It had been a week since I'd seen Jake. The last I heard from him was a text last Thursday postponing the dinner. He claimed his grandma couldn't leave Boston because one of her cats was hospitalized, but I wasn't sure if he was telling the truth.
Maybe he just didn't want me to be his fake girlfriend anymore.
Disappointment lodged in my chest like a rock. Totally and utterly insane, but I couldn't make it go away. What is wrong with me?
"Miss Darling." Mr. Grant's voice snapped me from my thoughts. The middle-aged man stood in front of my desk with his glasses sitting low on his nose, peering down at me as if I'd stolen his parking spot. I didn't, did I? "Where are we with the Bling Bling article?"
I sat straight up. "Doing it as we speak, sir."
"Try to get it on my desk before lunch."
"Yes, sir."
I was never one to get intimidated easily. Yet, as Mr. Grant turned around and strode into his office, I released a tense breath.
I'd been working at the L.A. Gazette for three weeks, but all Mr. Grant had told me to do was copy-edit and fact-check other writer's articles. I should've expected it, considering I was just an intern, yet I couldn't help but wonder if I stood a chance of getting hired as a full-time writer without ever being asked to write a single article. Especially seeing how Mr. Grant assigned Wyatt to do the research for his upcoming Jim Pansy article, essentially appointing my competitor as his assistant.
Heaving out a sigh, I picked up my red pen and continued reading the Bling Bling article.
The police finally arrested the group of burglars after they got caught on one of the victims' surveillance cameras. Prior to their arrest, the Bling Bling had broken into over twenty celebrity houses, including the TweetyMansion, and amassed over 4-million dollars of stolen goods. The article included an image of the infamous group captured by the victim's surveillance camera and the fivesome's mugshots.
I shouldn't be surprised to see photos of a group of young adults a few years younger than me, but I was.
According to the ringleader, they burglarized celebrity homes because they were fascinated by their lifestyle.
'They look so good on TweetyGram, and we want what they wear,' the 18-year-old girl stated. 'It's not that we can't afford to buy those stuff ourselves. We have a closet full of Crestienne Lerouxes. It's just that it's so much more special if they've worn it.'
'We're obsessed,' another member of the group, also an 18-year-old girl, added. 'Cher Quinn is, like, my fashionspo. I want what she's worn.'
My head pounded as I read the quotes. Ugh. Charity's going to have a field day reading this.
"Psst. Psst."
I looked over my shoulder at Fiona's desk. "Yeah?"
"How's your Malibu Wolf investigation going?" Fiona whispered.
I swiveled my chair to face her. "I've been trying to lure them out, but no luck so far."
"Oh." She lowered her gaze, worry lines creasing her forehead.
"What's wrong?"
"My second cousin once removed got wolved by the Malibu Wolf last week, and worse, it wasn't just her."
An alarm blared in my head. "What?"
"The Wolf claimed Natalie was having a special meet-and-greet in Chicago, where my cousin lives, and they told her she could bring her friends with her. She convinced ten of her classmates to join her for the event, and now she's branded a liar and an idiot, and they demand she pays them their money back."
"Oh my God." Sympathy and a pang of guilt rushed through me. "I'm so sorry to hear that."
"Thanks." She heaved out a frustrated breath. "When she called me and said she was DMed by the real Natalie Winters, I told her it must've been the Malibu Wolf. But she didn't believe me. She even called me jealous and blocked my number. Still, I should've tried harder to convince her."
"Hey, it's not your fault." I leaned forward in my chair, bracing my forearms on my legs. "I mean, she's what? Fifteen, sixteen?"
"Fourteen."
"Fourteen." I clenched my jaw and suppressed the anger rising in me. This wolf is getting out of control. "You can't really talk a fourteen-year-old out of anything. They're at that vulnerable age where they tend to believe what they want to believe. Your cousin just wanted to meet her idol so badly she'd believe a random person who DMed her."
"Yeah." Fiona slumped her shoulders. "I just wish I'd done something."
I pulled my mouth into a tight line and offered her a comforting pat on her arm.
"Is there anything I can do to help you with your investigation?" she offered.
"Well, it'd be helpful if I could talk to your cousin."
"I'll set up the meeting." Determination flared in her eyes. "Anything else—oh, wait. She's reported the Wolf's account, but I think it hasn't been suspended yet." She picked up her phone from her desk and showed me the Wolf's TweetyGram page.
If I had any doubt this was the same wolf that had been terrorizing Malibu, 90265's fans, it vanished when I saw the posts. Like their other fake profiles, the Wolf posted several TweetyTuned selfies and snapshots of Nat on the Malibu set. But what grabbed my attention were the photos of the summer party Nat hosted the weekend before last—pictures of the photo booth, the DJ spinning the record, and the packed swimming pool.
It confirmed my theory: the Malibu Wolf was one of the guests.
"What do you think?" Fiona asked.
