Alyson Noel: Unrivalled

She leaned deeper into the night, swept her fingers across her lips, and arced her arm wide, releasing a string of kisses to her imaginary fans flickering and gleaming below. So captured by the sheer unbridled giddiness of all she’d accomplished, she lifted her chin in triumph and released a shout so thunderous it blotted out the incessant soundtrack of traffic and sirens below.

It felt good to let go.

To allow herself, for one brief instant, to be as wild and untamed as she’d been as a kid.

“I did it!” she whispered to herself, the imaginary fans glimmering in the distance, but mostly to those who’d doubted her, even tried to thwart her.

The second time, she allowed the startling twang she’d long since abandoned to slip to the surface, amazed at how easy it was to summon that voice—another remnant of a past she could never fully escape. Considering the reckless way she’d behaved earlier, she wondered if she really wanted to.

The memory of the boy she’d kissed was still fresh on her lips. For the first time in a long time, she’d allowed herself to relax enough to let down her guard and be seen for the girl she really was.

Still, she couldn’t help wondering if she’d made a mistake.

The thought alone was sobering enough, but a quick glance at her diamond-encrusted Piaget gave her real reason to worry.

The person she was meeting should’ve been there already, and his lateness, along with the silence of the closed and empty club, was starting to feel far more eerie than liberating. Despite the warmth of the California summer night, she pulled her cashmere scarf tighter around her. If there was one thing that made Madison shiver, it was uncertainty. Maintaining control was as necessary as breathing. And yet there she was, second-guessing the message he’d sent.

If the news was good like he’d claimed, she’d put the nuisance behind her and never look back.

If not … well, she had a plan for that too.

She just hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She hated when things got messy.

Curling her delicate fingers around the slim glass partition, the only thing separating her from a forty-foot fall, she lifted her gaze to the sky, trying to locate a single star that wasn’t actually an airplane, but there’s only one kind of star in LA.

While she usually fought to avoid all thoughts of the past, on that night, for that one brief moment, Madison allowed herself to drift back to a place where real stars were abundant.

Back to a place that had better stay buried.

A breeze curled past her cheek, delivering the sound of light footsteps and a strangely familiar scent she couldn’t quite place. Still, she waited a beat before turning, stealing the moment to wish on a shooting star she’d mistaken for a jet, crossing her fingers as it blazed a wide and glittery arc across a black velvet sky.

It would all be okay.

There was no need to worry.

She turned, ready to face it, whatever it was. She was telling herself she could handle it either way—when a cool, sure hand slipped over her mouth and Madison Brooks disappeared.

Layla Harrison could not stop fidgeting. First she sank down low in her beach chair, burying her feet deep into the sand, then she wiggled upright again until the canvas bit into her shoulders, before finally giving up and squinting toward the ocean where her boyfriend, Mateo, waited for the next decent wave. A tedious pursuit that never failed to supply him with an endless stream of happiness she could not understand.

As much as she loved him, and she did (hell, he was so cute and sexy and sweet, she’d be crazy not to), after spending the last three hours dodging the sun under her giant umbrella while struggling to write a decent piece that contained the right dose of humor and snark, she wished Mateo would call it a day and start the long paddle in.

Clearly he had no clue how crazy uncomfortable it was to sit for hours on end in the rickety, ancient beach chair he’d loaned her, and how could he? It wasn’t like he ever used it. He was always out on his board, looking Zen and gorgeous and completely at peace, while Layla did all that she could to blot out the splendors of Malibu. The giant umbrella she hid under was just the beginning.

Beneath the bulky hoodie and the extra towel she’d placed over her knees, she wore a thick layer of sunblock, and of course she’d never venture outside without her oversize sunglasses and the crumpled straw fedora Mateo had brought back from a recent surf trip to Costa Rica.

For Mateo, Layla’s ritual of blocking and shielding was futile at best. You can’t master the environment, he’d say. You have to respect it, honor it, play by its rules. It’s madness to think you’re in charge—nature always gets the last word .

Easy to say when your skin is immune to sunburns and you were practically raised on a surfboard.

She returned to her laptop and frowned. Writing a cheesy celebrity gossip blog was a long way from the New York Times byline she dreamed of, but she had to start somewhere.

Arrested Development

No, I’m not referring to the too-smart-for-network-what-were-they-thinking cult comedy (insert I’m-surrounded-by-idiots sigh), I’m talking about actual arrested development , people. The kind you can read about in your Psych 101 books (for those of you who actually read anything other than gossip blogs and Twitter feeds). The kind yours truly witnessed last night at Le Château, when three of Hollywood’s youngest and hottest, but certainly not brightest, decided olives were for more than just aimlessly lolling at the bottom of a martini glass—

“You still at it?” Mateo stood before her, board tucked under his shoulder, feet sinking into the sand.

“Just doing some last-minute edits,” she mumbled, watching as he dropped his board on the towel, swiped a hand through his sun- and salt-water-streaked hair, and unzipped his wet suit. He peeled it so far down his torso Layla couldn’t help but gulp at the absolute speech-defying wonder of seeing her beautiful boyfriend bared and glistening before her.

In a town teeming with oversize egos, a surplus of vanity, and a cult of body-obsessed green juice devotees, Mateo’s obliviousness to his natural good looks was so rare, most of the time Layla couldn’t imagine what he saw in such a pale and cynical slip of a girl like herself.

“Can I help?” He reached for her water bottle, looking as though he’d like nothing more than to read her take on three martini-fueled A-list celebrities reenacting their former high school cafeteria hijinks by chucking olives at everyone around them.

Typical Mateo. He’d been like that from the first night she’d met him, just a little over two years ago, on her six-teenth birthday. Both of them had been amazed to discover they were born just a year and ten days apart, and yet their birthdays still managed to make them different (and mostly opposing) astrological signs.

Mateo was a Sagittarius, which made him a free-spirited dreamer.

Layla was a Capricorn, which made her ambitious and a wee bit controlling—if you believed in those things, which of course Layla didn’t. It was just some weird coincidence that in their case was true.

She handed over the laptop and sank deeper into her seat. Hearing Mateo read her work aloud was her own personal version of crack.

It was good for her process. Helped her edit and hone. But Layla had enough self-awareness to know that when it came to her writing, she was the world’s biggest praise slut, and Mateo usually found something nice to say, no matter how lame the content.

Water bottle dangling from one hand and Layla’s MacBook Air perched on the other, Mateo started to read. When he reached the end, he looked at her and said, “Is this for real?”