Sunset Boulevard by Zoey Dean Page B

and eat until he fell asleep.
    Just as he was about to hit Mulberry's number on speed dial, his phone lit up in his hand, his
    dad's scowling face on the screen.
    Ash picked up. "Hey, Dad," he croaked, knowing immediately what this was about and
    wishing he hadn't answered.
    "Hey, Ash," Gordon said, in a too-chipper-to-be-talking-to-your-son voice. Ash could hear the
    sound of hot-tub jets bubbling in the background. "So, did you forget our plan?" Gordon was
    using his salesman voice, which Ash recognized from years of his dad's bargaining. As a kid,
    Ash and his father had bargained and bartered over all Ash's chores--"Son, I thought you were
    gonna clean your room so we could go to Toys 'R' Us," "Ash, didn't we say you couldn't have
    Jake over until you finished your spelling worksheet?"
    "Um, no, I didn't forget," Ash swerved in his one-handed turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard,
    nearly clipping a limo making a left into the rear drive of the Beverly Hills Hilton.
    "Daisy needs a tour guide, kid," Gordon said. The goofy way he said "kid" made Ash cringe.
    Why was he being given an annoying grown-up responsibility if he was still a kid? "She said
    she can't get a hold of you."
    "I had to be in a football game scene for Class Angel . My phone was off," Ash said, hitting the
    brakes hard to avoid a cluster of ladies laden with shopping bags as they crossed Santa Monica
    at Rodeo Drive.
    "For four days, Ash Gibson Gilmour?" Gordon said, his upbeat tone giving way to veiled
    irritation.
    Ash pulled the phone away from his ear and flipped it the finger at the use of his full name,
    shrinking into the leather bucket seat. It was true, Daisy had called countless times over the last
    few days and he'd sent the calls to voice mail, figuring his dad would call himself if it was
    really important. When he'd agreed to his dad's plan at Spago the other day, he really hadn't
    thought it would mean Daisy would actually call him. And he was kind of annoyed with his
    dad's power. A couple little you're the only guy for the job remarks, and somehow Ash had
    agreed to take on what was really just dirty work.
    "I was busy," Ash lied, turning onto Beverly Drive, through Beverly Gardens Park. He turned
    onto Carmelita, toward home, his ravenous appetite for Mulberry's oily slices gone.
    "Daisy is waiting for you at the W in Westwood. Be there in fifteen minutes, sport," Gordon
    said. "I know you don't want to. But my house, my rules. And it would mean a lot, bud."
    Before Ash could protest, his dad had hung up.
    Fifteen minutes later, Ash stood at the chrome front desk of the W, which looked like a giant
    staircase laid on its side. He was all business as he asked the pretty desk clerk, whose blond
    afro matched her golden tank top, to call Daisy's room.
    She dialed, shaking her head at Ash after thirty seconds had passed. "I'm sorry, there's no
    answer in Miss Morton's room."
    "Okay, thanks," Ash said, smiling. He was off the hook. He'd send his dad a picture of himself
    waiting in the W lobby to prove he was there--and Daisy, his pill-popping, non-bathing
    prodigy--was not. Maybe he'd still get that pizza after all.
    Ash walked through the lobby, toward a dimly lit seating area the W called the Living Room.
    The room's flattering mood lighting made the half-dozen wannabe screenwriters hunched over
    laptops look almost like GQ models instead of agoraphobic insomniacs. Ash plopped down
    onto a chair that was nothing more than a huge cushion with legs. He was about to take his
    photo when a familiar voice rang out.
    "Is that Ash Gilmour? Finally arriving for little ol' me?"
    Ash looked up. Daisy lay like an abused rag doll across a long white sofa. She clutched one of
    the couch's striped pillows to her chest, covered by a flimsy tank top emblazoned with black
    type that read, How Much? Her glittery yellow tutu rode up around her waist, exposing her
    plaid boy shorts. One leg stretched across the table, her other bent at an uncomfortable fortyfive