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Unrivalled
Alyson Noel
Bestselling author Alyson Noël brings you the high energy, glamorous, and murderous world of the Beautiful Idols. Go behind the velvet rope to the gritty LA club scene where anything goes, and mystery is around every corner.‘A frothy, smart and fun read.’ – Heat magazineWelcome to the partyEVERYONE wants to be someone.Layla Harrison wants to be a reporter.Aster Amirpour wants to be an actress.Tommy Phillips wants to be a guitar hero.But Madison Brooks took destiny and made it her own a long time ago.She’s Hollywood’s hottest starlet, and the things she did to become the name on everyone’s lips are merely a stain on the pavement, ground beneath her Louboutin heel.That is, until Layla, Aster, and Tommy find themselves with a VIP invite to the world of Los Angeles’s nightlife and are lured into a competition. The prize, or rather the target? Madison Brooks.Just as their hopes begin to gleam like stars through the California smog, Madison Brooks goes missing. . . . And all of their hopes are blacked out in the haze of their lies.Readers of Gossip Girl and Pretty Little Liars won’t want to miss Unrivalled!




For Jackie and Michelle, my BFFs for too many decades to count!
All that glitters is not gold.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Acknowledgements (#ulink_1e96544b-5d26-51d5-bed0-ef15baa1a238)
This book has been so much fun to write, and it’s all thanks to the following people: my lovely and amazing editors Katherine Tegen, Claudia Gabel, and Melissa Miller, who made this book possible; my wonderful agent, Bill Contardi, the perfect combination of humour and smarts; and, as always, my husband, Sandy, who showed me that all things are possible for those who believe.

Table of Contents
Cover (#u57ed5a7a-f199-571c-a29d-2238599ff781)
Title Page (#ue0fa6f7d-39ec-5732-97e8-435c22917971)
Dedication (#ud76f5914-8315-5afc-8727-704c974b1dca)
Epigraph (#ub464be37-d63b-53f3-8803-4a4eb89b3804)
Acknowledgements (#ufb82fefb-ebab-5ad1-9ece-6687102420b2)
PROLOGUE: LOST STARS (#ub9379fb9-0a80-570d-91cb-079a6b87b655)
ONE MONTH EARLIER (#u243c0d44-31ad-5ff2-830c-187b1163d4a5)
ONE: HYPOCRITICAL KISS (#u5e583abd-ef27-5cb2-98f1-d24a1dc89b57)
TWO: WHILE MY GUITAR GENTLY WEEPS (#u28e75b1b-0e56-5ef9-8096-9e1c918a3410)
THREE: REASONS TO BE BEAUTIFUL (#u655f2c20-ed7c-56cd-a75d-4c90e8bc73b1)
FOUR: CELEBRITY SKIN (#ub6fff09e-6bb6-5ba0-bb14-0ebc23320fb5)
FIVE: MENTAL HOPSCOTCH (#uf1209081-42e3-558a-b38d-19fbc1ee9165)
SIX: LONG COOL WOMAN (IN A BLACK DRESS) (#u0f6e8b2c-c359-54db-a474-3070e46c3e1f)
SEVEN: I CAN’T GET NO (SATISFACTION) (#ua160308b-208d-562e-af3a-96868588cd11)
EIGHT: TEENAGE DREAM (#ub2f41de6-7bb6-58f7-ac85-12fc54b98336)
NINE: SUMMERTIME SADNESS (#u79b414ca-a91c-5e52-a8da-cf0b14f1c126)
TEN: MR. BRIGHTSIDE (#litres_trial_promo)
ELEVEN: ROYALS (#litres_trial_promo)
TWELVE: I WANNA BE SEDATED (#litres_trial_promo)
THIRTEEN: EVERYBODY WANTS TO RULE THE WORLD (#litres_trial_promo)
FOURTEEN: SEX AND CANDY (#litres_trial_promo)
FIFTEEN: YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL (#litres_trial_promo)
SIXTEEN: BLURRED LINES (#litres_trial_promo)
SEVENTEEN: GO HARD OR GO HOME (#litres_trial_promo)
EIGHTEEN: THE POLITICS OF DANCING (#litres_trial_promo)
NINETEEN: WICKED GAME (#litres_trial_promo)
TWENTY: LIPS LIKE SUGAR (#litres_trial_promo)
TWENTY-ONE: SUNDAY BLOODY SUNDAY (#litres_trial_promo)
TWENTY-TWO: GHOST IN THE MACHINE (#litres_trial_promo)
TWENTY-THREE: SUICIDE BLONDE (#litres_trial_promo)
TWENTY-FOUR: KNOW YOUR ENEMY (#litres_trial_promo)
TWENTY-FIVE: SHADES OF COOL (#litres_trial_promo)
TWENTY-SIX: SHOW ME WHAT I’M LOOKING FOR (#litres_trial_promo)
TWENTY-SEVEN: BACK DOOR MAN (#litres_trial_promo)
TWENTY-EIGHT: WORK B**CH (#litres_trial_promo)
TWENTY-NINE: GOLD ON THE CEILING (#litres_trial_promo)
THIRTY: NOTHING ELSE MATTERS (#litres_trial_promo)
THIRTY-ONE: DESTINATION UNKNOWN (#litres_trial_promo)
THIRTY-TWO: THIS IS HOW A HEART BREAKS (#litres_trial_promo)
THIRTY-THREE: HOW TO SAVE A LIFE (#litres_trial_promo)
THIRTY-FOUR: LIKE A VIRGIN (#litres_trial_promo)
THIRTY-FIVE: JUST A GIRL (#litres_trial_promo)
THIRTY-SIX: BREAKING THE GIRL (#litres_trial_promo)
THIRTY-SEVEN: BIGMOUTH STRIKES AGAIN (#litres_trial_promo)
THIRTY-EIGHT: ARE YOU HAPPY NOW? (#litres_trial_promo)
THIRTY-NINE: BULLET WITH BUTTERFLY WINGS (#litres_trial_promo)
FORTY: WAKE ME UP WHEN SEPTEMBER ENDS (#litres_trial_promo)
FORTY-ONE: BLOW ME (ONE LAST KISS) (#litres_trial_promo)
FORTY-TWO: THE HAND THAT FEEDS (#litres_trial_promo)
FORTY-THREE: ANOTHER WAY TO DIE (#litres_trial_promo)
FORTY-FOUR: THE SWEET ESCAPE (#litres_trial_promo)
FORTY-FIVE: NOWHERE GIRL (#litres_trial_promo)
FORTY-SIX: GLORY AND GORE (#litres_trial_promo)
FORTY-SEVEN: CALIFORNICATION (#litres_trial_promo)
FORTY-EIGHT: SHAKE IT OFF (#litres_trial_promo)
FORTY-NINE: SHUT UP AND DANCE (#litres_trial_promo)
FIFTY: HIPS DON’T LIE (#litres_trial_promo)
FIFTY-ONE: DON’T SAVE ME (#litres_trial_promo)
FIFTY-TWO: PARANOID (#litres_trial_promo)
FIFTY-THREE: MISSING PIECES (#litres_trial_promo)
FIFTY-FOUR: RUNNIN’ DOWN A DREAM (#litres_trial_promo)
FIFTY-FIVE: PICTURES OF YOU (#litres_trial_promo)
FIFTY-SIX: GOODBYE TO YOU (#litres_trial_promo)
FIFTY-SEVEN: BANG BANG (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

PROLOGUE LOST STARS (#ulink_8d7e2f22-856c-5296-954f-f7ca4ddd88db)
Despite the crush of tourists storming the sidewalks year after year, Hollywood Boulevard is a place best viewed behind a pair of polarized lenses and lowered expectations.
From the string of sagging buildings in various stages of decay, the tacky souvenir shops hawking plastic statues of Marilyn in her windblown white dress, and the seemingly endless parade of addicts, runaways, and glamour-deprived transients, it doesn’t take long before the sunburned, white-sneaker-wearing masses realize the LA they’re searching for does not exist there.
In a city that feeds off youth and beauty, Hollywood Boulevard more closely resembles a former screen siren who’s seen better days. The incessant sunshine is a harsh and brutal companion, intent on magnifying every wrinkle, every age spot.
Yet for those who know where to look (and those fortunate enough to boast a spot on the guest list), it also serves as an oasis of the city’s hottest nightclubs—a sort of hedonistic haven for the young, fabulous, and rich.
For Madison Brooks, the boulevard was everything she’d dreamed it would be. Maybe it didn’t look anything like the snow globe she’d had as a kid, the one that showered small squares of golden glitter over a miniature version of the Hollywood sign, but she never expected it would. Unlike those clueless tourists expecting to see their favorite celebrities hanging by their Walk of Fame stars, handing out autographs and hugs to all who passed by, Madison knew exactly what she’d find.
She did her due diligence.
Left nothing to chance.
After all, when planning an invasion, it’s best to familiarize yourself with the lay of the land.
And now, only a few short years after exiting that grimy bus station in downtown LA, her face was on the cover of nearly every magazine, every billboard. The town was officially hers.
While the journey was far more arduous than she’d ever let on, Madison managed to surpass everyone’s expectations but her own. Most merely hoped she’d survive. Not a single person from her former life expected her to rocket straight to the top. Ultimately becoming so known, so lauded, so connected, she’d command full, no-questions-asked access to one of LA’s hottest nightclubs long after it had closed for the night.
