sinking into the loveseat cushion and my knees were settling in on either side of her, and her hand was on the drawstring of my shorts, and her breath was ragged against my lips, and she was—

  “I hate you.” She said it simply and sadly, then stepped back, pulling her hand free of mine. “Do me a favor and stay away from me.”

  "Yeah, that's not going to happen if we can help it," Dana spoke up. "Can you both sit back down please?"

  "No." I reached up and undid the mic tucked behind my ear. "I'm done."

  “Done for like fifteen minutes, okay?” Dana scurried after me, ducking under lighting rigs and hopping over cord lines as she tried to catch up. “Because then we need to shoot you doing some laps in the pool.”

  “Yeah, fine.” I bit out. “Fifteen minutes.”

  I didn't look back, so I don't know what Emma did, but I didn't see her again for the rest of that day.

  “We all thought it was going to happen. He was looking down at her and holding her hand on his chest and the electricity between them was popping all over the place. He was about to kiss her, and Emma had to kiss him back. I mean, come on—he's CASH MITCHELL. If there's a hotter guy in Hollywood, I don't know of him. And he's so freaking nice. I was working on a lighting rig the day before, and he stopped to help, because I was having trouble reaching the connector. Like… the other cast members don't even see us. But he did, and he asked me how my day was going, and if I was looking up at him and he wanted to kiss me, I'd fling my arms around his neck in a New York minute.

  After he left, Dana asked Emma if it was true, what Emma had said—about hating him. And Emma said the strangest thing. She said that sometimes you say things because you have too, not because you mean them. And Dana asked what she meant by that—which was the same question I had. I mean, what does that even mean? But Emma didn’t give her anything else. She said ‘next question’ as if she was the president, and we were all just members of the press. I thought Dana would push it, but she didn’t. Dana just moved on.

  What Dana didn't ask, and what all of us were waiting for—was why Emma went to Cash's room last night. But I think she wanted to catch that moment in front of Cash. And we had time. We had five more weeks ahead of us.”

  Lauren Flan, Assistant Director, House of Fame

  50

  #thinking

  EMMA

  I didn’t know if I could do five more weeks of this. It’d only been a few days, and I’d already punched Cash and crawled into his bed. There was a very real possibility that I would either kill him or fall in love with him, and I’d already spent five years obsessing over the man. If I fell past the stage of infatuation and into genuine emotion… what then?

  For him, it would be fun. For me, it would be disastrous. Because the show and our fling would eventually end. And he'd continue on, and I would fall apart.

  I liked to think that I was chasing the fame and the followers for my own self-fulfillment, but had this all just been to catch his attention? If so, that was unhealthy and disturbing.

  I needed to figure myself out. This house crammed with fame-chasers and manipulative producers and all of America watching… it seemed like the last place that could happen.

  Like I said, I didn’t know if I could do five more weeks of this.

  “After the punch and the footage we got of Emma and Cash—the focus of the show shifted. Where the initial concept had been more about the six influencers as a whole, my new vision was more centered on Emma and Cash and the drama, tension, and chemistry between them. And anytime it seemed like those factors were wilting, we stepped in. Discreetly, of course. The cast had our filming schedule, but we definitely manipulated some scenarios to create additional drama."

  Dana Diench, Producer, House of Fame

  52

  #redneckshavemorefun

  CASH

  It was the third episode when they decided that Emma and I shouldn't date, and she should be with Layton instead. It was the stupidest decision production could have made. Emma and I just stared at them blankly for a solid minute when they made the announcement. Layton, on the other hand, let out a whoop. I didn't say anything then, because I didn't want Emma thinking that I had ulterior motives or some weird reason for wanting our characters to date—but I did pull Dana aside after the meeting and tried to talk her out of it. Layton was a complete redneck idiot. It wasn't feasible for a girl like Emma to go for him.

  "Except that he's hot," Dana returned, crossing her arms across her red turtleneck sweater. "Have you seen him without his shirt? Trust me, Emma's not going to complain." She started in the direction of the front doors, probably heading to the production trailer that squatted in the middle of the mansion's circle drive.

  I hurried to keep up with her. “He lives in a trailer.”

  "By choice." She jogged down the front steps of the home. "Trust me, I've seen his sponsor contracts. For what Chevy is paying him, he could buy a dozen trailers. Plus—" she came to a stop. "Didn't Emma grow up in a trailer? That's a good spin, actually. Maybe he can go home with her. Add some authenticity to everything."

