The F List - Alessandra Torre Page 0,18

shoulders. “Don’t worry.” He nuzzled his face into the side of my neck. “I’m not going anywhere until you get drunk.”

Not getting drunk had been Vidal’s next rule—one he had repeated three times before leaving my apartment. I watched as Bojan flagged down a shot girl and unlocked my phone, capturing the moment that he reached forward and grabbed two shots off the tray. He pivoted toward me, and I caught another shot, the dim lighting picking up the profile of Russell Crowe, who was in the backdrop.

“Put that up,” he ordered. “You look like a fucking tourist.”

I obeyed, then took the shot he gave me. Within ten minutes, my anxiety had mellowed, and I was tucked into the arm of his YSL suit. I rested my head on his shoulder and inhaled the expensive musk of his cologne, watching as Rachel McAdams laughed at something Nicolas Cage had said. “This is surreal,” I mused. “Can you believe we’re here?”

It was a stupid question to ask him. Bojan didn’t care about celebrities because he was a minor one, part of the club enough to get the access and women that he wanted. He dismissed me with a snort, then kicked a designer boot onto the golden inlaid table before us. “You’ve got to learn Hollywood, Em. The more you don’t want to be famous, the more you will be.”

It was, quite possibly, the stupidest statement I’d ever heard. Completely untrue. Still, it was interesting enough that I stole the line for the following day’s live video. I dissected the idea while listing three celebrities who fit his statement, and three that didn’t. I asserted my opinion that Bojan was wrong—it didn’t matter if they wanted it or didn’t want it. All that mattered was if they were beautiful and interesting. My viewers agreed with me, and the photos I posted from that Emmy afterparty exploded.

After that, Vidal approved Bojan joining me on all awards events, and we made a serious push to get me a ticket to an actual show. The easiest was the Film Independent Spirit Awards, but I had my eye set on something else. Something Cash Mitchell was slated to be at.

The MTV Movie Awards.

“Once an influencer passes 250,000 followers, that’s when we start looking at them. And in terms of brands and impacts, there’s always a fit for someone, no matter how controversial they are. Emma Blanton was what we considered a C-List opportunity. Her audience was an interesting mix of males and females, her engagement was through the roof, but almost everything was built on drama. The things she said about other people. The events in her personal life. The fact that her quote-on-quote “best friend” was Bojan Frost. Who, by the way, is impossible to promote through. The guy wouldn’t tag Maserati if you gave him a brand new one. But Emma would. Emma would tag and location and hashtag the shit out of something, and for a relatively inexpensive amount. And for that reason, we overlooked the fact that she was unlikeable. We took a chance and threw some ad dollars her way. And the results were fantastic.”

Merci Plymouth, Plymouth Media

23

#personalday

EMMA: 269,112 FOLLOWERS

“That’s Becky.” Wesley nodded at a girl who sat at the edge of the basketball court, her attention on a tablet in her hands. She had Down’s Syndrome as well, and wore a sparkly pink tiara that perched atop her black braids.

“Yeah?” I glanced at her, then him, noticing the pink heat of his cheeks. “You like her?”

“I like her A LOT.” He started doing jumping jacks, counting loudly as he went.

I stifled a smile as he wheezed to a stop, then began a dramatic stretching routine, his attention continually darting to her. “Have you ever talked to her?”

“Of course.” He bent forward in an attempt to touch his toes. “Twice.”

“You talked to her twice?” I sat crossed-legged on the bench. “What did you say?”

“She was running in the hall.” He sat down next to me, his breathing hard. “No running in the halls.”

“That’s right,” I nodded, the signs visible and large, because running in the halls was undoubtedly the gateway to hell. “You told her to stop running.”

“I yelled at her,” he affirmed proudly. “Two different times. NO RUNNING IN THE HALLS!”

“Okay.” I patted his arm. “Calm down. People are going to think you’re yelling at them.”

We sat there for a moment in silence, the warm sun pleasant after the morning’s chill. I watched the girl, who looked a couple