"I have several suspects in mind, but I'll have to dig a little more." As I handed her phone back to her, an idea came to mind. "Hey, this might sound like a strange question. But is there any particular trend among Malibu fans?"
"What do you mean?"
"For example, do you know that daytime soap opera The Rich and the Famous?"
Her eyes lit up. "Of course, I do. My abuela and I used to watch that show every single day. At least until Courtney Darling passed away. The show sucked without her."
A tiny smile tugged at my lips. It was nice to know someone still appreciated Mom's talent, even after all the bad publicity surrounding her. "Totally. Anyway, Courtney's character was famous for wearing a faux fur hat and a huge faux fur coat, right?"
"Uh-huh. I still remember everyone trying to imitate her look. No one wears faux fur better than her, though."
"True. So—"
"And her iconic feathered shaggy haircut too," she gushed. "I tried to cut my hair like hers but I ended up looking like a sheepdog."
I suppressed a smile. "Right."
"Hey, come to think of it . . ." She cocked her head forward and squinted at me. "You kinda look like—"
I cleared my throat. "So, I was thinking, is there anything iconic from Malibu, 90265 that's popular among TweetyGrammers?"
"Charm bracelets," Fiona answered. "When Tori and Scarlett graduated high school back in the fourth-season finale, they made matching charm bracelets together as a token of their friendship. It started a charm bracelet craze on TG. That was about three years ago, but lots of Malibu fans still like to wear them."
"Oh." My gaze was drawn to her wrist. "How come you're not wearing one?"
"I want to, but I've been having trouble finding a bracelet that fits my large wrists," she replied with a shy smile.
"Ah." I nodded. "Is there any other TweetyGram trend I should be aware of?"
"Hmm . . . ooh! There's the Scary Treadmill Dance."
I arched an eyebrow. "The Scary Treadmill Dance?"
"Yeah. Hold on." Fiona searched for the hashtag #ScaryTreadmillDance on TweetyGram, clicked on one of the videos to play it, and held out her phone for me to see.
It was a 45-second video of Nat and her co-star Eleanor Clarke jumping and twirling on treadmill machines. The colorful Malibu, 90265 logo at the bottom of the video led me to believe this was a scene from the famous TV show. The video was muted, but judging by how fast they move, they must've danced to an upbeat song. The moves weren't particularly hard to perform, but it surely took skill and practice to be able to properly shuffle dance on a treadmill machine without slipping.
"Lots of Malibu fans have posted a video of them doing the Scary Treadmill Dance. Not me, though. I feel so tired just by watching the video," she said, and we both chuckled. "But you should totally try it. I bet you can do it."
"I doubt that," I replied, returning her phone. "The last time I danced and stepped on a treadmill machine was in ninth grade. And I wasn't even doing it at the same time."
The May accident changed my life in more ways than one. I didn't feel comfortable working out in long sleeves, so I ended up avoiding gyms altogether. As for dancing, I'd given it up the moment I knew I'd never be a pop star.
"Well," Fiona said, "I've never even stepped on a treadmill before—"
The hair on my nape stood on end as I sensed someone watching me from afar. I slowly looked over my shoulder and saw Mr. Grant staring at me from inside his office, his frown deeper than ever.
Uh-oh.
Shifting in my seat, I whispered to Fiona, "I should get back to work."
"Right. Me too."
I spun my chair around and tried to focus on the article on my desk, yet my mind was stuck on the Malibu Wolf. They were escalating, almost as if they were desperate for more quick cash. Or worse, maybe they were enjoying preying on naïve teenagers too much.
It became clear to me that I had to unmask the Malibu Wolf before they did something worse. But first, I had to get their attention, and to do so, I had to do something extreme.
I picked up my phone and opened my messaging app. My thumb hovered over Jake's name. Should I ask him to help me with this?
Jake had kept his end of the bargain so far, including setting up the meeting with Kristen and managing Louise's TweetyGram profile. But the thing was, I hadn't done anything for him, and at this point, I wasn't sure if he wanted to continue our arrangement.
After a moment of consideration, I locked my phone and placed it upside down on my desk. I had no idea how to TweetyTune the video I was planning to make, but I figured I'd think about it later.
First thing first, I needed to learn the Scary Treadmill Dance.
***
"Could you please tell me why you're dragging me to a gym at"—Bree glanced at her phone—"3.47 a.m.?"
"Well, you wouldn't have to come with me if only you'd lend me your phone," I replied, setting up the tripod a few feet away from the treadmill machine. "I mean, I've already spent thirty dollars for this thing"—I adjusted the tripod head—"which I probably will never use again, another thirty dollars for this top"—I gestured at my neon-pink, long-sleeve shirt—"and this stupid wig"—I pointed at the long, golden-blonde wig tied in a ponytail behind my head—"and another thirty dollars for the gym membership. I'd rather pay another thirty dollars for you to get in here with me today than buy a second phone to catch this wolf."