In a rare moment of privacy, Madison strode toward the edge of the vacant Night for Night terrace. The heels of her Gucci stilettos sliding gracefully against the smooth stone floor, she pressed a hand to her heart and bowed toward the skyline, imagining those flickering lights as an audience of millions—cell phones and lighters raised in her honor.
The moment reminded her of a similar game she’d played as a kid. Back when she staged elaborate performances for a crowd of grubby stuffed animals with matted hair and missing limbs. Their dull, unblinking button eyes fixed on the sight of Madison dancing and singing before them. Those tireless rehearsals prepping her for the day those secondhand toys would be replaced by real, live screaming fans. She never once doubted her dream would become a reality.
Madison hadn’t become Hollywood’s hottest young celebrity by hoping, wishing, or depending on others. Discipline, control, and steely determination steered her ascent. Although the media loved to portray her as a frivolous party girl (albeit one with serious acting chops), beneath the salacious headlines was a young and powerful girl who’d seized control of her destiny and made it her bitch.
Not that she’d ever admit to such a thing. Better to let them think she was a princess whose life flowed effortlessly. The lie provided a shield that kept them from learning the truth. Those who dared scratch beneath the surface never got very far. The road to Madison’s past was jammed with so many roadblocks even the most determined journalist eventually yielded defeat by writing about her unparalleled beauty—her hair the color of warming chestnuts on a crisp fall day (according to the guy who’d recently interviewed her for Vanity Fair). He also described her violet eyes as shadowed by a lushly dark nimbus of lashes used to alternately reveal and conceal. And wasn’t there a mention of her skin being pearlescent or incandescent or some other descriptor that translates to radiant?
Funny how he began the interview as just another jaded journalist sure he could break her. Convinced that their vast age difference—she being eighteen, he hovering way past forty (ancient in comparison)—along with his superior IQ (his assumption, not hers)—meant he could trick her into revealing something regrettable that would send her career into a tailspin, only to walk away from their meeting entirely frustrated, if not a little infatuated. Same as all the others who’d gone before—each of them grudgingly admitting there was something different about Madison Brooks. She wasn’t your average starlet.
She leaned deeper into the night, swept her fingers across her lips, and arced her arm wide, releasing a string of kisses to her imaginary fans flickering and gleaming below. So captured by the sheer unbridled giddiness of all she’d accomplished, she lifted her chin in triumph and released a shout so thunderous it blotted out the incessant soundtrack of traffic and sirens below.
It felt good to let go.
To allow herself, for one brief instant, to be as wild and untamed as she’d been as a kid.
“I did it!” she whispered to herself, the imaginary fans glimmering in the distance, but mostly to those who’d doubted her, even tried to thwart her.
The second time, she allowed the startling twang she’d long since abandoned to slip to the surface, amazed at how easy it was to summon that voice—another remnant of a past she could never fully escape. Considering the reckless way she’d behaved earlier, she wondered if she really wanted to.
The memory of the boy she’d kissed was still fresh on her lips. For the first time in a long time, she’d allowed herself to relax enough to let down her guard and be seen for the girl she really was.
Still, she couldn’t help wondering if she’d made a mistake.
The thought alone was sobering enough, but a quick glance at her diamond-encrusted Piaget gave her real reason to worry.
The person she was meeting should’ve been there already, and his lateness, along with the silence of the closed and empty club, was starting to feel far more eerie than liberating. Despite the warmth of the California summer night, she pulled her cashmere scarf tighter around her. If there was one thing that made Madison shiver, it was uncertainty. Maintaining control was as necessary as breathing. And yet there she was, second-guessing the message he’d sent.
If the news was good like he’d claimed, she’d put the nuisance behind her and never look back.
If not … well, she had a plan for that too.
She just hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She hated when things got messy.
Curling her delicate fingers around the slim glass partition, the only thing separating her from a forty-foot fall, she lifted her gaze to the sky, trying to locate a single star that wasn’t actually an airplane, but there’s only one kind of star in LA.
While she usually fought to avoid all thoughts of the past, on that night, for that one brief moment, Madison allowed herself to drift back to a place where real stars were abundant.
Back to a place that had better stay buried.
A breeze curled past her cheek, delivering the sound of light footsteps and a strangely familiar scent she couldn’t quite place. Still, she waited a beat before turning, stealing the moment to wish on a shooting star she’d mistaken for a jet, crossing her fingers as it blazed a wide and glittery arc across a black velvet sky.
It would all be okay.
There was no need to worry.
She turned, ready to face it, whatever it was. She was telling herself she could handle it either way—when a cool, sure hand slipped over her mouth and Madison Brooks disappeared.

ONE MONTH EARLIER (#ulink_f3c0f0e4-d671-5c16-ba1b-2116c99549ea)

ONE HYPOCRITICAL KISS (#ulink_e0cd14a4-fcb2-5496-8375-668c2218ca0f)
Layla Harrison could not stop fidgeting. First she sank down low in her beach chair, burying her feet deep into the sand, then she wiggled upright again until the canvas bit into her shoulders, before finally giving up and squinting toward the ocean where her boyfriend, Mateo, waited for the next decent wave. A tedious pursuit that never failed to supply him with an endless stream of happiness she could not understand.
As much as she loved him, and she did (hell, he was so cute and sexy and sweet, she’d be crazy not to), after spending the last three hours dodging the sun under her giant umbrella while struggling to write a decent piece that contained the right dose of humor and snark, she wished Mateo would call it a day and start the long paddle in.
Clearly he had no clue how crazy uncomfortable it was to sit for hours on end in the rickety, ancient beach chair he’d loaned her, and how could he? It wasn’t like he ever used it. He was always out on his board, looking Zen and gorgeous and completely at peace, while Layla did all that she could to blot out the splendors of Malibu. The giant umbrella she hid under was just the beginning.
Beneath the bulky hoodie and the extra towel she’d placed over her knees, she wore a thick layer of sunblock, and of course she’d never venture outside without her oversize sunglasses and the crumpled straw fedora Mateo had brought back from a recent surf trip to Costa Rica.
For Mateo, Layla’s ritual of blocking and shielding was futile at best. You can’t master the environment, he’d say. You have to respect it, honor it, play by its rules. It’s madness to think you’re in charge—nature always gets the last word.
Easy to say when your skin is immune to sunburns and you were practically raised on a surfboard.
She returned to her laptop and frowned. Writing a cheesy celebrity gossip blog was a long way from the New York Times byline she dreamed of, but she had to start somewhere.
Arrested Development
No, I’m not referring to the too-smart-for-network-what-were-they-thinking cult comedy (insert I’m-surrounded-by-idiots sigh), I’m talking about actual arrested development, people. The kind you can read about in your Psych 101 books (for those of you who actually read anything other than gossip blogs and Twitter feeds). The kind yours truly witnessed last night at Le Château, when three of Hollywood’s youngest and hottest, but certainly not brightest, decided olives were for more than just aimlessly lolling at the bottom of a martini glass—
“You still at it?” Mateo stood before her, board tucked under his shoulder, feet sinking into the sand.
“Just doing some last-minute edits,” she mumbled, watching as he dropped his board on the towel, swiped a hand through his sun- and salt-water-streaked hair, and unzipped his wet suit. He peeled it so far down his torso Layla couldn’t help but gulp at the absolute speech-defying wonder of seeing her beautiful boyfriend bared and glistening before her.
In a town teeming with oversize egos, a surplus of vanity, and a cult of body-obsessed green juice devotees, Mateo’s obliviousness to his natural good looks was so rare, most of the time Layla couldn’t imagine what he saw in such a pale and cynical slip of a girl like herself.
“Can I help?” He reached for her water bottle, looking as though he’d like nothing more than to read her take on three martini-fueled A-list celebrities reenacting their former high school cafeteria hijinks by chucking olives at everyone around them.
Typical Mateo. He’d been like that from the first night she’d met him, just a little over two years ago, on her six-teenth birthday. Both of them had been amazed to discover they were born just a year and ten days apart, and yet their birthdays still managed to make them different (and mostly opposing) astrological signs.
Mateo was a Sagittarius, which made him a free-spirited dreamer.
Layla was a Capricorn, which made her ambitious and a wee bit controlling—if you believed in those things, which of course Layla didn’t. It was just some weird coincidence that in their case was true.
She handed over the laptop and sank deeper into her seat. Hearing Mateo read her work aloud was her own personal version of crack.
It was good for her process. Helped her edit and hone. But Layla had enough self-awareness to know that when it came to her writing, she was the world’s biggest praise slut, and Mateo usually found something nice to say, no matter how lame the content.
Water bottle dangling from one hand and Layla’s MacBook Air perched on the other, Mateo started to read. When he reached the end, he looked at her and said, “Is this for real?”
“I kept an olive as a souvenir.”
He narrowed his gaze as though trying to picture the celebrity food fight. “You get a picture?” He returned the laptop.
Layla shook her head, paused to make one small adjustment, then hit Save instead of the usual Send. “The Château is serious about their photo ban.”
Mateo shook his head and drained the water bottle in one steady stream as Layla continued to ogle him, feeling more than a little perverted for reducing her boyfriend to a sweet piece of eye candy. “You going to send that?” he asked. “Seems ready.”
