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  He’s surprised, and he stumbles. But a drunk also doesn’t think fast enough to panic, so even as he’s off balance, he throws another punch at me.

  I catch it.

  I like this bar, and I’d rather not send teeth flying across its floor, so I deliver a quick, strong knee right into his gut that knocks the wind out of him. I hear him wheeze hard, and that’s enough to tell me he’s done.

  With a solid thrust, I send him stumbling backward and onto the floor, coughing.

  I glance back at Cody and see that he’s already putting money on the bar with a boyishly apologetic smile to the bartender, who doesn’t look either angry or happy, as always.

  “We settled?” I ask him, and Cody nods.

  “Think it’s time we headed out. See ya next time, Burt.”

  The bartender nods to us, glaring down at the man on the ground who looks like he’s about to throw up as we make our way out the door.

  “Man, that just makes me miss our times running security back in Vegas,” Cody says wistfully as we step out into the cool winter air. It’s LA, so it’s not exactly bitter cold, but it’s enough for a jacket.

  “Trust me, you don’t miss it that much,” I say with a gruff laugh as we shake hands. “There’s easier ways to get that out of your system if you’re just hungry for a fight.”

  “I’ll take that as an invitation to kick your ass someday,” he says with a wink. “Just like old times.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I say with a laugh. “Merry Christmas, asshole.”

  He throws me the middle finger as he walks away, and I grin, heading the opposite direction back to my office.

  It’s a short walk, which makes it a miracle I’m not an alcoholic. The building I’m in houses a handful of other small businesses. They’re nothing fancy, and like you’d expect from a place where a bar is just a short walk away, it’s not the fanciest part of town, but it’s not exactly rough either. Sure, there’s graffiti on the side of the building, and maybe a window or two needs changing, but it’s comfortable.

  I head up to my office and find a few letters shoved through the mailbox as I step inside.

  The office is cramped. It’s about half the size of a studio apartment, which is all the space I need. I keep it tidy and simple--there’s a desk, a few drawers for papers, and everything else is electronic. LA is big about the “carbon footprint” thing. A little hard to get used to for someone from Vegas, but I’ve come to like the space it saves.

  I pick up the now-cold coffee on my desk and drink from it as I thumb through my mail. It tastes like shit, but it chases the beer well enough.

  And it gives me something besides the mail to frown at.

  It’s more offers for work from the annoyingly stereotypical Hollywood crowd. I have to admit, it felt good to turn down a few of those offers when I was first on the rise here in LA. Now, though, I have to admit, the work is coming in a little less often.

  I set the coffee down and pull on the string of the window blinds, letting light flood my office as I stare out onto the street. Less light than usual.

  There’s not much of a view anymore. Recently, a massive billboard went up on top of the buildings across from me, stretching across three rooftops and blocking out most of the sunlight. There’s a massive picture of some famous actress on it, her cascade of dark hair taking up half the picture, shining bright and artificial in the picture that’s advertising a shampoo brand. It could be a worse sight. She’s gorgeous, with amber eyes, fuller lips than I’ve ever seen on anyone in my life, and tall as you’d expect a stunning model to be--presumably not the 50ft or so the billboard is. The name “Molly Parker” is stamped in fancy golden cursive writing under the brand name. A big, glitzy name blown up in my face all day, belonging to some spoiled brat who’s raking in cash for looming over the street.

  People like that are exactly why I cringe at the idea of working for them.

  I toss the envelopes into the trash. It feels like being between a rock and a hard place. On the one hand, the Hollywood scene makes me sick, but Cody’s got a point. If I want to stick around LA, I’ve got to bite the bullet and play their games.

  Because the idea of going back to Vegas makes me want to break out the bottle of whisky under my desk.

  My personal cell phone buzzes.

  I pull it out of my pocket and look down to see Cody’s name. Furrowing my brow, I wonder if I accidentally took his card or something as I answer the call.

  “Miss me already?”