I had no idea how to TweetyTune a video, so I figured I'd try using old-fashioned Hollywood tricks to conceal my identity. With the right camera angle, I could hide my face. Or at least I hoped so. To make me look more like Louise, I decided to wear a wig, which was much cheaper than dyeing my hair blonde. For the final part of the trick, I chose to wear neon pink, a color my friends would never catch me wearing.
"What?" Bree yawned.
I turned around to face my sister and let out a determined breath. "I need you to film me doing the Scary Treadmill Dance."
She blinked, her eyes opening a little wider. "Excuse me?"
"It's for my bait account. I'm going to post a video of myself doing the famous Scary Treadmill Dance to get the Malibu Wolf's attention. Now, I need two phones to do that. One to play the song and the other to film the whole thing. But since you won't let me leave the house with your phone, I have no choice but to drag you here with me." As Bree furrowed her brow, I continued, "I just need to borrow your phone to play a song. I promise I won't do anything funny with it."
"Alright, alright." She took out her phone from her pocket and handed it to me.
"Thanks." I searched for DJ Dawg and Kitty Katz's Summer Anthem—the electropop song Nat and Eleanor Clarke danced to—on TweetyTube and returned the phone to Bree. "Press play seconds after you start filming, okay?"
Stretching my arms and legs, I glanced around the room. Bree and I were the only ones in the 24/7 gym besides the receptionist and the janitor, who was mopping the floor on the other side of the room.
Good. Now, it's time to dance my butt off.
"So, is this why you've been sneaking out at midnight these past few days?" Bree asked.
"Uh-huh. You don't expect me to dance on a treadmill in a crowded gym, do you?" As I stepped onto the belt, I caught a familiar twinkle in Bree's eyes. "What do you think I've been doing?"
She shrugged. "I thought you were sneaking out to Jake's place or something."
I almost lost my footing, but I managed to grip the handrail. Letting out a loud grunt, I shot Bree a sharp glare. "Why would I sneak out at dawn to go to Jake's?"
Instead of being intimidated, Bree just yawned.
"Ugh." Rolling my eyes, I put on my cap and set the treadmill speed at 4.5 miles per hour. The belt hummed to life, and I started a brisk walk. "Just press the record button, will you?"
Bree gave me a thumbs-up, stepped behind the tripod, and mouthed, "Three . . . Two . . . One . . ."
As she gave me the go-ahead nod, the intro to the upbeat electropop song sounded from Bree's phone. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the music before I started moving.
It had been years since I last danced in front of a camera, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't the least bit nervous. My first attempt was an absolute failure. My movements were stiff and awkward, and I stumbled a few times. But by my twelfth attempt, my dance moves were almost perfect.
Almost.
I jumped a few inches lower than I should've in the middle of the song.
"Oh, come on, Linds," Bree groaned. "Quit being such a perfectionist, will you? I have to go to work after this, and don't you have that prison visit today?"
Bree had a point. Even though it was Saturday, she still had to work and I was scheduled to tag along with Mr. Grant to interview Jim Pansy in prison later this morning. Not to mention, a glance at my watch told me it was already 4.30 a.m. Gym-goers were soon going to crowd this place, and the last thing I wanted was to be seen dancing like a thirteen-year-old.
Still, my inner perfectionist refused to give up.
"One last time?" I pleaded.
Bree sighed. "Fine."
I hopped on the treadmill, took a deep breath, and imagined I was performing in a sold-out arena. Come on, Lindsey. You can do this. You can do this!
"Three . . . Two . . . One . . ."
The music started playing, and I quickly bounced to the rhythm of the cheerful song.
"Summertime, summertime
It's time for the beach life
The sunshine's waiting for us
So here we go . . ."
Although I'd heard the song more than 100 times this week, the song never failed to lift my mood. I sang along to the lyrics and moved my body to the rhythm of the music, jumping, spinning, shuffling my feet across the running belt. I could almost hear the crowd hysterically cheering for my name and see overexcited teenagers holding handwritten signs that said, 'WE LOVE YOU LINDSEY DARLING!'
Everything was perfect.
It was almost as if I was living my 15-year-old self's dream.
"Grab your sunglasses, and
Don't forget your sunscreen
Hear the ocean calling for—"
"Holy crab." The familiar voice snapped me from my reverie. "Shrimp?"
My eyes almost popped out of my head when I saw Jake squinting at me from across the room.
No way. What the heck is he doing here—
My feet got tangled up with each other, and I lost my balance. I heard myself yelp and Bree screaming out my name as the belt flung me off the machine. Any attempt to stop me from moving was pointless. The force was more than enough to send me rolling across the floor until the back of my skull crashed into the weight rack near the wall. Just as I thought things couldn't get any worse, a dumbbell fell and smashed into my head.
Stars danced before my eyes. Then, everything went black.
Author's Note:
So, that happened. Did you see it coming? 👀
I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if you do, please show some support by voting and/or leaving comments. Thanks for reading!