The F List - Alessandra Torre Page 0,43

more hours, listening to them, but they didn't say another word. They just laid there, facing each other, him underneath the sheet and her on top. And then, right around dawn, she rolled out of his bed and went to her room.

It was epic. You wouldn’t think that two people just lying there would be epic, but it was.”

Lauren Flan, Assistant Director, House of Fame

47

#walkofshame

CASH

I walked downstairs the next morning with no idea of what I was getting into. Emma was perched at the kitchen counter, a sprinkled donut in hand, and glanced up at me, then lifted a few fingers of her hand in a wave.

I nodded at her and headed for the coffee, fumbling with the single-serve packet and brewer lid.

Johno came beside me and made a show of opening the cabinet to get a cup. “When did she get back?” he muttered.

I shrugged, then managed to get the pod in place.

"Okay, since there are four of you here, I'll get this out now, then update Eileen and Layton once they are up." Dana walked to the center of the kitchen and tented her fingers together as if she was about to deliver something profound. I leaned against the counter and waited. Emma picked a sprinkle off her donut and avoided looking at anyone. "Yesterday was a disaster, obviously. We've spoken with Emma and the D.A.'s office, and they will not be filing charges, but we are officially on their radar, which isn't a good thing. And the press has caught wind of things. So, some rules." She cleared her throat and looked around, making sure that we were all listening. "First, and I can't believe this has to be said, no hitting anyone." She glared at Emma. "Okay?"

Emma took a bite out of the donut and stared back at Dana with a level of backbone you couldn’t help but respect.

"Second, every tweet, post, story, and snap has to be run by our team before it goes out. Do NOT make me take your phones from you. We need a spoiler-free season, and I want you spilling your emotions in the confessional booth, not on social media. Emma, everyone hit the confessional booth yesterday except for you, so finish breakfast and go with Jonah. Cash," she looked at me. "We want you to go in again. In fact…" she straightened up as if she'd just had an idea. "Let's get the two of you in together."

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Emma said.

I nodded. “Yeah. I thought the point of the confessional was—”

“The point of the confessional is whatever the hell I want it to be,” Dana snapped. “And thanks to you guys, we're having to rewrite storylines for the entire season, so stop being difficult and do what you're told."

Beside me, a trickle of dark black liquid splattered into my cup. Johno mumbled something under his breath, and Dana's attention ricocheted to him. "Johno, we're filming you and Layton today discussing what happened yesterday while you hang out at the beach. Lay off the donuts because we're going to be showing plenty of abs."

Marissa, who had been quiet until now, pipped up. “When will we see the new storylines?”

“Soon,” Dana promised, which meant we’d probably have them in hand minutes before the cameras rolled.

I had a bigger issue than Marissa’s storylines—the fact that I was about to be side-by-side with Emma, on camera, while they unleashed whatever horrible questions they had lined up. Yesterday’s confessional had been a careful avoidance of minefields that I had skirted without issue, thanks in large part to my years of training as Jocelyn Mitchell’s son. My mother’s emotional manipulation made this—all of this—transparent. I wasn’t worried about me, but Emma—I had no idea how Emma would handle it.

Dana looked down and tapped the front of her watch. “Cash, take that coffee with you. Let’s get both of you to hair and makeup before we lose another hour.”

“Good luck, guys,” Marissa drawled. “Try not to hit each other in there.” She smiled sweetly at me as she passed, a green juice in hand. There was a clod of something in her teeth that missed the juice strainer.

I said nothing, and she passed. Emma was still in place on her stool, one bare leg hanging loose from a pair of baggy boxers that had emojis all over it. She wore a boatneck sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder and had her hair twisted into a low and messy bun. I tried to