She sank the laptop into her bag. “You know how I’ve been talking about starting my own blog, Beautiful Idols?” Her tentative gaze met his. “I’m thinking this might be the perfect launch piece.”
He shifted his stance, played with the bottle cap. “Layla, it’s a good bit.” He spoke as though he was handpicking each word. “It’s funny, and on point, but …” He shrugged, letting the silence say what he wouldn’t: it was hardly the caliber of work she was capable of.
“I know what you’re thinking.” She rushed to her own defense. “But none of the crap I write about qualifies as world-changing news, and I’m sick of working for crumbs. If I want to go it alone, I’ll have to start somewhere. And while the blog might take a while to really catch on, once it does, I can make a ton of money on the ad revenue alone. Besides, I’ve saved more than enough to hold me between now and then.”
That last part was a hasty addition that might or might not be true. But it sounded good, and it seemed to convince Mateo, since his first response was to pull her out of her chair and into his arms.
“And what exactly will you do with all that ad revenue?”
She ran a finger over his chest, stalling for time. Her dream of going to journalism school in New York was something she hadn’t yet shared, and to do so now would bring an awkward moment she’d rather avoid.
“Well, I figured the bulk of it would go toward the burrito fund.”
He grinned, circled his arms at her waist. “The recipe for a happy life—you, decent surf, and a healthy burrito fund.” He touched his lips to the tip of her nose. “Speaking of—when are you gonna let me teach you to surf?”
“Probably never.” She allowed her body to melt against his, burying her face in the crook of his neck, where she inhaled a heady base scent of ocean, sun, and deeply rooted contentment—complemented by a top note of honor, sincerity, and a life lived in balance. It was everything Layla wished she could be, but knew she would never achieve, encompassed in one single breath.
Yet despite their enormous differences, Mateo accepted her as she was. Never trying to change her or make her see things his way.
She wished she could say the same.
When he tipped a finger under her chin and lowered his lips to meet hers, Layla responded like a girl who’d spent the last three hours waiting for exactly that (she had). At first the kiss was gentle, playful, Mateo’s tongue gliding with hers. Until Layla ground her hips against his, returning his embrace with a passion that saw him groaning her name.
“Layla … jeez …” The words were a blur on his lips. “What do you say we find a place to continue this?”
She curled her leg around his, pulling him closer, as close as her denim cutoffs and his wet suit allowed. Aware of nothing more than the heat spiraling throughout the length of her body as his hands slipped under her hoodie. So drunk with his touch she’d gladly drag him down to the warm golden sand and straddle him there. Luckily, Mateo had sense enough to pull away before she got them arrested.
“If we hurry, we can have the house to ourselves.” His grin was loose. His eyes heavy and glazed.
“No, thanks.” Layla pushed him away, quickly losing the mood. “That last time Valentina nearly walked in, the panic I experienced shortened my life by a decade. I can’t risk that again.”
“So you live to one forty instead of one fifty.” He shrugged, tried to pull her back to him, but Layla stayed put. “I like to think that it’s worth it.”
“Easy for you to say, Mr. Zen Master.” It was one of her many nicknames for him. “Let’s go to my place. It’s free of little sisters, and even if my dad’s in the studio, it’s not like he’ll bother us. He’s really into his newest series of paintings, not that I’ve seen them. I’m just glad he’s working. It’s been forever since he last sold a piece.”
Mateo cringed. Obviously he still wanted to be with her, but all it took was the mention of her dad for his own enthusiasm to wane.
“I can’t get used to that.” He busied himself with packing their stuff, pulling the umbrella apart, and sliding it into its bag. “It’s too weird.”
“Only for you. Don’t forget Dad’s a self-described open-minded bohemian who believes in free expression. And more important, he trusts me. And he likes you. Thinks you’re a calming influence.”
She cracked a smile. It was undeniably true. Then, tossing her bag over her shoulder, she headed for Mateo’s black Jeep, where she plucked a flyer from under his wiper blades and read: Promote with Ira Redman’s Unrivaled Nightlife Company this summer for a chance to win an unbelievable cash prize.
Her interest was instantly piqued.
She’d had her sights on journalism school in New York since her junior year of high school, and while she was thrilled to have been accepted, there was no chance of attending when the staggering tuition, not to mention the high cost of city living, was like a brick wall blocking her way. And with her dad’s current financial slump lasting longer than usual, asking him for help was out of the question.
While her mom could easily provide whatever amount Layla might need (correction: her mom’s wealthy husband could provide; Layla’s mom was just another Santa Monica zombie shuffling between Soul Cycle and Drybar), the fact was Layla and her mom hadn’t spoken for years, and Layla had no plans to start.
As for Mateo—his job as a surf butler at some of the pricier beachfront hotels didn’t pay much (not that Layla would accept his help if it did). Not to mention she’d yet to fill him in on that particular goal—mostly because he’d insist on joining her, and as nice as it would be to have him around, he’d only end up distracting her. Mateo didn’t share her ambition, and sweet as he was, Layla refused to be yet another female who let a cute boy keep her from achieving her dreams.
She scanned the flyer again—a job like that could be just what she needed. The exposure to the Hollywood club scene would give her way better material, and who knew where it could lead?
Mateo leaned past her shoulder and tugged the flyer from her hands. “Tell me you’re not interested in this.” He swung around to better see her, his brown eyes narrowed as Layla bit her lip in response, unwilling to admit it was the most exciting thing to happen all day (other than that kiss on the beach). “Babe, trust me, you don’t want to get involved in this.” His voice was stern in a way she rarely heard. “The club scene is sketchy at best. You remember what happened to Carlos.”
She dropped her gaze to her sand-covered feet. She was overcome with shame at having forgotten about Mateo’s older brother, who’d OD’d right outside a club on Sunset Boulevard, not unlike River Phoenix collapsing in front of the Viper Room, except for the fact that nobody built a shrine in his honor. Aside from his immediate family, no one had even stopped to mourn. By the time Carlos died, he was so far gone the only friends he had left were drug dealers—none of whom bothered to go to his funeral. It was the greatest tragedy of Mateo’s life. As a kid, he’d totally idolized his brother.
But what if this was the perfect way to honor Carlos—maybe even vindicate him?
She reached for Mateo, her fingers grazing his arm before falling back to her side. “What happened to Carlos was the worst kind of tragedy, because it could’ve been avoided,” she said. “But maybe the best way to draw attention to Carlos and other kids like him is to expose what really goes on in that world. A gig like this would allow me to do that.”
Mateo frowned. She was going to have to try harder than that.
She stared at the flyer still clutched in his hands, knowing in her gut she was right. Mateo’s resistance only made her more determined. “I hate our celebrity-worshipping culture as much as you do. And I totally agree the whole club scene is one major sleaze fest. But wouldn’t you rather I do something to shine a light on all that? Doesn’t that beat sitting around and complaining?”
While he didn’t necessarily agree, he wasn’t arguing either. A small victory she was happy to claim.
“I have no illusions I’ll win the competition. Hell, I don’t even care about that. But if I can just get in on the game, I’ll have all the necessary ammo to reveal that world for the fraud that it is. If I can get just one kid to stop hero-worshipping those shallow, needy, undeserving assholes—if I can convince just one teen that the club scene is seedy, dangerous, and better avoided—then my job will be done.”
Mateo gazed at the ocean, studying the horizon for a long while. Something about seeing him in profile, shadowed by the fading rays of the sun, softened her heart. He loved her. He only wanted what was best for her, including keeping her far from the world that had claimed his brother. But as much as she loved him, she would not let him win.
He lingered on the postcard-perfect view of the sun dipping toward the ocean before turning to face her. “I can’t stand the thought of you getting mixed up in all that.” He clenched his fist, causing the flyer to crumple loudly. “That whole world’s a lie, and Ira has a well-earned reputation as the worst kind of scumbag who doesn’t give a shit about the kids who’ve made him rich. He only cares about himself. They dumped Carlos outside and let him die on the street so they wouldn’t have to call the ambulance and shut down the club for the night. Though you can bet they didn’t hesitate to benefit from the scandal.”
“But that wasn’t Ira’s club.”
“It’s all the same. Carlos was a smart kid, and look what happened to him. I can’t let that to happen to you.”
“I’m not Carlos.” The instant she said it, she was filled with regret. She’d do anything to pull the words back from the ether and swallow them whole.
“Meaning?”
She paused, not entirely sure how to explain without offending him further. “I’m going in with a purpose, a goal—”
“There are other, better ways to do that.”
“Name one.” She tilted her chin, hoping to convey with a look that she loved him but they’d reached a dead end.
Mateo tossed the flyer into the nearest can and propped the passenger door open as though that was the end of it.
But it wasn’t.
Not even close.
She’d already memorized the website and phone number.
She inched closer. She hated when they argued, and besides, there was really no point. She’d already made her decision. The less he knew about it going forward, the better.
Knowing exactly how to distract him, she ran her hands up the length of his thigh. Refusing to stop until his lids dropped, his breath deepened, and he’d forgotten she was ever interested in promoting Ira Redman’s clubs.

TWO WHILE MY GUITAR GENTLY WEEPS (#ulink_4a70cf4f-e669-519b-830b-6463a251c9de)
“C’mon, bro—you gotta weigh in. We won’t leave until you do.”