  “Fuck you,” Cody says. “Hey listen, Wes, I just got off the phone with one of my friends who’s got ties with a studio working on a big A-list movie right now. Heard something you might be interested in.”

  I roll my eyes. He heard about a job. Despite being in music, Cody still has an ear to the goings-on of the Hollywood celebrity scene, so every now and then, he tries to toss a job my way. I should have known.

  “You know I’ve got a voicemail for junk calls, right?”

  “Ha ha,” he says in a flat tone. “Look, I know it’s not exactly work hours, but that’s why you’ll want to hear about this one. It’s Christmas Eve and this client needs someone ASAP, tonight. Like, immediately, and what they’re offering in pay shows that.

  I raise an eyebrow, take a breath, then step to the window and glare at the billboard before saying, “Alright, you’ve got my attention. What’s the job?”

  I listen to Cody rattle off the information, and as I hear the details, my eyes go wide, and not just because of the huge paycheck being waved under my nose. I hear the name of the client.

  “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” I say.

  3

  Molly

  I stare out the window of the car Arthur hired for me, watching the palm trees of the boulevard pass by under a clear blue sky. There’s not a single cloud in sight, the sun beaming down like the world is just a perfectly happy place. Like I should be happy. Like I should be getting ready to celebrate another gorgeous Los Angeles Christmas with my family.

  It’s Christmas Eve, and instead of heading over to my parents’ massive mansion in the Hills, I’m rolling down the road with a strange man chauffeuring me away from my own home, away from the place where I feel safe. Or, at least, the place where I used to feel safe.

  Andie squeezes my hand.

  “Hey,” she says softly, trying to get my attention. “Molly, what are you thinking about? You okay?”

  I turn and give my little sister a faint, probably unconvincing smile. I’m a great actress, but when it comes to Andie, I can’t even come close to telling a lie. She knows me way too well. She can see right through my attempts to brush off her concerns. She tilts her head to one side and clucks her tongue sympathetically.

  “I know. This sucks,” she sighs. Then, she adds, “Okay, it super-duper sucks. But at least you’re taking the appropriate steps to protect yourself, Molls. You’re doing exactly what they say you’re supposed to do in a situation like this.”

  I raise an eyebrow bemusedly.

  “What they say? Who are they?”

  Her pretty face splits into a big grin and she shrugs. “I don’t know. Cops on TV shows.”

  “Ah, okay. Never let anyone tell you there’s nothing to be learned from watching TV,” I remark. She giggles.

  “So,” she begins again, leaning close and lowering her voice to a whisper. Her eyes flick up to the partition screen between the chauffeur and us. “Who is this guy? Like, where the hell did he come from? He looks like a secret agent or something.”

  And I have to kind of agree with her on that. The driver is wearing all black, a black newsboy cap tugged down over his forehead, casting his face in shadow. He’s barely said a single word to me, and I don’t know his name. Such is my life now, I guess.

  “I don’t know. He’s just some guy my lawyer hired,” I tell her, shrugging.

  Andie waggles her eyebrows at me. “Oh, your hot lawyer? What’s his name again?”

  I na
rrow my eyes and shake my head.

  “His name is Arthur. And no.”

  “No, what?”

  “Just no.”

  “Come on, Molly, he’s a little hot.”

  “Andie,” I groan, rolling my eyes, “he’s almost Dad’s age.”

  “So? Dudes don’t just stop being hot once they hit fifty, you know,” she laughs, poking her tongue out at me. I heave a sigh, trying not to smile. I know what she’s doing. Trying to distract me with dumb stuff to keep my mind off of the whole ex-agent-stalker situation.

  “I don’t think Arthur was ever hot, Andie. Not in this decade, not in the last decade, either. You just like him because you’re going through an ‘older man’ phase or whatever,” I tell her, elbowing her gently in the ribs. She gives me a faux-scandalized look.

  She over-dramatically flips her hair over one shoulder and says, “It’s not a phase, Molly. It’s just who I am.”

