Page 19 of The F List

– Limited Edition Beats by Dr Dre Headphones

– Sardina Bath Robe by Sferra

– DJI Mavic Pro Drone

– White Desert’s ‘Greatest Trip’ to Antartica

– GG Marmont Small Leather Matelassé Shoulder Bag

– Kindle Oasis

– Skrewball Peanut Butter Whiskey

-Yeti Rambler Insulated Tumbler

– Mophie 3-in-1 Wireless Charger

– Apple Watch with 3G

– Nintendo Switch Lite

– Oculus Quest All-in-One VR

– Avalon Eiderdown Winter Comforter

– Electric Hydrofoil Surfboard

*Bag is given to nominees only. Nominees must pay taxes on the value of the gifts. If nominees would rather donate the bag to charity, please let MTV know two weeks before event.



The MTV Movie Awards was the first thing I was a diva about. I wanted a ticket to the actual event, and I wanted to be seated somewhere near Cash. I told Vidal that I needed to talk to him, to smooth things over after our failed date and that video where I picked him apart. I insinuated that I wanted to apologize to him, and Vidal picked up the football and carried it all the way to the goal line.

I don’t know why Vidal wanted us to make up. Everything positive in my career—literally everything—had been kickstarted by negativity with Cash. But that was Vidal. He was uncomfortable with anyone disliking him—or anything associated with him, which was probably why he was so obsessed with making his clients popular—his zest at an unnatural, almost psychotic level.

“He just got back from the UAE,” Vidal said, pulling at the ends of his bright white sleeves, getting them to lay properly beneath the green velvet jacket he had pinned tight to his chest. “You can ask him about that. He stayed at that hotel with the world’s longest pool.”

I yawned and nodded as if I didn’t know every excruciatingly perfect detail of his trip—from the camel ride at sunset to the hot tub and champagne on the balcony of his six-thousand square foot suite. NetJets had sponsored his flight, the return leg done while sprawled on a leather couch, a sleep mask playfully crooked over one eye, the other connecting playfully with the camera. #Jetlag.

“And don’t forget your red carpet rules.” Vidal’s piercing gaze focused on me. “Please behave. I had to pull major favors for your seat.”

“I’ll behave,” I promised him, and I meant it. It wasn’t just his reputation I needed to protect. I also wanted to get on better footing with Cash. As I had grown closer with Wesley, I had become increasingly uncomfortable with the turbulent history I shared with Cash. I leaned forward and brushed my cheek against Vidal’s, careful not to get my bold red lipstick on him.

“You look beautiful,” he said, giving me a proud smile. “Sizzling. Don’t let the man fall in love with you.”

“Ha.” Him falling in love with me wasn’t a risk, though him breaking my heart was a strong possibility. The limo slowed beside the white tent that housed the red carpet area.

Vidal’s hand tightened on mine. “Ready?”

It was just after noon in June in LA, which meant ninety-degree temperatures and a balmy thickness to the air that instantly caused beads of moisture to collect in the dip in the small of my back. I carefully touched my upper lip, verifying that it was sweat-free, and cursed my decision to wear a high-necked gown. Holding my arms slightly out from my body, I prayed the extra-strength clear deodorant would work.

Vidal, in his green velvet jacket, had to be boiling. He held a stack of one-sheets with bullet points listing my accomplishments, which were comically weak, but this was an awards show hosted by MTV, he had reminded me. This wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of talent, and as long as you could entertain, you had a shot at the press.

That’s how those first two hours went. Me, awkward and alone, in four-inch heels that were already rubbing a raw spot on the back of my left foot, listening as Vidal tried to sell me to anyone in the press crowd who would listen to him. A few bit, and I had five interviews in total, the questions short and basic, nothing that I could twist into a semi-interesting reply. I shifted onto my toes, hoping for relief, and felt my stomach cramp in hunger. Vidal had granola bars for us both, and I fought the urge to dip my fingers into the edge of his pocket and pull them out myself.

I smoothed a hand down the front of my flat and empty stomach, the black sequined surface of my dress reminding me of those pillows that changed colors depending on which way their fabric lay. I twisted to one side, feigning nonchalance, as if I always stood by myself, both wanting and not wanting a chance to be seen, and that’s when I saw Cash.

He had dark jeans and a faded dusk-gray t-shirt on. His hair was tousled, and getting a little long on top, the ends beginning to curl—a hint of what would come if he let it continue. His facial hair was a few days old, dusting across his strong jaw, and the short sleeves of his shirt showed off the tattoo that ran along the inside of one forearm. He crossed his arms, tucking both palms against his ribcage as he bent slightly forward, trying to hear what the petite interviewer with the giant microphone before him was saying. Beside her, two others jockeyed into position, anxious for their shot at him. I took the stolen chance while his attention was captured and stared.