Under the Lights

“This is like half the number I had here for my last one,” I tell her for no good reason other than I’m already a little drunk.

She sighs and grabs a flute of champagne off a passing tray.

Whatever. She’s always been a little bit of a killjoy. But the food smells awesome — I’m having it catered by my favorite Korean barbecue place — and I’m looking forward to the fact that it’ll be a pretty chill evening, as far as parties at my place go. Not that I’d ever admit it to anyone, but I actually liked working on Daylight Falls, being surrounded by people all day, even hanging out with K-drama. It was almost worth getting up at the ass-crack of dawn not to spend every day hanging out by myself or with my idiot friends.

Speaking of my idiot friends. My phone buzzes with a text from Liam that he’ll be late. Shocker. The guy’s barely surfaced to breathe, let alone party. I don’t know how the hell he went from doing a couple of modeling gigs to being in every project under the sun, but suddenly, he is everywhere—on every entertainment website, blog, show, and front page, the new fucking golden boy of Hollywood.

And, predictably, he hates it.

Ungrateful bastard.

He’s missing out now, though, if I may say so myself. The pool area is full, the music’s playing, and the sounds of meat sizzling on the grill and drinks being poured are all combining with it to make my perfect soundtrack. If I were the sentimental type, I’d think I was actually a little sad about the fact that this would be the last Daylight Falls gathering at my place, at least until hell freezes over and Liam wins an Emmy for playing Tristan Monroe.

It’s definitely smaller and more chill than my usual parties, but it’s nice, just relaxing and eating and drinking and talking with our feet dangling in the pool. I’m actually enjoying myself for what feels like the first time in a really long time.

Which is, of course, when Chuck and a couple of cameramen come fuck it up.

I jump up the second I see the scrawny bastard and rush up into his face. “I told you already. Nobody wants to be on your piece-of-shit show. You may be able to set foot on my property because of my psycho-bitch mother, but you’re not getting any of my guests on film. Unlike that famewhore, these people are on a show viewers actually give a damn about.”

Chuck just grins. “Why don’t we ask them?”

And people think I’m a douche. But fine. Chuck wants to have his ass handed to him by Jamal and the other guys — let him. Maybe that’ll get rid of him once and—

“Dude, what the hell?”

I whirl around and see Grant Rabar and Marco Barone glaring at us. The scent of pot is heavy enough in the air that I can tell exactly why they’re not thrilled to see cameras on them. Fucking Marsha. “You’re filming us?” Grant spits.

“No.” I know if I put a hand on Chuck or any of the cameramen, they’ll sue the shit out of me; that’s exactly what bloodsucking motherfuckers like them do. “These guys were just getting out of here. Now.”

The camera guys, of course, are loving every second of this, and my blood boils in my veins at the thought of them airing it, even with everyone’s faces blurred out. I turn back to Chuck. “Dude, you seriously need to get out of here before I call the cops.”

He snorts. “For what? We’ve got permission from the owners to be here.” He motions for one of the camera guys to come even closer, and I can hear the rest of the crowd starting to take notice of their presence now. Bottles are quickly being tossed by the underagers, and I’m sure baggies of all kinds are being shoved into pockets. All I want is to physically drag Chuck out on his ass, and then have Ronen run over him a few times for good measure before driving me to my parents’ house to blow up at my mother.

“Dude.” Royce walks over, shaking his head.

I’d thrown out a few extra invites to the guys, but they’re the last people I want to see right now, especially because I’m pretty sure they’re all high.

“Can you call Liam?” I ask him impatiently. “Tell him to get his ass over here. I don’t care what shit’s clogging up his schedule today.” I need someone who’s more level-headed than I am. I’m just barely sober enough to keep from losing my shit completely.

“Everything okay, sweetie?”

What the—oh for the love of Christ. I look down at the bright-red talons digging into my arm and the long, tanned fingers they’re attached to. I used to know that hand very, very well, and now the sight of it is just pissing me off. “Jesus, Shannah, you’re like a walking STD — we fucked and now I can’t get rid of you.”

“Wow, charming much, Josh?” Even with her snotty tone, Shannah’s still latching on like a viper. Her career must be going even shittier than mine for her to reach desperation levels like these. I’d heard rumors the family sitcom she’s been on for years is ending this season, and this is as good a confirmation as any.