  “Oh my god. Save it for the audition room,” I can’t help but laugh. She looks pleased with herself for getting me to smile. I know that was her plan all along. She’s a really good sister, always making time for me no matter how busy we both are. When we’re both in town, we meet up at least once or twice a week for brunch or a movie night at my condo. But even when we’re not in the same place at the same time, we Skype at least once a week, no matter what time zones we’re each in.

  In Hollywood, it can be difficult to make friends, and even harder to keep them. It seems like every girl I meet and click with turns out to be competing with me at the next audition or just trying to befriend me on the off-chance that we might be photographed together for some tabloid.

  I try not to take it personally. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out here in LA, and everyone here is scrambling for some way to claw their way up the ladder of fame and fortune. I know what I look like to those young women fresh off their Greyhound buses on their search for stardom.

  I look like a fast pass to the top. I look like an escalator while everyone else is sweating their way up the stairs. Being dubbed my best friend in the media is like winning the Hollywood lottery. Everyone wants to be my friend--at least until they realize how busy and ambitious I am, how rarely I’m free to meet up with people for fun.

  They also tend to figure out pretty quickly that despite what the tabloids would have you believe, I’m actually an extremely private person. My parents instilled that in me from a very young age. They taught me about how dangerous and toxic the world of showbiz can be if you’re not careful.

  This shiny golden monster called fame is a double-edged sword.

  On the one hand, when you’re a household name, the offers come rolling in from every direction. You never have to introduce yourself to casting directors. They already know who you are, where you come from, what your pedigree is.

  On the other hand, the media scrutiny is unavoidable. Sometimes, it can feel like you’re living in a fishbowl, with faces staring in on you at all times, watching your every move, analyzing every word you say, ripping apart your life choices from who to date to the designer you wear. It can be pretty isolating.

  Luckily, Andie is my built-in best friend. She grew up the same way I did, surrounded by all the trappings of being Hollywood royalty and what that means--the good and the bad.

  She was there when the paparazzi snapped photos of me sharing my first kiss with a boy I met at camp when I was fourteen. I cried on her shoulder when the tabloids called me a slut at that young age, made me ashamed of who I was--a perfectly normal adolescent girl just trying to live a normal life.

  Andie was the one who went with me to my first major red carpet event, the premiere of The World Enders, right after my longtime-high school sweetheart dumped me and left me to walk the red carpet alone.

  The two of us, Molly and Andie Parker, Hollywood princesses in glittering red and gold gowns, respectively, posing for the cameras with our arms linked. The media loved it. They spun all kinds of stories about us. Our names stayed in the headlines for weeks. The fashion police picked and pulled at our ensembles--some calling us overly ostentatious, too stuck up, and others calling us beautiful, poised.

  Parker Sisters, Best Friends For Life! proclaimed one headline. And for once, the media got it right. Because we are best friends for life. Sure, when we were little we used to argue from time to time, just like any other pair of siblings. But these days? We’re each other’s emergency contacts on medical forms. We have each other on speed dial. We even have a special “SOS” code we can send to each other via text that means something serious has happened and we need to talk ASAP.

  So it makes perfect sense to have Andie riding along with me today, holding me down and keeping me sane while my world crumbles down all around me.

  “Speaking of the audition room,” Andie begins, biting her lip in that way that tells me she’s about to embark on a tricky topic.

  My heart sinks. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything about auditions. It’s still a bit of a sore subject between us. Andie is just as stubborn and ambitious as I am, and even though she’s only eighteen and still in her senior year of high school, she has her mind set on jumping headfirst into acting.

  I know it sounds hypocritical, but that’s the last thing I want for her. Just because I did it and haven’t totally crashed and burned yet doesn’t mean it’s a good idea for everyone. Especially for Andie. She’s smart as a whip, but she’s not as cynical as I am. She’s too optimistic. She sees the best in everyone, the good outcome of any situation.