>   “She doesn’t like him,” I fought back.

  “Of course she does. They get along fine.” She brushed something off my shoulder. “Besides, Cash. This is TV. She doesn’t have to go for Layton, she just needs to make the viewers believe that she’s going for him. A few kisses, a make-out session… that’s all we want. And we’re talking about two very attractive people. No one is going to be suffering through this.” She tilted her head at me. “But very chivalrous of you, Cash. Why don't I grab a camera, and let's do this conversation again—I'd love to catch it on tape."

  I backed away, my hands held up in surrender. “She’s not going to go for it.”

  Dana gave me an evil smile. “Ah, but contractually, she doesn’t have a choice.”

  53

  #gimme

  EMMA

  I was all about a fake storyline with Layton. I needed anything that would keep me away from Cash, and Layton’s audience was over eighty percent men. You think women watched videos about fishing and barbecue sauce? A series of photos and videos with him and I should be able to recruit a few million of his followers—and it was a win for him too, given my mostly-female audience.

  I could pretend to fall for Layton. That held no risk for me.

  54

  #branding

  CASH

  I'm embarrassed to say that every night that first week I waited for her to come back to my bedroom. I started wearing pajama pants to bed, just in case she did.

  She didn’t. Instead, she ghosted me. Nothing cruel—just quiet indifference and avoidance. When Dana announced the Layton/Emma storyline, I watched her closely, expecting resistance, but she seemed fine with the change. Almost happy with it.

  I sat in the backyard hammock and watched her sitting next to him on the edge of the pool. The kitchen staff had mixed Pina Coladas, and we'd all had a few. I reclined back against the faded red fabric and watched her from behind my sunglasses, the alcohol dulling my senses to an almost manageable level.

  “Hey.” Eileen settled into the chaise lounge beside my hammock and stretched her legs out along the length of it. “Dana wants me to come over here and flirt with you. So, you know, roll with it.”

  I eyed Dana, who was gesturing a grip toward us. “Okay.” Rolling with it was doable, especially considering Layton had just put his hand on Emma’s thigh.

  She patted the chaise beside her. “Move over here and sit.”

  I considered the option, which would involve me climbing out of the low-slung hammock without busting my ass. On a typical day, it'd be easy, but I was wobbly from the alcohol. "I'm good."

  “Oh, come on. I’ll share my margarita with you.” She held out the frozen red concoction, which would make my tongue look like blood.

  A river of condensation rolled down the side of the frosted glass. I yielded. “Fine.”

  "You know, it's not that hard, sitting next to me." She watched as I swung my legs over the side and then carefully stood. "I'll even make it worth your while." She set the drink on the narrow table between our chairs and reached up, untying the top of her bikini and letting her breasts hang free. It would have been a noteworthy moment if they weren't exposed in every frame of her music video.

  I nodded, unsure of what she reaction she wanted. “Nice.”

  She snorted. "Nice? Do you know what I paid for these babies?" She fluffed her hair to one side and picked up the margarita. From the other side of the pool, Layton let out a wolf whistle.

  “Focus on EMMA, Layton!” Dana barked.

  "Screw Emma," Eileen said softly, shielding the comment with the drink. "Nobody wants to look at her."

  I swallowed my opinion and glanced at the other couple. Emma was grinning at something Layton had said.

  “You can touch them if you want.”

  I glanced back at Eileen, who was circling one nipple with the tip of a fingernail. “I can’t. Sponsor rules. But thanks for the offer.”

  The camera guy, who was zooming in close on the action, almost tripped over the end of Eileen’s lounge chair.

  She huffed in irritation. “Sponsor rules? What kind of bullshit is that?”

  I glanced at Dana, who was focused on Emma and conveniently ignoring the rider in my contract that stipulated that I couldn’t be in a frame with nudity or drug use. I had a clearly defined brand, one that didn’t include groping a pop star’s giant fake boobs.

  Layton's brand… I looked at the pair of them. If he had a brand, boob-grabbing was probably a key element. Which was another reason Emma should separate herself from him. Branding was crucial, and I'd learned that lesson from the best.

  55

  #gotmilk

  EMMA: 40,199,210 FOLLOWERS

  Layton’s brand was clear. Redneck meets fun. His posts were littered with hashtags like #redneckking and #ilikebeer—and his carefree attitude was refreshing after filming two straight scenes with Marissa.