Tommy glanced up from the copy of Rolling Stone he’d been reading and shot a bored glance at the two garage-band wannabes standing before him. Four and a half hours into his eight-hour shift and he’d yet to sell so much as a single guitar pick. Unfortunately, these two wouldn’t change that.
“Electric or acoustic?” they asked, voices overlapping.
Tommy lingered on a pic of Taylor Swift’s mile-long legs before flipping the page and devoting equal time to Beyoncé. “There’s no right or wrong,” he finally said.
“That’s what you always say.” The one in the beanie eyed him suspiciously.
“And yet, you keep asking.” Tommy frowned, wondering how long they’d persist before they moved on.
“Dude—you are like seriously the worst salesperson ever.” This came from the one wearing the Green Day Dookie T-shirt, who might’ve been named Ethan, but Tommy couldn’t be sure.
Tommy pushed the magazine aside. “How would you know? You’ve never once tried to buy anything.”
The two friends stood side by side, both of them rolling their eyes.
“Is commission the only thing you care about?”
“Are you really that big of a capitalist?”
Tommy shrugged. “When the rent’s due, everyone’s a capitalist.”
“You gotta have a preference,” Beanie Boy said, unwilling to let it go.
Tommy glanced between them, wondering how much longer he could put them off. They dropped in at least once a week, and though Tommy always acted like their incessant questions and attention-seeking antics annoyed him, most days they provided the only entertainment in an otherwise boring job.
But he was serious about the rent. Which meant he had no patience for bored little punks wasting his time, only to leave without buying so much as a single sheet of music.
The gig was commission based, and if he wasn’t actively selling, Tommy figured his time was better spent either thumbing through unsold copies of Rolling Stone and dreaming of the day he’d grace the cover, or scouring the web for gigs—minimum effort for minimum wage, seemed fair to him.
“Electric,” he finally said, surprised by the stunned silence that followed.
“Yes!” Dookie Boy pumped his fist as though Tommy’s opinion mattered.
It was unnerving the way they looked up to him. Especially when he wasn’t exactly living a life worth admiring.
“Why?” Beanie Boy demanded, clearly offended.
Tommy reached for the acoustic the kid was holding and strummed the opening riff of Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water.”
“Hear that?”
The kid nodded cautiously.
Tommy returned the guitar and reached for the electric twelve-string he’d been eyeing from the moment he started working at Farrington’s. The one he’d be a lot closer to owning if one of these punks ever decided to make themselves useful and actually buy something.
He played the same piece as the kids leaned toward him. “It’s louder, fuller, brighter. But that’s just me. Don’t go acting like it’s gospel or anything.”
“That was good, bro. You should think about joining our band.”
Tommy laughed, ran an appreciative hand over the neck of the guitar before returning it to its hook. “So, which one you gonna buy?” He glanced between them.
“All of ‘em!” Dookie Boy grinned. He reminded Tommy of himself at that age—a lethal mix of insecure and cocky.
“Yeah, as soon as he sells his MILF porn collection on eBay!” Beanie Boy laughed and ran for the door as his friend gave chase, shouting insults that weren’t nearly as good as the one he’d been served.
Tommy watched them exit, the small silver bell attached to the handle jangling behind them, relieved to finally have some time to himself.
Not that he disliked his customers—Farrington’s Vintage Guitar was known for attracting a pretty specific, music-obsessed crowd, but it wasn’t exactly the job he’d envisioned when he first arrived in LA. He had some serious skills, all of which were going to waste. If things didn’t pick up, he’d have no choice but to track those kids down and beg for an audition.
Aside from playing the guitar, he could also sing. Not that anyone gave a shit. His last attempt to book some steady solo gigs was a fail. The hundred or so flyers he’d plastered around town (prominently featuring a picture of him in faded low-slung jeans with his guitar strapped across his bare chest) gleaned only two hits. One from some pervert asking him to “audition” (the sick giggle that followed had Tommy seriously considering changing his number), and an actual gig at a local coffee shop that seemed promising, until his original stuff was quashed by the manager, who insisted he play nothing but acoustic covers of John Mayer’s biggest hits for a full three hours. At least he’d managed to make a fan of the fortysomething blond who’d passed him a crumpled napkin with her hotel and room number scribbled in red, winking as she sashayed (no other way to describe it) out the door, sure that he’d follow.
He didn’t.
Though he had to admit he’d been tempted. It’d been a bleak six months since he’d arrived in LA, and she was damn good-looking. Fit too, judging by the dress that hugged every curve. And though he appreciated her directness, and while her body probably really was a wonderland, he couldn’t deal with the thought of being no more than an interesting diversion for a woman who’d grown bored with men her own age.
More than anything, Tommy wanted to be taken seriously.
It was the reason he moved halfway across the country with the entirety of his worldly possessions (a dozen or so T-shirts, some broken-in jeans, a turntable that once belonged to his mom, his prized vinyl collection, a pile of paperbacks, and a secondhand six-string guitar) shoved in the trunk of his car.
Sure, he figured it might take some time to get settled, but the shortage of gigs was never part of the plan.
Neither was the job hawking guitars, but at least he could tell his mom he was working in the music industry.
He turned the page of his magazine, only to see a full-page article praising the Strypes (fuckin’ sixteen-year-olds poised to take over the world—making Tommy wonder if he’d peaked two years ago and missed it entirely).
When the door clanged open, Tommy was glad for the distraction, only to see some rich bastard who looked totally out of place among all the Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, and B. B. King posters slapped on the walls. His designer jeans and T-shirt alone probably cost more than Tommy made in a week. Never mind the suede blazer, flashy gold watch, and spendy-looking loafers—most likely handmade by craftsmen in Italy—that probably cost more than all of Tommy’s possessions combined, including his car.
Lifestyle tourist.
Los Feliz was full of ‘em. Rich, wannabe hipsters, ducking in and out of the area’s numerous cafés, galleries, and eccentric boutiques, hoping to glean a little street cred they could haul back to their Beverly Hills hood and impress all their friends with tales of their journey to the wild side.
Tommy frowned and flipped past the article. Reading about the Strypes was bringing him down.
Waiting for the customer to complete his obligatory walk around, maybe even ask for a card (they made great souvenirs—proved you really were there!), was also bringing him down.
But unlike the Strypes, this guy would eventually pass through Tommy’s life. Whereas every band in that magazine seemed to mock him, making him realize just how big a fail his move to LA had become.
Figuring he should exert a little effort and acknowledge the pretentious asshole invading his space, he started to speak when the words caught in his throat and he found himself ogling like the worst kind of groupie.
It was Ira.
Ira Redman.
The überconnected, big-shot owner of Unrivaled Nightlife, who also happened to be Tommy’s father.
Though the father bit was really more a technicality. Ira was more of a sperm donor than an actual dad.
For one thing, he had no idea Tommy existed.
Then again, up until Tommy’s eighteenth birthday, Tommy didn’t know about Ira either. He’d believed the story his mother told him about his war-hero dad who’d died before his time. It was only by chance he learned the truth. But once he did, his fate was sealed. Much to his mother’s (and grandparents’, and ex-girlfriend’s, and counselor’s) dismay, he took the money he’d saved for college, graduated early from high school, and headed straight for LA.
He’d had it all planned. First he’d find a great apartment (a shithole in Hollywood), then he’d score an awesome job (Farrington’s was severely lacking in awesome), and then, armed with all the details he’d gathered about his father courtesy of Google, Wikipedia, and an archived issue of Maxim, he’d track down Ira Redman and confront him like the independent, deserving young man that he was.
What he didn’t expect was how completely intimidated he felt just being in Ira’s vicinity.
Shortly after he’d first arrived in LA, he found and followed Ira, watching from the cracked windshield of the clunker that seemed cool in Tulsa and so offensive in LA that even the valet parkers sneered when they saw it. Tommy saw the dismissive yet entitled way Ira left his chauffeur-driven Escalade at the curb and strode into the restaurant like a man who consumed power rather than food. His grim, all-seeing gaze was cloaked in a calculated ruthlessness that immediately convinced Tommy he was out of his league.
The reunion fantasy that had fueled the drive from OK to CA instantly evaporated into the Los Angeles smog, as Tommy made his escape, vowing to make a name for himself before he tried that again.
And now, there he was. Ira Redman sucking down oxygen like he owned controlling shares in that too.
“Hey,” Tommy mumbled, hiding his hands under the counter so Ira wouldn’t see the way they shook in his presence, though the tremor in his voice surely gave him away. “What’s up?”
The question was simple enough, but Ira chose to turn it into a moment. An awkward moment. Or at least it was awkward for Tommy. Ira seemed content to just stand there, his gaze fixed like he was assessing Tommy’s right to exist.
Don’t flinch, don’t be the first to look away, don’t show weakness. Tommy was so focused on how not to react he nearly missed it when Ira pointed an entitled finger at the guitar just behind him.
Clearly Ira had decided to take a little time out from world conquering to indulge some latent rock star fantasy. Fine with Tommy, he needed the sell. But he’d be damned if Ira walked out with the beautiful twelve-string Tommy had mentally tagged as his own from the moment he’d strapped it across his chest and strummed the first chord.
He purposely reached for the guitar just above it, lifting it from its wall hooks, when Ira corrected him.
“No, the one right behind you. The metallic blue one.” He spoke as though it was an order. As though Tommy had no choice but to do Ira’s bidding, serve his every whim. It was unnerving. Degrading. And it made Tommy even more resentful of Ira than he already was.