  “You know how I feel about that, Andie,” I tell her gently.

  She sighs.

  “I do know. But Molls, I’m eighteen. And by the time you were eighteen, you were already neck-deep in work.”

  “Yeah, exactly. I know what it feels like to be that young and have your freedom and youth stolen away from you,” I explain.

  “But look how it turned out! You got that big movie and all those offers came your way and it’s all working out just fine,” she protests.

  “Andie,” I start, shaking my head. “Look at how my life is going right now. I’m being transported in secret from my condo to some random hotel because my agent, a man we all thought we could trust, has now become some crazy jealous stalker. Clearly, things did not work out.”

  “That has nothing to do with your career, though, Molls. That is not your fault. Eddie is just… Eddie. He’s the one who messed up here, not you,” she says.

  I take a deep breath and put an arm around her.

  “That’s what I’m saying, sis. You can be super careful and work super hard and do everything right and still have things blow up in your face. My career is ruined. I can’t work, I can’t do anything until Arthur gets this shit sorted out and wrestles my contract back from Eddie’s grimy hands. Look, you think I’m smart, right?”

  She nods.

  “And you think I’ve done everything I can, right?”

  She nods again.

  “Okay. And that’s true. But in the end, it’s not up to me. It’s fate. Sometimes things go well, like with that movie I did. But in this business, when something goes badly… it goes very badly. You know what I mean?” I ask.

  Andie looks at me for a long moment, weighing my words. Then she sighs.

  “Yeah. I know. You’re right,” she admits.

  “It’s not that I don’t want you to follow your dreams, I just want you to wait a little longer. At least until after you graduate. I never got to go to prom. I want you to have that memory that I don’t have,” I say, giving her a one-armed hug.

  “Okay, okay. Enough with the lecturing,” Andie says, her bouncy personality returning instantly. “So, like, what are you gonna do about the family Christmas party?”

  My stomach flip-flops. Oh god.

  “Uh, I-I’m not sure. I mean, I obviously can’t go. Arthur said my safety is a genuine concern right now, and it would be foolish for me to put all of you in danger by going to the party,” I explain, my heart heavy. “Eddie e
ither has a lot of time on his hands or a lot of friends in low places willing to do whatever he asks them to do. You saw that massive stack of paper on my desk in the living room, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s all the stuff he’s been sending me. Print-outs of the text messages, the emails, the Instagram and Snapchat messages, transcripts of the voicemails he’s left me, letters he’s been sliding under my door--you name it,” I say, feeling that now-familiar prickle of fear in my gut.

  “Jesus,” Andie breathes, shaking her head. “He’s fucking bananas.”

  “I know. I keep wondering what happened. Where I went wrong. Has he always been this way and we just never saw that side of him? Or did I--I don’t know--do something to make him turn this way?” I muse out loud. Andie squeezes my hand.

  “Hey. No. Don’t you dare blame yourself for what that sick prick is doing. You didn’t make him do any of this. He made the decision to be an asshole all on his own. He’s a grown-ass man, Molls. Don’t take on any of that blame,” my sister says fiercely, her brown eyes flashing.

  I smile reassuringly. I don’t want her or anyone else getting all worked up on my behalf.

  “So anyway, the Christmas party. Here’s what I need you to do,” I begin.

  Andie’s eyes get wide and I can tell she’s afraid of what I’m about to ask.

  “I need you to do me a huge favor, Andie. I need you to lie to Mom and Dad.”

  “Oh, god. Do I have to?” she asks, a pained expression on her face.

  “Make up some cover story for me. Tell them I’m working on a motion picture up in Vancouver or something. Shooting a commercial in San Francisco. I don’t care. Just, don’t tell them I’m hiding out in a hotel instead of going to the party. Please?”

  “Molls, you know I haven’t told our parents that big a lie since you and I sneaked out to that garage band concert, like, three years ago. Remember? We were grounded, but you convinced me to climb out the window and ride our bikes down to the venue?”