Infamous

She looked back toward the town car and watched, in shock, as Madison Parker emerged from the backseat, in a fantastic scarlet Dolce, looking tan, thin, and triumphant. (A bit overdressed, but still—stunning.)

Sophia gasped.

Carmen watched with grudging admiration as Madison approached them. The girl sure knew how to make an entrance.

“Oh, shit,” Sophia whispered.

Carmen turned to her with a smile. She, for one, was glad Madison was back. They might not like each other that much, but no one could argue that Madison didn’t make things interesting. “Like my dad always says,” Carmen whispered back, “be careful what you wish for.”

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“—And once, I ate thirty hot dogs in fifteen minutes,” bragged the blond, blue-eyed guy sitting across the table from Madison at Fig & Olive. “My friends were like, ‘Dude, you should take it professional.’”

Madison flagged down the waiter, who was obviously unnerved by the PopTV film crew he’d been instructed to ignore. “Vodka and soda,” she said, the instant he was within earshot. “A double—and the sooner the better.”

Trevor hadn’t wasted any time getting her back on camera, once they’d settled on terms. He’d come crawling to her in the end, appearing on her doorstep all smiles and promises; she’d simply handed him an envelope from her lawyer, which contained her new, extensive demands listed on four pages of creamy white paper.

Trevor may have put his foot down at Madison’s request for white peonies at every location (hey, it had worked for J.Lo), but she’d put that in there precisely so he would have something to refuse. It was business negotiations with a dash of psychological warfare. It helped that she knew from Kate how much Laurel and Trevor wanted her in the Gaby’s-release scene. The look of unhappy surprise on Sophie’s face when she saw her was an added bonus.

She would move in with Gaby again (in the Park Towers penthouse), do her best not to freeze out Sophie, and do a better job of tolerating the presence of Jay whenever Trevor sent him over. She’d also agreed to develop a romance story line. Not because she was searching for romance—she was done with that business (do you hear that, Ryan Tucker?)—but because she wanted screen time. There simply weren’t enough dates during season one, and both she and Trevor knew it. So: Cue the Hollywood hunks.

Such as Greg, the blond, blue-eyed surfer type, currently boring her to death with a story of the “time he hooked up with Lindsay Lohan” and a bad Jon Hamm impression. Yes, she was going to need more than patience to get through this date.

This documented date.

Madison managed to smile at the drink when it appeared, and then transferred that smile to Greg’s strong-jawed face. It was really too bad he couldn’t keep his gorgeous mouth shut.

“So,” she said, “how long have you lived in L.A.?”

“About two years now,” Greg said. “I moved here from Nebraska.”

“And what do you do here?” Madison already knew the answer. It was the same thing that almost everyone who moved to Hollywood from flyover country did. They acted—and by “acted,” they meant they bartended by night and auditioned by day.

“I’m an actor,” Greg said, putting a giant hand into the paper cone of truffle fries and pulling out a fistful.

“Really? What would I have seen you in?”

Greg paused for a moment. “A few, uh, independent shorts. I also do a little modeling on the side.”

“So, right now, you aren’t exactly a working actor?” She smiled slyly.

Again, Madison knew very well the answer to this question. If Greg had a paying acting job, he would not be sitting across the table feigning interest in dating someone he had nothing in common with, hoping to gain the exposure that would result in his being “discovered.”

“We’ve all gotta start somewhere, don’t we? Not everyone can get paid to be on PopTV getting frozen yogurt and shopping with her friends,” Greg said through his own sly smile.

Madison sat up straighter. This date wasn’t going anywhere and she knew it. Trevor would never air the footage if it continued like this.

“Let’s order you another drink,” she said, patting his hand. “And then you can tell me what it’s like to attend acting classes all day while still being supported by your parents.”

Greg’s eyes got wide. “Excuse me?” he said, looking caught off guard.

Madison winked at him.

Behind Greg’s head, she could see Julian the camera guy focusing in. She suspected he felt sorry for Greg.

“Dude,” Greg said, “I don’t know what your problem is, but . . .”

“I don’t have a problem. I’m simply curious how you are an actor if you don’t actually act.”

“I’m acting right now,” he said sharply. “I’m acting like I actually want to be on this date with you, even though you’re a total bitch.”

Madison smiled calmly. “And once again you aren’t getting paid, so this must be right up your alley.”

Then she stood up, grabbed her Celine bag, and exited stage left. Sure, she’d agreed to go out on dates—but she’d made no promises about staying out.

“Okay, let’s take a look at the latest candidates for the job of Tolerable Dinner Date.” Kate slid in a DVD vaguely labeled AUDITIONS 1/2013 and then hurried to join Madison on the couch.

Madison put her feet up on the coffee table and settled in. That was the good part about a bad date: A girl could get home early. “Gab, can you please turn down the tango music?” she called.

Trevor had promised Gaby an audition for Dancing with the Stars. And while watching Gaby attempt fox-trots around their new living room got tiresome, at least it had the potential to spice up her story line. Because at this point—as terrible as it was to say—the best thing Gaby had ever done for the show was overdose on painkillers.

Gaby obediently turned down the stereo and came bouncing over to the couch. “Where’s the eye candy?” she asked.

Madison hit the remote. Her spirits lifted as a handsome black-haired guy walked into the frame of the screen and sat down on a stool. If she was going to play the game and go on the dates, it was only fair that her producers found her some guys who weren’t utter cretins.

“Tell us your name, please.” Laurel’s voice came from somewhere out of frame.

“Jackson Trask,” the guy said.

Madison noted his broad shoulders and his toned—but not too beefy—arms. So far, so good.

“Where are you from, and what brought you to L.A.?”

Jackson shifted in his seat and smiled right into the camera lens. Madison smiled back as if he could see her. He was a natural. “I’m from Wisconsin—go Packers!—and I’ve been here for a year and a half. I live in Studio City now.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m developing my portfolio . . . and, uh, waiting tables at Mr. Chow’s.”

“Your portfolio?” Laurel asked. Madison was pretty sure she could hear her take a sip of coffee.

Jackson nodded. “Modeling. I’ve done a few shoots. I could have done more, but, well, sometimes the photographers ask for . . . special favors.”

“Mmm,” Laurel said.

“Oh my God, I’ve heard about that,” Gaby said. “You know what he means, right? He means sexual favors.”

“Shhh,” Madison said.