  Edwin and Michelle thought that his audience would respond best to a pic of me wearing an American flag bikini. Dion flatly denied the idea. Dana proposed a compromise—a show scene with a photoshoot where I wore the flag bikini. The shoot would give me an excuse for the fashion faux pas while still giving me the lure for attracting Layton’s fans. It took a day to negotiate with sponsors over the focus of the shoot, which was decided after four hours of frantic negotiations between the Dairy Farmers of America and Sopchoppy Sauce—a hot sauce with a cartoon label of a naked man holding a giant trout over his penis.

  The cows won, which was how I ended sitting on a hay bale with a glass of milk in hand, clad in the flag bikini. Layton stood behind me in low-slung jeans and no shirt, his abs newly-enhanced with an airbrush gun.

  “I don’t understand why I have to be here.” Cash’s voice carried over the others. I spotted him next to Dana, his arms crossed over a faded UCLA t-shirt.

  “You’re here…Marissa.”

  I lost most of what Dana said. Whatever it was, the scowl on Cash's face deepened. His gaze caught mine, and I looked away.

  "Right here, guys." The photographer waved his hand. "Let's get some shots with both of you looking at me."

  I obeyed, angling my hips a little and giving him my best facial angle.

  “That’s it.” The lights flashed in rapid succession. “Layton, show me that dimple. Can you put one knee on the hay bale?”

  The bale dipped beneath me as he rested his weight on it. His hand settled on my bare shoulder, and he gave it a gentle squeeze.

  “That’s it. Move closer to her, Layton.”

  In my peripheral vision, Cash said something in Dana’s ear. She waved him off.

  The photographer set down his camera and instructed Layton to sit on the bay, then repositioned me so that I was stretched out on my side, snug against him. “Hold her,” he instructed.

  Layton slung his arm around my shoulder and drew me back against his chest. I shifted in a more comfortable position, and the photographer flashed a thumbs up. "There. That's perfect."

  Cash stood to one side, his expression dark, as he continued to sulk over having to be there. Well, screw him. Whether the setup was ridiculous or not, this was my first national shoot, and it was exciting. Plus, the paycheck—even split with Layton—was massive, enough for me to pay Edwin and Dion's salaries for a year.

  “This is bullshit.” Marissa stomped onto the scene—literally. I watched as she shoved a gaffer to one side and cut into the view line of the shot. “A milk ad? Have you been to a dairy farm and seen the conditions there?”

  I rolled my eyes. "Have you?" I took a sip of the milk out of spite, and the bulbs flashed as the photographer recorded the moment. Layton's grip tightened reassuringly, bringing me closer to him.

  "Actually, Emma, I have." She spat out the words. "And the conditions there are despicable."

  “Whoa.” A short man with an orange blazer and a Texas tie stepped forward. “Defamation and negative opinions on dairy cannot be on the show. Depictions of the dairy industry, as per the contract,
must—”

  “Marissa?” I asked sweetly. “How about you go jump off that cliff over there?”

  She planted her wedge sandals in the grass turf and glared at me. “I’m staying right here.”

  “Marissa,” Cash said, appearing beside her. “Come on. Let them finish up. You can say everything you want to say in confessional.”

  “And she’s wearing an American flag!” Marissa pointed to me as if I had a nazi symbol painted on my forehead.

  “So?” Layton asked.

  “Soooo, isn’t it against the law to wear a flag as clothing?”

  I waited for Texas tie, or Dana, or someone with some sort of authority, to put her in her place. Instead, an uneasy and problematic silence fell over the group.

  56

  #weloveourveterans

  CASH

  Marissa’s second accusation shut everything down for a good half hour so that attorneys could be called, the internet consulted, and our political correctness experts could announce that Emma should definitely not be wearing an American flag bathing suit.

  My relief lasted for about two minutes before some light bulb from the Dairy Farmers people suggested that Emma lose the bathing suit entirely. Layton, surprise surprise, loved the idea. Emma was less enthusiastic, and an impromptu meeting of her team huddled in a small circle by the wardrobe rack. I watched them argue, her manager jabbing the air to punctuate some statement.

  It wasn’t my business. In fact, now that I had stepped in with Marissa, my “job” here was done. I could go for a run and get some fresh air, away from cameras, publicists, and people. I shouldn’t have an opinion on Emma’s bikini or lack of one but still… I hesitated, then strode over to the group.