“It’s not for sale.” Tommy tried to direct Ira to another, but he wasn’t having it.
His navy-blue eyes, the same shade as Tommy’s, narrowed in focus as his jaw hardened much like Tommy’s did when attempting a piece of music he’d been struggling to interpret. “Everything’s for sale.” Ira studied Tommy with an intensity that made Tommy squirm. “It’s just a matter of negotiating the price.”
“Maybe so, bro.” Bro? He called Ira Redman bro? Before he could linger on that for too long, Tommy was quick to add, “But that one’s mine, and it stays mine.”
Ira’s steely gaze fixed on Tommy’s. “That’s too bad. Still, mind if I have a look?”
Tommy hesitated, which seemed kind of dumb, since it wasn’t like Ira was gonna steal it. And yet it required every ounce of his will to hand the piece over and watch as Ira balanced it in his hands as though expecting the weight to reveal something important. When he strapped it over his chest and assumed some ridiculous, pseudo-guitar-god stance, laughing in this loud, inclusive way like they were both in on the joke, Tommy had to fight the urge to hurl right then and there.
The sight of Ira manhandling his dream had him sweating straight through his Jimmy Page T-shirt. And the way he dragged it out, pretending to do a thorough inspection when he clearly had no idea what to look for, made it clear Ira was putting on some kind of show.
But why?
Was that how bored rich people entertained themselves?
“It’s a beautiful piece.” He returned the instrument as Tommy, relieved to have it safely out of Ira’s possession, propped it back against the wall. “I can see why you’d want to own it. Though I’m not convinced you do.”
Tommy’s back stiffened.
“The way you handle it …” Ira placed both hands on the counter, his manicured fingers splayed, his gold watch gleaming like a cruel taunt, as if to say, This is the life you could’ve had—one of great privilege and wealth, where you’d get to harass wannabe rock gods and piss all over their dreams just for the fun of it. “You handle it with too much reverence for it to be yours. You’re not comfortable with it. It’s a part from you, rather than a part of you.”
Tommy pressed his lips together. Shifted his weight from foot to foot. He had no idea how to reply. Though he’d no doubt the whole thing was a test he had just failed.
“You handle that guitar like it’s a girl you can’t believe you get to fuck, rather than the girlfriend you’ve grown used to fucking.” Ira laughed, displaying a mouthful of capped teeth—shiny white soldiers standing in perfect formation. “So how ‘bout I double whatever it is you think you could pay for it?” His laughter died as quickly as it started.
Tommy shook his head and stared at his trashed motorcycle boots, which, in Ira’s presence, no longer seemed cool. The treads were shot. The shank was gashed. It was like his favorite boots had suddenly turned on him, reminding him of the enormous gap yawning between him and his dream. Still, it beat looking at Ira, who clearly considered Tommy a fool.
“Okay, triple then.”
Tommy refused to acknowledge the offer. Ira was insane. The whole scene was insane. He was rumored to be a relentless negotiator, but all this—over a guitar? From everything he’d read about him, the only music Ira cared about was the song that played during last call when he collected the money from his various clubs.
“You drive a tough bargain.” Ira laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. The tone was way off.
And it wasn’t like Tommy had to actually look at him to know that his eyes had gone squinty, his mouth wide, his chin lifted in that arrogant way that he had. He’d seen plenty of photos of Ira being the inauthentic, entitled bastard he was. He’d memorized them all.
“So what if I quadruple my offer, hand over my credit card, and you hand over the guitar? I’m assuming you work on commission? Hard to pass on an offer like that.”
Clearly Ira had pegged him for the rent-hungry wannabe he was, and yet Tommy still held his ground.
The guitar was his.
Or at least it would be just as soon as he collected a few more paychecks.
And while it was definitely a risky move to deny Ira Redman, Tommy watched as he finally gave up and exited the store as arrogantly as he’d entered.
Tommy clasped the guitar to his chest, hardly able to believe he’d almost lost it. If he could just make it through the next few months, he’d have enough saved to make it officially his. Sooner if he went on a hunger strike.
And that was how Ira found him—standing behind the smudgy glass counter, embracing his dream guitar like a lover.
“Farrington wants a word.” Ira pressed his phone on Tommy, who had no other choice but to take it.
Who knew Ira and Farrington were friends?
Or better yet, who didn’t know Ira had an in with the owner?
Fuckin’ Ira knew everyone.
The conversation might have been brief, but it was no less humiliating, with Farrington ordering Tommy to sell Ira the guitar at the original price. There might also have been a mention about Tommy losing his job, but Tommy was already returning the phone, reducing Farrington’s angry rant into a distant muffled squawk.
Fighting back tears too ridiculous to cry, Tommy forfeited the guitar. Hell, he hadn’t even cried the night he’d said good-bye to Amy, the girlfriend he’d been with for the last two years.
He could not, would not, cry for a guitar.
And he definitely wouldn’t cry over his father making him look like a fool, showing just how insignificant he was in the world.
Someday he’d show him, prove his worth, and make Ira regret the day he walked into Farrington’s.
He didn’t know how, but he would. He was more determined than ever.
With the guitar in Ira’s possession (paid for with his Amex Black card, which probably had a gazillion-dollar limit), Ira shot Tommy one last appraising look before pulling a folded piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and sliding it across the counter. “Nice try, kid.” He made for the door, guitar strapped over his shoulder. “Maybe you could have bought it sooner if you worked for me.”

THREE REASONS TO BE BEAUTIFUL (#ulink_fea9f091-8aed-5ef8-ae88-76887ed79adb)
Aster Amirpour closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and slipped beneath the water’s surface until the bubbles covered her head and the outside world disappeared. If she had to choose a happy place, this would be it. Cocooned within the warm embrace of her Jacuzzi, free of the burden of parental expectations, along with the weight of their disapproving gaze.
No wonder she’d favored mermaids over princesses as a kid.
It was only when her lungs squeezed in protest that she sprang to the surface. Blinking water from her eyes, she pushed her hair from her face, allowing it to fall in long, dark ribbons that flowed to her waist, and adjusted the straps of her Burberry bikini—the one that took a month to convince her mom to buy, and then another month to convince her to let her wear it, and then only within the walled-in confines of their yard.
“All I see is four tiny triangles and a handful of very flimsy strings!” Her mother had dangled the offending pieces by the tip of her index finger, looking as though she’d been scandalized by the sight of it.
Inwardly, Aster rolled her eyes. Wasn’t that the whole point of rocking a bikini—to display as much gorgeous young flesh as possible while you still had gorgeous young flesh to display?
God forbid she wore something that might be considered highly immodest within the confines of her Tehrangeles neighborhood.
“But it’s Burberry!” Aster had pleaded, trying to appeal to her mother’s own high-end shopping addiction. When it didn’t help, she went on to add, “What if I promise to only wear it at home?” She eyeballed her mother, trying to get a read, but her mom’s face remained as imperious as ever. “What if I promise to only wear it at home when I’m the only one there?”
Her mother had stood silently before her, weighing the merits of a promise Aster had no intention of keeping. The whole thing was ridiculous. Aster was eighteen years old! She should be able to buy her own stuff by now, but her parents liked to keep as tight a rein on her spending as they did on her comings and goings.
As far as getting a job and financing her own bikinis—Aster knew better than to broach that particular subject. Other than the rare exception of a random lawyer here, a famed pediatrician there, the females in Aster’s family tree didn’t work outside the home. They did what was expected—they married, raised a family, shopped, lunched, and chaired the occasional charity gala—all the while pretending to be fulfilled, but Aster wasn’t buying it.
What was the point of going to those impressive Ivy League schools if that expensive education would never be put to good use?
It was a question Aster had asked only once. The steely gaze she received in return warned her to never speak of it again.
While Aster loved her family with all her heart, while she would do anything for them—heck, she’d even die for them if it came to that—she absolutely, resolutely, would not live for them.
It was too much to ask.
She inhaled a deep breath, about to take another plunge, when her cell phone chimed, and she shot out of the Jacuzzi so fast, she had to yank her bikini bottom back into place when the water threatened to drag it right off.
Seeing her agent’s name on the display, she crossed her fingers, tapped the gold and diamond hamsa pendant (a gift from her grandmother) for luck, and answered the call, trying to convey a capacity for great emotional depth in a single hello.
“Aster!” Her agent’s voice burst through the speaker. “I’ve got an interesting offer to run by you. Is now a good time?”
He was calling about the audition. She’d put her whole heart and soul into it, and clearly it had worked. “This is about the commercial, right? When do they want me to start?” Before Jerry could answer, she was envisioning how she’d break the news to her parents.
They were in Dubai for the summer, but she’d still have to tell them, and they were going to freak. She’d dreamed of becoming a world-famous actress since she was a kid, always begging her mom to take her on auditions, but her parents had other ideas. From the moment that first ultrasound revealed Aster was a girl, she was groomed to meet a set of expectations that seemed simple enough: be pretty, be sweet, get good grades, and keep her legs firmly crossed until she married the Perfect Persian Boy of her parents’ choosing the day after she graduated college, only to start producing Perfect Persian Babies a respectable ten months later.
While Aster had nothing against marriage and babies, she was committed to delaying those dream stallers for as long as she could. And now that her big break had arrived, she was determined to dive in headfirst.
