Absolutely True Lies Read Free Page B

expecting a thing. My best friend, Camille, called to say she was worried about me and that my mother had been obsessively texting her for information, and was I alive and available for a drink? As I thought back to my drunken mint stupor, the bile rose in my throat and I quickly pressed 7 and moved on. I resolved to abstain from alcohol for six months or until I had hung myself in despair, unable to wash the stench of failure off my skin, whichever was sooner.
    The eighth was from a local congressman, hoping for my vote in the special election. I was not aware we were having a special election, and to be perfectly honest, I’m not altogether sure I’m registered to vote in the state of California (I’ve always had a misaligned sense of civic duty). I sighed and expected that the last would be from a Chinese food hellhole telling me about their latest egg foo yong special, but I was unfamiliar with the voice speaking back at me through the phone.
    “Heya, Holly, my name is Jameson and I got your name through Bob Riker.”
    I sat up straighter in astonishment. I think I may have even glanced at Smitty to make sure he wasn’t talking to me, as somehow, that would have seemed less strange.
    “I have a client who’s looking for a good ghostwriter, and Bob recommended you. I’d love you to come out and meet with us next week if possible, and you two can chat and see how things go. I can’t promise you anything beyond that, but give me a call and we’ll see if we can work something out. My number is 3-1-0—”
    I heaved myself off the floor and ran for a pen. Not finding a piece of paper, I wrote the phone number on the wall with a Sharpie. Hey—I already lived in a shitty apartment, how much more damage could I do to the place? I then replayed the message to double-check the number and make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. But it was real, all of it. I had no idea who this client was or how much the job might pay, but if it could get me through even another month, it might be enough to keep me afloat until I could find something else.
    My grandmother always says that God never closes a door without opening a window. For twenty-five years, I was pretty sure she was full of shit, but right about now, I was ready to throw open every one of the barred and double-paned windows in my postage stamp. Hallelujah, praise Jebus—there was a chance that I was back in business.

CHAPTER 2
    You’ll be surprised to know my life is actually pretty normal. I live in a house with my mom and dad, just like other teenagers. I failed my driver’s test twice (I can’t believe I just admitted that!), and even now, my mom doesn’t really like me to drive after dark.
    I probably don’t get as much sleep as other teens, though. With work on the show and my next album, sometimes I only have two or three free hours a day, during which time I curl up with my three dogs and try to get a little bit of shut-eye!
    F our days later, I was driving aimlessly around Holmby Hills, a part of Los Angeles I’d only just discovered existed. It’s an absurdly rich section of West L.A. sandwiched in between Bel Air and Brentwood, and given that we do still technically live in a desert, I found it bizarre and more than a bit offensive that every lawn I passed looked like Technicolor Astroturf. I once saw a weed growing resolutely from a crack in a sidewalk in my neighborhood, and even the weed was a mousy brown.
    You might think I was driving in endless circles because I was lost, but that’s not the case at all. I just had no idea where I was headed. When I first returned Jameson Lloyd’s phone call, I received a laundry list of instructions that provided not a single clue as to (a) where I was going, (b) who I was meeting, or even (c) what the job was.
    “My client is very private,” Mr. Lloyd had told me over the phone. “And so you understand why I can’t give you the address.”
    “Of course,” I lied. “And what does the specific job