Read Online All The Pretty Lights (The "A" List #1) by Tara Oakes - Free Book Online
Authors: Tara Oakes
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in Asia or in Europe. They think she’s too artificial, too… packaged.”
I nearly choke on my drink.
“Isn’t that what we pay you people for? To package us?” I point out the obvious.
She rolls her eyes at the hypocrisy. “They want real, authentic, original, organic. That’s what they want- for now, at least.”
I finish the fruity screwdriver in one long gulp and drop the glass with a heavy thud on the marble bar top. “Well, they’ll have to learn to get over it. She’s not one of us, she doesn’t know how to do this--” I look around at the opulent room, at the multitude of gift baskets littering the room sent by every movie executive and sponsor to kiss ass, “—this shit. ”
Andrea pounds her small fist on the countertop as if I’ve just had a eureka moment. “That’s exactly it! They want an outsider, someone like them, being let behind the velvet rope, welcomed into the VIP room that they only dream about. A prince, choosing a commoner. They want a new fairytale.”
My mind races a mile a minute as I contemplate it, what this could mean. It would mean I’d finally be free of Audrey and her shadow, once and for all. It would mean that I could, for once, have a little control over how the media sees me.
It would mean that I would get to see Daphne again.
I skip the Orange Juice and add only the vodka to my glass this time, shooting the liquor down in one try.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
~*~
Marcus has a tough time driving the car through the crowd gathered outside Daphne’s apartment building, but we manage doing it without hitting anyone. Like I said earlier, this guy’s a pro.
I can’t believe I’m actually going to do this. I feel like I’ve hit a new, all-time low, using her like this. The heavily tinted windows hide me from the reporters outside, but they know who’s inside the car.
I don’t know why they’re wasting their flash, capturing picture after picture of nothing more than the outside of a Lincoln Town car, but, nothing they do ever makes any sense to me anyway.
The longer I wait and procrastinate inside the car, the more of them huddle around the door, making it almost impossible for Marcus to open it. I’ve got to get moving. I’ll leave my conscience behind in the car for this one.
The second my door is opened even an inch, the frenzy begins. Marcus doesn’t even ask them to move anymore, he simply pushes them aside, clearing a path for me. My sunglasses help a bit, but I still have to squint my eyes against the blaring brightness of the camera lights. Pictures aren’t enough for this one, they want video.
They know the rules, these people, although they rarely follow them. Law has it, that they can’t step foot on private property without permission. Marcus acts as a bouncer blocking their path from following me as I take the steps to the door of the building.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
It’s like listening to hundreds of muted thuds behind me as they snap away. I didn’t call her to warn her that I’d be coming over. Firstly, she never gave me her number, and I didn’t want to freak her out by calling even though my people have gotten her digits easily. Secondly, I didn’t want to take the chance that she’d tell me not to come.
The reporters’ voices drown each other out as they shout out their questions. I won’t be answering any. I want to keep them guessing. Whichever answers they come up with on their own will be far better than any I could give them anyway.
Daphne’s doorbell is the third one down- a simple, worn, white button next to a piece of masking tape with the name BAKER written on it.
I press it.
This building doesn’t have an elevator, I’m sure of it, so I anticipate waiting a moment or two before it’s answered. I know she’s home, otherwise the paps wouldn’t be gathered around outside, waiting. They would have followed her to wherever it was that she was going.
I use the extra little bit of time to adjust the
I nearly choke on my drink.
“Isn’t that what we pay you people for? To package us?” I point out the obvious.
She rolls her eyes at the hypocrisy. “They want real, authentic, original, organic. That’s what they want- for now, at least.”
I finish the fruity screwdriver in one long gulp and drop the glass with a heavy thud on the marble bar top. “Well, they’ll have to learn to get over it. She’s not one of us, she doesn’t know how to do this--” I look around at the opulent room, at the multitude of gift baskets littering the room sent by every movie executive and sponsor to kiss ass, “—this shit. ”
Andrea pounds her small fist on the countertop as if I’ve just had a eureka moment. “That’s exactly it! They want an outsider, someone like them, being let behind the velvet rope, welcomed into the VIP room that they only dream about. A prince, choosing a commoner. They want a new fairytale.”
My mind races a mile a minute as I contemplate it, what this could mean. It would mean I’d finally be free of Audrey and her shadow, once and for all. It would mean that I could, for once, have a little control over how the media sees me.
It would mean that I would get to see Daphne again.
I skip the Orange Juice and add only the vodka to my glass this time, shooting the liquor down in one try.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
~*~
Marcus has a tough time driving the car through the crowd gathered outside Daphne’s apartment building, but we manage doing it without hitting anyone. Like I said earlier, this guy’s a pro.
I can’t believe I’m actually going to do this. I feel like I’ve hit a new, all-time low, using her like this. The heavily tinted windows hide me from the reporters outside, but they know who’s inside the car.
I don’t know why they’re wasting their flash, capturing picture after picture of nothing more than the outside of a Lincoln Town car, but, nothing they do ever makes any sense to me anyway.
The longer I wait and procrastinate inside the car, the more of them huddle around the door, making it almost impossible for Marcus to open it. I’ve got to get moving. I’ll leave my conscience behind in the car for this one.
The second my door is opened even an inch, the frenzy begins. Marcus doesn’t even ask them to move anymore, he simply pushes them aside, clearing a path for me. My sunglasses help a bit, but I still have to squint my eyes against the blaring brightness of the camera lights. Pictures aren’t enough for this one, they want video.
They know the rules, these people, although they rarely follow them. Law has it, that they can’t step foot on private property without permission. Marcus acts as a bouncer blocking their path from following me as I take the steps to the door of the building.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
It’s like listening to hundreds of muted thuds behind me as they snap away. I didn’t call her to warn her that I’d be coming over. Firstly, she never gave me her number, and I didn’t want to freak her out by calling even though my people have gotten her digits easily. Secondly, I didn’t want to take the chance that she’d tell me not to come.
The reporters’ voices drown each other out as they shout out their questions. I won’t be answering any. I want to keep them guessing. Whichever answers they come up with on their own will be far better than any I could give them anyway.
Daphne’s doorbell is the third one down- a simple, worn, white button next to a piece of masking tape with the name BAKER written on it.
I press it.
This building doesn’t have an elevator, I’m sure of it, so I anticipate waiting a moment or two before it’s answered. I know she’s home, otherwise the paps wouldn’t be gathered around outside, waiting. They would have followed her to wherever it was that she was going.
I use the extra little bit of time to adjust the
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