“This isn’t about the commercial.”
Aster blinked, clutched the phone tighter, sure she’d misheard.
“They decided to go another way.”
Aster’s mind raced back to that day. Hadn’t she convinced the director that completely foul cereal was the best-tasting thing she’d ever put in her mouth?
“They’re going ethnic.”
“But I’m ethnic!”
“A different ethnic. Aster, listen, I’m sorry, but these things happen.”
“Do they? Or do they just happen to me? I’m either too ethnic, or the wrong ethnic, or—remember that time they said I was too pretty? As if there was such a thing.”
“There will be plenty of auditions,” he said. “Remember what I told you about Sugar Mills?”
Aster rolled her eyes. Sugar Mills was her agent’s most successful client. A no-talent pseudo celebrity discovered on Instagram thanks to the staggering number of people with nothing better to do than follow the daily adventures of Sugar’s Photoshopped body parts. Because of it, she’d snagged some high-profile commercial eating a big sloppy burger while wearing a tiny bikini, which inexplicably led to a role in an upcoming movie playing some old guy’s wildly inappropriate much younger girlfriend. Just thinking about it made Aster simultaneously sick and insanely jealous.
“I assume you’ve heard of Ira Redman?” Jerry said, breaking the silence.
Aster frowned and lowered herself back into the water, until the bubbles rose up to her shoulders. “Who hasn’t?” she snapped, feeling more than a little annoyed at a system that celebrated girls like Sugar Mills and wouldn’t give Aster a chance, even though she was a much classier act. “But unless Ira’s decided to get in on the movie biz—”
“Ira isn’t making movies. Or at least not yet.” Jerry spoke like he knew Ira personally, when Aster was willing to bet that he didn’t. “Though he is running a contest for club promoters.”
She closed her eyes. This was bad. Very bad. She braced herself for whatever came next.
“If you make the cut, you’ll spend the summer promoting one of Ira’s clubs. Which, as you probably know, are frequented by some of Hollywood’s biggest players. The exposure will be great, and there’s money in it for the winner.” He paused, allowing the words to sink in, while Aster fought to keep her disappointment in check.
She climbed out of the Jacuzzi. The heat of the water combined with the heat of her humiliation was unbearable. Preferring to finish the call barefoot, wet, and shivering, she said, “It sounds shady. And sleazy. And low class. And desperate. And just overall beneath me.”
She gazed toward her house—an over-the-top, sprawling Mediterranean-style monument to her family’s wealth with its tennis courts, covered loggias, big cherub-adorned fountains, and rolling manicured lawns. Wealth that would one day be hers and her brother Javen’s, provided they followed her parents’ strict and uninspiring plans for their lives.
She was tired of the way they tried to leverage her inheritance. Tired of the emotional turmoil they caused by insisting she choose between pleasing them and living her dreams. Well, screw it. She was done pretending. She wanted what she wanted and her parents would just have to deal. And if Jerry thought this was a good career move, then clearly it was time to cut ties and move on. There had to be another way. Someone to better guide her career. Problem was, Jerry had been the only agent out of a very long list who’d been willing to meet with her.
“You’re wrong about Ira,” he said. “He’s a class act, and his clubs attract the cream of the crop. You ever been to one?”
“I just turned eighteen.” She was annoyed at having to remind him. As her agent, he should’ve known that.
“Yeah.” He laughed. “As if that ever stopped anyone. C’mon, Aster, I know you’re not as innocent as you like to pretend.”
She frowned, unable to establish whether he’d just said something completely inappropriate, or if he was just calling it like he saw it. She was used to the way men reacted to her. Even much older men, men who should know better. But apparently it would take more than smooth skin, long legs, and the kind of blessed bone structure that photographed well to earn her a SAG card.
“So, you’re seriously trying to convince me that being a nightclub hostess will help my career as an actress?”
“Club promoter. For Ira Redman, no less.”
“Why not just take pictures of my butt and post them on Instagram? It worked for Sugar.”
“Aster.” For the first time since the conversation began, Jerry was running out of patience.
Well, he wasn’t the only one. But Aster was smart enough, and just desperate enough, to know when to fold.
“So, how does this work? You going to claim ten percent?”
“What? No!” He barked, like she’d said something crazy. As though that wasn’t an agent’s main role. “I know how tough it is to catch a break, and I really think you’ve got something, which is the only reason I signed you. This gig with Ira will get you in front of more influential people in one night than twenty auditions put together. If you truly believe the road to fame is beneath you, then maybe you don’t want it as much as you claim.”
She wanted it. She plucked a towel from a nearby lounge chair and wrapped it loosely around her. And while it clearly wasn’t the same as scoring the lead role (or any role), she had to start somewhere.
Besides, Jerry was right; everyone knew Ira’s clubs attracted loads of Hollywood types, and in a town full of gorgeous young girls, all of them fueled on the same dream of fortune and fame, this could be just the thing Aster needed to help her get noticed for the find that she was.
Trying to drum up a modicum of enthusiasm she didn’t yet feel, she headed for the pool house and said, “Let me grab a pen so I can jot down the details.”

FOUR CELEBRITY SKIN (#ulink_0052f37f-b67f-5a46-a8a4-4400a1e92d84)
Madison Brooks sprawled across the plush velvet chaise tucked into the corner of her massive walk-in closet, sipping the freshly pressed green juice her assistant, Emily, delivered and wrinkling her nose at the dresses her stylist, Christina, pulled from an assortment of garment bags bearing the names of LA’s most exclusive boutiques.
It was one of her favorite activities, in one of her favorite places—her closet serving as a sort of sanctuary from the incessant demands of her life. Every item—from the mirrored chests, to the soft woven rugs underfoot, to the crystal chandeliers dangling overhead, to the hand-painted silk wallpaper—was carefully chosen to exude feelings of unbridled luxury, comfort, and peace. The only thing even remotely out of place was Blue lying asleep at her feet.
While other starlets preferred their precious purse-size purebreds, for Madison, her scraggly mutt of indeterminate origins was everything a dog should be—solid, tough, no-nonsense, and a little rough around the edges. It was how she preferred her boyfriends too—or at least back when she was allowed to choose them herself.
If there was anything that surprised Madison about the inner workings of Hollywood, it was the approach to relationships as just another commodity—something to be bartered and arranged by a team of managers, publicists, and agents, or sometimes, the celebrities themselves.
The right pairing could raise an actor’s profile in ways that were otherwise hard to achieve, ensuring endless publicity, a permanent place in the tabloids, and, more unfortunate, the annoyingly cutesy phenomenon of name blending. Problem was, most actors were so used to delving into character they’d actually start to believe they’d found the person they could not live without. The one who completed them. Or whatever movie line they’d been spoon-fed since they were a kid.
“I’m thinking this one would go well with those new Jimmy Choos.” Christina dangled a cute color-block dress before her, but Madison didn’t want cute. She wanted something special, not the same tired thing everyone else was wearing.
Her phone chimed, but Madison ignored it. Not because she was lazy (she wasn’t), or because she was pampered to a ridiculous degree (she was), but because she knew it was Ryan and she had no interest in FaceTiming with him.
Christina paused, but Madison nodded for her to continue, until the ever-faithful Emily swooped in, retrieved Madison’s phone from the table, and in a tone of hushed excitement said, “It’s Ryan!”
Madison fought the urge to laugh. Emily was a good assistant—solid, dependable—but her fangirl crush on Ryan made her impossible to trust. The less she knew about Madison’s true feelings for Ryan, the better.
“Hey, babe.” Ryan’s voice was lazy and deep as his sandy-blond hair and sleepy green eyes filled up the screen. “I’ve been thinking about you all day. Have you been thinking about me?”
Madison watched as Christina and Emily crept from the room, closing the door behind them. “Of course.” She sank deeper into the cushions and pulled a cashmere throw over her lap. Whenever Ryan was around, or even on FaceTime, she found herself reaching for a pillow, a blanket, whatever she could find to build a barrier between them.
“Yeah? And what exactly were you thinking?” He sprawled full length on the couch in his on-set trailer, his head propped with a cushion, his hand working his belt.
“You couldn’t handle it,” she said, her voice barely disguising her resentment for the way he always pushed her into doing things that made her uncomfortable.
It wasn’t that she was a prude—far from it—and it wasn’t like Ryan wasn’t a fine piece of boy specimen—as the hot young star of a popular TV drama, Ryan Hawthorne was the fuel of countless teen fantasies. He simply wasn’t her type, and no amount of publicity would ever change that. After putting up with him for the last six months, she was more than ready to end it. Her agent had other ideas and was actively campaigning for her to continue the charade until she inked her next deal, but he wasn’t the one who had to kiss him, watch him chew with his mouth open, or fend off his constant need for FaceTime sex. The public canoodling had dragged on long enough. It was time for RyMad to die. Though it was important to time it just right.
“Oh, I can handle it.” His voice was raspy, his breathing strained, as his fingers tugged at his zipper. In another half a second those pants would be gone.
“Baby—” She deepened her voice in the way Ryan liked. “You know Christina’s here. Emily too.”
“Yeah, so, send ‘em on an errand or something.” He kicked his boxers to his knees. “I miss you, baby. I need me some Mad time.”
