Sunset Boulevard Read Online Free PDF

then act like Ash was the one
    intruding. After the divorce, Gordon had become one of those harried jerks, thanks to a
    newfound habit of staying out late, meeting models and starlets and partying with rockers not
    that much older than Tessa. The mix CDs he'd so carefully made for Ash, with early cuts from
    the bands and artists he was working with at the time, slowed to a trickle and then disappeared
    altogether, and his clowning around gave way to a fog of constant grumpiness. But at least
    back then he was still company--grunting over the headlines in the L.A. Times , occasionally
    instructing Ash to read something about one of his musical prodigies in the Calendar section.
    And Tessa was still around then, choosing to finish BHH instead of attending school in
    Austin, where their mom lived. Then his dad met and married Moxie, an almost-supermodel
    from Russia, and everything changed.
    "Are you listening?" Gordon snapped. "We haven't seen each other in a while, huh?"
    Like you care, Ash thought, as he said, "No, I guess not."
    Last April, his dad had finally married Moxie, who'd just given birth to their twins, Caesar and
    Julius, and moved to a fresh new house for his new family in Malibu. Gordon wanted Ash to
    move with them and go to school there, but Ash wasn't having it. He had friends at BHH, and
    at the time he had Myla. Not to mention her family dinners, where he was a daily guest, and
    never felt like an outsider. "Great decision, son, choosing a girl over your family," Gordon had
    said. "You can just live here, by yourself, but don't come crawling to me when she dumps
    you." Ash had hated his dad for saying it, and from that moment on wanted to prove he didn't
    need Gordon for anything. But then Myla went on a three-month trip over the summer and
    Ash, with nothing to do, realized how lonely the house could be.
    Her trip, at least, was temporary. But now he and Myla were truly over, and the cold reality of
    eating takeout alone at a table for six had really started to sink in. He still couldn't sleep right.
    Every night, the vision of Myla kissing Lewis fucking Buford refreshed itself in his head.
    "Meet me at Spago, at eight, okay?" Gordon said.
    Ash toyed with the corner of the stiff place mat. His dad hadn't said, "Meet us," just "Meet
    me." Did he really want to have dinner, just the two of them? Ash wondered if his dad had
    some kind of birthday surprise in mind, even though he didn't turn eighteen until next week.
    "Yeah, sure," Ash said. "Any special reason?"
    "We'll talk when you get there," Gordon said. "See you then." Gordon hung up without a
    goodbye.
    Ash jumped up and tossed his calzone in the trash. He was having a father-son dinner. As he
    placed his empty plate in the dishwasher he felt oddly cheered. His dad would never come out
    and say he wanted them to be close again. But if Gordon Gilmour was capable of even a minor
    reconciliation, then maybe Ash had it in him to forgive and forget.
    A few hours later, Ash pulled his 1969 black Camaro up to the front door of Spago, the
    incessant beat of The Ooh La Las, his dad's latest musical find, thumping over the sound of
    passing cars on Canon Drive. Clicking his iPod off, he checked his hair in the rearview mirror.
    Using more gel than he ever had in his entire life, he'd managed to tame his hair off his face, so
    it looked a little more dignified. The last time he'd been out with his dad, for a Grammys preparty at the Museum of Modern Art, Ash had worn his hair in its usual floppy style only to
    have Gordon chide, right in front of Bruce Springsteen, "Ash, I may work with musicians, but
    remember, you're the son of a businessman, not a rock star. Try a little professionalism."
    Tonight, he'd made every effort not to let his old man down. He wore a dove gray fitted Hugo
    Boss shirt, a gift from Myla that had never left the box, tucked into a pair of charcoal slim-fit
    Armani trousers. He slung his jacket, a black narrow blazer with a slight sheen, over