The F List - Alessandra Torre Page 0,23

time between red carpet interviews and the start of the show. It lit up the gossip sites. During the broadcast, the camera panned to Cash’s empty seat twice before a seat filler magically showed up and wedged into the spot, the guy’s cheap tuxedo pants brushing against my leg with annoying regularity.

By the time I left the show and met Bojan, my numbers had jumped to just over a million followers. We sipped tequila in the back of his limo, and he rolled his eyes as I refreshed the screen, shocked at how the numbers jumped up each time. Vidal had already posted on my feed, a shot of me that didn’t even look like me. I was standing at the top of the red carpet stairs and glancing over my shoulder at the camera, and the makeup and hair attendees we paid for were worth every dollar. I looked glamorous and expensive and beautiful. I lingered on the photo, certain that a dozen filters had been used, and that my makeup was already smudged, my skin no longer glowing, my hair frizzling in the summer heat—but it didn’t matter. I had this photo, and if nothing else ever happened, at least I had this proof. I was at the MTV Movie Awards. I was on the red carpet. I was, as fleeting as it may turn out to be, somebody.

Bo pulled my phone away and put it in the pocket of his red blazer, one that was custom, with white stitching and gold buttons. He bit into a lime and pushed my tequila shot forward, his eyes dark and luminous, his smile full of mischief. I downed the shot and turned the face of his watch toward me, tilting my head to one side to properly read the diamond-studded dial. “We have to go soon,” I said, and he shrugged, reclining back against the booth as if he had all night.

“The party can wait,” he said. “For now, a toast.” He lifted the heavy glass toward me. “Here’s to being newsworthy.”

That night, Bojan got drunk at the Cosmopolitan after-party and punched Leo in the balls after he sent a drink to the model that Bo was flirting with. We both were kicked out of the party, our ungracious exit caught by the paps who got a beautiful shot of the middle finger I flashed the security team.

Bojan did a line of coke along the limo’s armrest as the car headed to his bungalow, and I refreshed my accounts.

1,419,200 followers.

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#thedreamteam

EMMA: 1,800,701 FOLLOWERS

In the beginning, it was easy to hide my visits to the Ranch. But as my brand grew, my activities and time were more closely monitored. There were several times that I considered telling Vidal the truth, but didn’t.

“Where the hell have you been?” Vidal swung open the door to my house and glared at me from my foyer, a gold cell phone pinned to his ear. “You’re late.”

I ignored the question and walked past him, stopping short when I saw the two strangers perched around my kitchen island.

\\\Vidal barked a command into the phone, then used it to point to each of the visitors in succession.

“This is Dion and Edwin,” he said smoothly. “They’re your new team. I’m pulling them off Danica Franks, so be grateful.”

Danica Franks had just flashed a cop while carrying enough cocaine to feed the Oscars, so I was fairly sure this generous gesture was based more on her mandatory rehab and less out of the generosity of his heart, but I still nodded. “Hey.”

“Dion is your new stylist and will handle your hair and makeup. Don’t leave the house, or take a pic, unless you’ve gone through her first.”

Dion barely looked up from her phone. She wore a neon yellow tracksuit, which looked great against her ebony complexion but would make me look like a blonde banana. “That outfit is lame,” she mused.

I looked down at the Beatles t-shirt I wore, one that paired nicely with my best skinny jeans and a pair of pink tennis shoes that Wesley had declared as “super cool.” “I was just running some errands.”

“Yeah, you don’t want to do that anymore.” The second person at my counter stood up. He had coiffed blond hair with enough volumizing spray to make it stand an extra six inches up and wore a blue suit, the kind that was short enough to show a peek of his bright red socks. “Errands need to be brand specific and approved and coordinated