Madison cringed. She hated when he said things like Mad time—there was nothing sexy about it. There was also nothing sexy about seeing Ryan Hawthorne bared on her screen, despite what his millions of fans might think.
“But I still haven’t found a dress for Jimmy Kimmel tomorrow,” she cooed in a way she hoped was convincing.
“Does Jimmy have this?”
“Pretty sure he does.” He was too far gone to notice she’d rolled her eyes.
“You always look good, baby.” His voice was hoarse.
Madison muted the volume, absentmindedly fingering the scar on the inside of her arm—the only blemish on her flawless white skin. She was often asked about it in interviews, but Madison had a well-rehearsed answer for everything regarding her past.
She waited for Ryan to go through the motions, wondering how much longer she could put him off without him catching on to just how much she’d grown to despise him. Once it was done, she raised the volume and purred, “You have no idea how much I miss you.” Not a total lie, she reasoned, since he clearly had no idea she didn’t miss him one bit. “But now is not a good time.”
He made no move to cover himself, even though she’d made it clear that round two would not happen on her watch. Though a second later he was pulling a T-shirt over his head, saying, “Rain check?”
That was the one good thing about Ryan—he had the attention span of a gnat, and his moods were easily changed. He was just about to nail down a time, when Madison smiled apologetically and pushed End.
She leaned against the cushions and waited. Emily and Christina were probably mashed against the door frame, eavesdropping. They’d check in soon enough.
“So …” As if on cue, Christina peeked into the room. Her blue eyes worried, shoulders rising to her ears. “None of them work?”
Madison blinked. Maybe those dresses weren’t all as bad as she’d thought—surely at least one was a keeper?
Then again, why not pretend to hate them? It was good to shake people up. Make them try harder. Sharpen their game.
She scrunched her nose and shook her head. She had a long, hot summer of talk shows, movie promos, and photo shoots. Christina would have to exert a little more effort.
“From what I hear, Heather’s dying to wear the black one,” Christina said.
Madison crossed her legs and purposely nudged a still-sleeping Blue with her toes, amused by the way his ears perked up for a second before flopping down again. The thought of her annoying former costar brought a scowl to her face. Heather was always trying to promote herself through her connections, no matter how tenuous, to bigger celebrities, and Madison would never forgive herself for having fallen for it.
It was back in the early days when they’d first met. Back when she didn’t really know anyone and was so grateful to make a friend in a town where she didn’t have any, she ignored Heather’s more alarming traits—her pathological competitiveness among them. Though as soon as Madison hit it big, her star blazing so bright Heather’s was reduced to a flicker, the snide comments, thinly veiled insults, and fits of jealousy increased to where Madison could no longer overlook them. So she cut Heather off; visited her local dog shelter; found her new best friend, Blue; and never looked back. And yet, Heather still continued to stalk her, always tagging her on Twitter, or trying to copy Madison’s every move, like there was a formula for success other than hard work, determination, and a little sprinkle of fairy dust. What a bore.
“Well, I think the only reason she wants it is because she thinks you want it.” Christina turned toward the rolling rack and started closing the heavy bags so she could haul them back to her car—the sight of which made Madison feel a little sad for rushing the process.
After the fiasco with Heather, Madison hadn’t made other friends. She had plenty of hangers-on, sure, but not a single bestie. The problem with girls (the nice ones, not the crazy ones like Heather) was they always wanted to delve too deep. To share and confide, to glean her innermost thoughts, explore the territory of their mutual mommy and daddy issues, and, unlike boys, they couldn’t be dissuaded with sex (or at least not most of them); they demanded answers instead. It was the sort of intimacy Madison just couldn’t risk. The moments spent trying on clothes and gossiping with Christina were as close as Madison got to girl bonding.
“Well, won’t she be disappointed to learn I rejected it.” Madison was determined to delay Christina’s departure for as long as she could. “Unless we don’t tell her. Might be fun to watch her try to trump me in yet another tireless round of Who Wore It Better?”
Christina grinned knowingly. She had a reputation for being the best, limiting her list of clients to the topmost members of the Hollywood elite. “I don’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon.”
Madison’s lips curved into a half smile as she nudged Blue again with her toes. “You’ve been here for over an hour and the only gossip I get from you is about Heather? Are you holding out on me?”
Christina shot her an alarmed look, and then seeing Madison was joking (well, kind of), she relaxed and said, “It’s been a slow week. But I did hear something about a competition that Ira Redman’s running. Have you heard about it? He’s posted flyers all over town.”
Madison shot her a curious look. She knew Ira the way she knew most people connected to the industry—through the party, charity, and awards shows circuit. Of course she was aware of his reputation as the nightclub czar of LA, everyone was, but most of their contact had been relegated to Ira trying to lure her to his clubs through flattery and gifts. For her last birthday he’d sent her a red Hermès Kelly bag, which cost three times more than the Gucci bag her agent had sent. She’d quickly unwrapped it, added it to her collection of designer handbags, and told Emily to send him a thank-you card.
“Anyway, it’s something to do with promoting his clubs, but I have a friend on the inside who says you’re on his list of gets. So prepare for a bunch of desperate kids trying to lure you in!”
Madison settled deeper into the cushions, a sigh of contentment escaping her lips. So what if her life was filled with suck-ups and sycophants—all of them handsomely paid to fluff her ego and laugh at her jokes? She was still the luckiest person she knew, living the kind of gilded existence most people couldn’t conceive of. And wasn’t one of the major benefits of being rich and famous the unfettered access to all the right things?
The right table in a crowded restaurant with a three-hour wait.
The right first-class seat on an overbooked flight.
The right VIP pass to any concert or sporting event worth seeing.
The right clothes arriving straight to her door for her to try on at her leisure.
The right team of people who kept her life running safely and smoothly, for which she paid dearly.
She’d worked hard for the privilege and saw no reason not to milk it.
If Ira Redman wanted to enlist a bunch of kids to flatter her, who was she to stop him?
“Come back tomorrow morning,” she said, assuming Christina would move any other appointments she might have. “And bring me something pretty. I want to leave Jimmy speechless. Oh, and get me a list of those kids from your friend. I like to know who’s stalking me.”

FIVE MENTAL HOPSCOTCH (#ulink_13c85292-1e10-5c5b-bc60-5a49f3293b37)
Layla felt bad lying to Mateo, but really, what choice did she have? He’d made it clear that day at the beach exactly what he thought of the LA club scene. Admitting she’d decided to show up for the interview would only upset him. Besides, it wasn’t like anything would ever come of it. Surely Ira would see she didn’t fit in that world.
She steered her Kawasaki Ninja 250R toward Jewel, the club designated for the interview, about to claim a space that had just opened, when, seemingly out of nowhere, a white C-Class Mercedes swerved into her lane, forcing Layla to squeeze hard on the brakes. Her back wheel fishtailed wildly as she fought to keep control of the bike. Finally screeching to a stop and miraculously managing to stay upright, she watched in a mixture of frustration and outrage when the driver stole the spot right out from under her.
“Hey!” Layla yelled, her heart racing frantically thanks to the near-death experience. “What the hell?” She watched as a dark-haired girl in a tight black dress rolled out of the car with such arrogance and ease Layla was completely incensed. “That was my space!” she shouted in outrage. In a place where street parking was scarce, space snatching was a serious breach of common decency.
The girl anchored her sunglasses onto her forehead and glared dismissively. “How can it be your space if I’m in it?”
Layla stared in astonishment. So enraged she practically spit when she said, “Are you for real? You almost killed me!”
The girl shot Layla a derisive look, shook her long hair over her shoulder, and headed for the club. By the time Layla found another, less desirable space, the girl was long gone. She’d probably jumped the line and was already inside, while Layla slogged along with the rest of them, slowly wending their way toward the door.
She removed her helmet, ran a hand through her wheat-colored hair, and checked her reflection in the smudgy glass window, hoping her gray V-neck tee, shrunken black blazer, and tight leather leggings looked more rocker chick than Hell’s Angel. Then she traded her heavy boots for a pair of designer knockoff stilettos she’d bought for the occasion and could still barely walk in.
Despite making a living reporting on the celebrity scene, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been inside a club. Most of her stories revolved more around the closing-time antics, when the celebrities spilled out the doors, swaying precariously on their Jimmy Choos as they made their way to their rides. Those drunken, unguarded moments provided loads of material. She’d learned that firsthand after nearly getting clipped one night by some B-list jerk driving a Porsche. When Layla used her cell to record the offense, the celeb went after her, and she sold the resulting coverage to TMZ in an act of revenge that inadvertently kick-started her freelance career.
It wasn’t exactly the writing gig she’d dreamed of, but it’d gotten her through high school without having to rely on her dad, whose career as an artist was either feast or famine. And while she told herself she was doing her part to chip away at a world she despised, most of the time she felt more like a low-life paparazzi than an actual journalist. But, if this gig with Ira worked out, she could put all that behind her.
When she finally reached the door and the bouncer permitted her entry (the six people ahead of her weren’t nearly so lucky), she was handed an application and a name tag to stick on her blazer, then directed to a photographer, who clicked the shutter so fast Layla was sure he’d caught her mid-blink. Still dazed from the flash, she was then ushered by yet another assistant into the Vault—Jewel’s much-coveted, much-talked-about, legendary VIP section, which resembled the inside of a very plush jewelry box (as opposed to the actual bank vault Layla expected)—where she was told to wait.
