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paparazzi will be present at dinner. I smile and go back into my bathroom to add a little more makeup, and swap out my lip gloss for one that makes my teeth look whiter. It’s hard work looking this good, and it’s always nice to get fair warning there’ll be cameras on you. My BFF may have checked out completely, but I still have to be on at all times.

Chapter Three
Josh
    It’s your mother. Again.” Ally holds out the phone as if the fifteenth time will be the charm. It’s been a week since “Yvette” mentioned that dumbass reality show, which means a week of ignoring her calls. She’s getting desperate to shove me in front of the sleazyass producer she’s suckered into this stupid idea.
    â€œWell, you can go ahead and ignore it. Again.” I’m sexting with a waitress from one of the clubs I went to last week, trying to get a new topless pic to use as my wallpaper, and I don’t have patience for this shit. “Did you confirm my flight to Miami?”
    â€œConfirmed the flight, and that Ronen will be here in time for your pre-flight beauty ritual. I
also
confirmed your audition this afternoon, so please actually show up to this one. I know you don’t seem to care about booking anything for some reason, but you
do
realize your personal income flow is pretty lacking, right?”
    â€œYou remind me every fucking day,” I growl, but I can barely even hear it. The phone’s no longer ringing, but the echo of it—and my mother’s nagging voice—are bouncing around in my head like a fucking game of Ping-Pong.
    â€œDo you need an Advil?”
    â€œI’m fine. You can go.”
    â€œIs this about your mother calling?”
    I lift my head from my phone and glare at her. “My psycho-bitch mother is none of your concern.”
    â€œIt would help if you’d tell me
why
she’s suddenly calling you every hour.”
    â€œNot much you can do unless you can get her a job so she can get over the idea of me doing a shitty reality show with her.”
    Ally freezes. “You’re doing a reality show? Seriously, Josh?”
    â€œCertainly not planning on it.” My phone beeps with another text, and I glance down hopefully, but it’s just the waitress being boring and trying to get me to come back and see her first. Fuck that.
    â€œGood, because that’s a ridiculous move. I
know
you can land at least one of these jobs. If you start with reality TV, you’re gonna be done for life.”
    â€œTell me something I don’t know. And tell my mother, too. If you can’t do that, keep ignoring her calls.”
    It looks like she wants to say more, but she doesn’t, and I don’t ask what she’s thinking. She’s not usually one to keep her opinions to herself; I’ll take the gift of her silence where I can get it.
    â€œYou can go home whenever,” I add, since she doesn’t seem to quite get that I don’t need her in my face anymore. What I
do
need is another drink or five, maybe a lap dance, but I’ve got a photo shoot tomorrow for Aspen, the designer jeans brand that keeps me in first-class tickets to Miami—and on major billboards all over the country—and I need to squeeze in a workout and a decent night’s sleep. Contrary to what I tell every blogger and reporter who asks, my cut body doesn’t perfect itself.
    A few more clicks on the laptop she totes around, and then she closes it with a sigh. “Fine. But you
need
to show up to this audition today. And you might want to think about looking at places closer to LA, anyway. Once you
are
working more regularly, you’ll realize what a bitch it is doing this drive every day.”
    â€œSubtle.”
    â€œIf you’re looking for subtlety, I think you hired the wrong assistant.” She slides the laptop into her bag and stands up. “Go over your lines. Kick some ass today. Land the part.
Then
you