The F List - Alessandra Torre Page 0,34

pointed at me.

“I’m good,” I responded.

“Let’s have Eileen come in and meet Cash and Layton. Where in God’s name is Emma?” The producer’s voice grew shrill.

“She’s on the phone,” someone called out from behind the kitchen cameras.

“Get her off and in here,” she snapped.

“I’m here.”

We all turned as a group to see Emma standing in the doorway off the living room, the one that led to the pool deck. The sun framed her thin frame, and I held up my hand to block the fierce rays, wishing I could see her face past the glare.

“This is Layton.” Marissa took over as the introducer. “And you know Cash, of course.”

"Of course," Emma drawled, stepping forward and letting the door slam behind her. "Hey, Layton. Big fan of your videos. Team Q?" She held out her fist to him for a bump.

He hesitated, surprised. "Yeah," he managed, returning the pump. "Team Q. So, you watch the reviews?"

"Stop talking about YouTube," the producer said loudly. "No one cares about your stupid barbecue reviews."

Emma winked at Layton, and I watched as a shy smile tugged across his face, which looked naked without his customary cowboy hat. "You guys already settled?" Her gaze swept past me and landed on Johno, who had yet to say a word. He straightened from his slouch in one of the stools in the kitchen. "Hey, Johno."

"Hey, Em."

"You two know each other?" Eileen made it into the living room, and I tried not to stare at her shirt, which was completely sheer once she stepped into the light by the windows. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

“Yeah,” Johno said. “We did a panel at Vidcon.”

“I was thinking of grabbing something to eat at that beach bar that’s on the corner.” Emma glanced at Marissa, then Layton. “You guys down?”

“Okay, stop." The producer stepped forward, wearing a headpiece that looked way too big. "I'm Dana." She raised her hand in a quick and dismissive greeting. "When I shout things, it's for a reason. LISTEN TO THEM. Now, we're having you guys fix dinner here at the house, together.” She spun her finger in the air in a continue on gesture as she returned to the sidelines. “Marissa and Layton— you guys are going to argue about the menu options.”

Emma ignored the directive entirely. "It's in walking distance, and they have killer happy hour margaritas."

“I’m down.” Layton, who was already ready to follow her anywhere, finished off the last sip of the energy drink, then crushed it in his hand.

Marissa glanced dubiously at the producer, who was shaking her head adamantly, then at Eileen. “I guess I could do a margarita.”

“I’ll grab my shoes.” Johno stretched and glanced at me. “You coming?”

Everyone looked at me, including Emma. I moved reluctantly to my feet. “Sure.”

The producer squawked in distress, and, just like that, Emma somehow became their leader.

But not mine. I watched her as we walked to the restaurant, her head bent toward Eileen, her laugh floating back along the breeze, the sun shining off her glossy hair, and swore that —no matter what — I wouldn’t become one of her followers. Neither figuratively and literally.

37

#thestruggleisreal

EMMA

It was so hard, that first day.

I had decided the week before we moved in, that I would adopt a light-hearted mood with Cash. I had aimed for playful and slightly flirty, which was the exact opposite of how we'd ever interacted, but given that I'd horribly failed all prior encounters, I was turning a new leaf and seeing how that worked.

I couldn't tell how the new method was working. He completely avoided and ignored me that first day. On the second… well, you know what happened then. The cameras caught the entire thing.

38

#absfordays

CASH

The show schedule had Emma and I getting into an argument on the next day, but we’d deviated from the first script to get drunk at Amigos and eat tacos, so I woke up that morning with no idea of what was to come. I laid in bed and could hear, from somewhere in the distance, yelling.

I sat up slowly and glanced at my roommates, both still asleep. Standing, I shuffled to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, then moved downstairs.

The house was a typical Beverly Hills mansion—which meant that there was nothing typical about it. Towering ceilings on both the first and second floors. Windows everywhere, with arched details and authentic poured glass. Marble floors and a sweeping staircase that took up the space of two New York City apartments. Someone with a penance for oil