Free California Dreaming by Zoey Dean Page B

paused near the Cone of Silence, one of the add-ons they'd thought of at the last minute. Inside the cone, clubgoers could get a brief respite from the pounding music and throbbing beat.
    “Two minutes to opening,” he told her.
    “Brilliant. You and me, baby.” She effortlessly slipped a hand into his back pocket. To her satisfaction, he snaked one of his hands around her waist.
    “You look great.”
    “Thanks.”
    She couldn't help herself. She waited a plausible five seconds to make it seem like it wasn't high on her conversation checklist, but she asked nonetheless.
    “Have you talked to Anna?”
    “I left her a message,” he answered quickly.
    Was she imagining it, or did the hand that was on her waist seem to stiffen as he shook his head? Was his skin paling slightly under his golden tan? Cammie shook out her curls. Forget Anna. “I was thinking maybe you and I would guest-DJ tonight for a while, so that everyone will know our faces. There's an open slot between Zac and Christina,” she cooed.
    “Great, let's do it,” Ben agreed as his eyes locked with hers.
    “Fantastic.” She ran her fingers through the top of his straight brown hair. “We make such a perfect team.” She gave him a dazzling smile, dropped her eyes to half-mast, and added, in what she knew to be her sexiest, most insinuating voice, “We really should do it more.”

Heart to Heart
    Saturday night, 11:54 p.m.
    I n the time it took her to plod down the spiral staircase from her bedroom to the living room, Anna realized that every part of her body hurt, ached, or throbbed. Her shoulders. Her knees. Her hips. Her neck. Her wrists. Joints that she didn't know existed were calling out to her for at least ibuprofen and possibly something a whole lot stronger.
    She'd taken a shower before she'd finally fallen asleep at dawn. Nothing had felt sore then. Why so much pain now?
    Adrenaline, she told herself, as she took the stairs with the caution of a septuagenarian, clinging to the iron railing. She'd been running on adrenaline all night long. There was a reason she'd been instructed to assume the brace position. Regardless of the pilot's considerable skill, landing on metal was a lot rougher than landing on wheels.
    The living room was dark when she got to the bottom of the stairs. She flipped a light switch. Recessed overhead lighting lit the room. But her dad was nowhere in sight.
    “Dad?”
    Nothing. He had to be outside. Or maybe he'd gone out for the evening. Well, that was no surprise.
    Logan had checked into a room at the Chateau Marmont in West Hollywood. He'd invited her to go with him, but she'd found that she needed the comfort of what had been her own room, her own bed, for the past few months. After a long hot shower and steam, and a few hours of lying in her antique four-poster bed, waiting for the adrenaline to wear off, she'd slept through the entire day.
    Anna took a few steps toward the kitchen, the thick Berber carpeting caressing her bare feet. She thought again of being barefoot on the plane. Her conversation with Logan as they neared LAX came back to her. That line from the country song. She was no fan of country music—the last time she'd listened to it had been with Sam, when they'd found themselves in that mysterious villa on the Pacific coast of Mexico on the same trip where Sam had first met Eduardo. But the line that had come to her resonated.
    Live like you were dying
.
    Today, it had a whole new meaning.
    Anna had thought she'd come to Los Angeles to reinvent herself. In some ways, she'd succeeded. Certainly there had been more new experiences than she could imagine. But to live like she was dying? She hadn't. She'd lived like she was Anna Percy, on another coast where people didn't know her and couldn't or wouldn't report her to her mother. Even as she'd gotten on the plane to Bali—if she were to be honest with herself—she knew that in a corner of her mind she was already planning how to get back to the East