Most people flocked to the front and center seats in an attempt to get noticed, but Layla headed straight for the back. Not because she was shy (she was), not because she was feeling intimidated (she definitely was), but because that particular vantage point allowed her to scope out the room, scrutinize her rivals, and determine who to beat and who to dismiss.
While she never got competitive over the usual things like being the prettiest girl in the room (the effort required to go from cute to pretty just wasn’t worth it), or gaining the attention of the hottest boys (it was already done—Mateo was the hottest guy in town), when it came to nailing the interview, she morphed into a cunning strategist fixed on securing the job no matter the cost.
Of course the girl who’d stolen her parking space (Aster, according to her name tag) was sitting front and center, and worse, she didn’t even blink or look away when Layla caught her openly staring. Her gaze remained focused, wide, and assured, and she brandished her startling beauty like a weapon meant to intimidate. So Layla did the only thing she could think of—she rolled her eyes and looked away, painfully aware she’d just time traveled straight back to junior high. Still, ignoring the mean girls was never an option. It hadn’t worked then, it wouldn’t work now. Girls like Aster had a loud bark, but Layla had a sharp, nasty bite. Aster would be a fool to underestimate her.
The rest of the crowd was pretty much a cross section of so many looks it reminded her of an American Idol casting call. There were goths, punks, metalheads, rappers, princessy blondes, a girl wearing pink cowboy boots and cutoffs so insanely short Layla wondered if she’d mistakenly wandered in looking for a bikini wax—all of them jockeying for attention. All of them completely clueless, in Layla’s estimation.
“Hey, you’re the girl with the bike, right?” There was enough of an accent to prove he wasn’t a native. “I saw you ride up.”
Layla’s gaze roamed past a pair of destroyed black leather motorcycle boots and frayed jeans slashed at the knee, before pausing on a vintage Jimmy Page T-shirt that looked so overly laundered she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d slept in it.
She shrugged in response. The weirdness with Aster had left her ready to hate on just about anyone who invaded her space, starting with this walking, talking indie-rocker cliché who’d probably never straddled a bike in his life.
“Mind if I sit here?”
“Whatever,” she mumbled, overcome with shame the second she said it. It wasn’t like her to act like such a snot. Still, she wasn’t there to make friends, and she definitely wasn’t there to make small talk with some LA transplant desperate for connection, and she couldn’t think of a better way to get those two points across.
He lowered himself into the seat, settling into such a major manspread, one of his knees bumped against hers.
She sighed loud enough for him to hear. She had graduated from a snot to a colossal bitch, but she just didn’t care.
“Sorry.” He drew his legs in, which was better, until his foot started to jiggle.
She focused hard on her cell, doing her best to ignore him, but there was no use.
“Can you just—”
He followed the tip of her pointing finger to his bouncing foot.
“Oh. Guess I’m a little nervous.” He laughed. “Which probably makes me sound really uncool, but there it is. So, how’d you hear about this?”
Completely out of patience, Layla turned to him and said, “Listen—can we not do this?”
“Do what?” His grin was slow, wide, and disarmingly open. And when her gaze met his, all she could manage was a sharp intake of breath. His eyes were the most intense shade of blue she’d ever seen.
She stole a quick glance at his name tag, Tommy, and fought to pull herself together. “Let’s not chitchat, make small talk, or pretend to be friends.” Her tone was harsh, way too harsh for the circumstance, but she was beginning to think she should’ve listened to Mateo and avoided this place.
“Your call.” Tommy shrugged. Dismissing her so easily she couldn’t help but feel a little incensed by that too. “Too bad, though. From what I’ve seen so far, friends are in short supply around here.”
His words settled around her. And while part of her wished she could lighten up, another part, the part that was frustrated, insecure, and woefully out of her league, said, “Yeah, well, welcome to Hollywood.”

SIX LONG COOL WOMAN (IN A BLACK DRESS) (#ulink_21b8718e-69d9-535e-9d48-5c7cc13a87b8)
Five minutes into the ordeal was all it took for Aster to dismiss everyone in the room as a possible competitor. Nightclubs thrived on glamour and beauty—the unattractive need not apply. That single requirement was enough to ensure that Aster secured the top spot.
Still, Layla (Lila? She had to squint to read the name tag) could pose a threat. She wasn’t nearly as pretty as Aster, but damn if she hadn’t hesitated to call her on that unfortunate parking space incident. Aster hadn’t even seen her until she was already climbing out of her car and Layla got up in her face. She’d been so agitated during the drive from Beverly Hills to Hollywood—alternating between you can do it! style pep talks and complete despair that she was fresh out of high school and had already sunk to this level—that when Layla went after her, Aster responded the only way she knew how—by acting like the worst, most haughty version of herself.
Everyone had a go-to defense. Some got angry, like Layla—some made jokes, like Aster’s brother, Javen—and some acted like stupid arrogant peacocks. Well, it was done now. There was no going back. Besides, Aster had a feeling that deep down, Layla wasn’t as tough as she seemed. As someone used to acting her way through most facets of life, Aster found it easy to recognize the trait in another. The game was equal parts illusion and distraction, but on Layla’s part, it was poorly played.
For one thing, her shoes were 100 percent not Louboutins. The red on the sole was way off. Never mind the heel height. And the way she’d stumbled into the room like a newborn colt testing its legs—clearly she hadn’t bothered to practice walking in them like Aster when she’d scored her first pair. Total rookie move. Even the biggest amateur knew you had to rehearse the role you wanted to play until you owned it so fully, you could no longer distinguish yourself from the fiction. Layla was out of her league. She might try to come off as strong and capable, but those sad knockoff shoes told the story of an imposter trying to inhabit a world she did not understand. And yet, clearly Layla was every bit as hungry and ruthless as Aster. Willing to play dirty if that was what it took, which was exactly why Aster focused on her.
Aster was an achiever, used to excelling at pretty much anything she set her mind to. Good grades, prom queen, class president—it had all been hers for the taking. But with her acting career failing to launch, she needed this job more than ever. The gig was sleazy, completely beneath her—but that was exactly the reason she needed to clinch it. If she couldn’t succeed as a lowly nightclub promoter, then what would that say about her?
Ira took his place at the podium, and Aster wasted no time crossing her legs in a way that significantly hiked up the hem of her Hervé Léger bandage dress, hoping to draw attention to a healthy expanse of tanned and toned thigh, while also sending the message she knew how to play this particular game.
Dressed in dark denim jeans and a black shirt, Ira somehow managed to look as tall, assured, and commanding as though he were standing behind the presidential podium wearing a bespoke suit.
“You all share one thing in common,” he began. “You were drawn to the idea of an epic competition, access to the hottest clubs, and, let’s not forget, the promise of an enormous cash prize.”
His gaze swept the room, and when it met Aster’s, she could’ve sworn he held it just a little bit longer. Then again, it was entirely possible she’d imagined it. Ira was magnetic—time seemed to stop and start depending on where he directed his attention.
“Like you, I was young and hungry once.” Ira shot them a well-practiced grin. “Back then, I would’ve jumped at the kind of opportunity I’m offering you.”
Another dramatic pause. Sheesh. Is everyone vying for a SAG card? No wonder it’s so tough to book a job.
“The rules are simple. Those who make the cut will be assigned a club to promote. At first you’ll be working in teams, but don’t think for a moment you can slack off and let the others pull your weight. I’ll be watching. I’m always watching. I know everyone who walks through my doors, and I’ll know whose efforts reeled them in.” He reached for a bottle of water and took a slow, purposeful swig that seemed less about thirst and more about allowing time for his words to sink in. Ira was positioning himself as a sort of all-seeing, all-knowing sage, and judging by the sudden onset of shifting and throat clearing, it worked.
“Getting a good turnout at your club earns you points. And I’m not going to mince words, since we’re all adults….” Ira checked with his assistant. “They’re all adults, right? You checked IDs?” The assistant smiled coyly. “In the world of nightclubs, the younger, the hotter, and the more famous your gets, the more points they’re worth. The clubs are all eighteen and up—eighteen to party, twenty-one to drink. Obviously.” He quirked a brow, allowed enough time for people to laugh, which of course they did, then went on to say, “Each week, the promoter with the least number of points will be eliminated, while the promoter with the most points will earn cash to spend on marketing and party planning for their clubs. The promoter with the most points at the end of the summer wins. And by ‘wins,’ I mean the winner will walk away with half of all the cover charges collected by the clubs during the course of the summer.”
The words were spoken in italics. Or at least that was how Aster heard it.
“The harder everyone works, the bigger the prize. The profits could be huge and they’re for the winner to keep.”
Blah, blah, blah. Aster couldn’t care less about the cash. Sure it would be nice to buy her own Burberry bikinis, but it was the connections that truly interested her. Her agent was right—Ira’s clubs attracted Hollywood’s finest. She was beginning to wonder why she hadn’t thought of it herself.
“Any questions?” Ira’s tone made it clear that questions weren’t actually welcomed, but just as Aster was raising her hand, having no idea what she would ask but determined to be noticed, that damn Layla beat her to it.
“What about the first week?”
Ira squinted, fiddled with the cap on his water bottle. “What about it?”
“Will we be given a promotional allowance to get started?”
“Only twelve will make the cut. No use talking details that won’t apply to most.”
Layla nodded, then shot Aster a squinty look.
Clearly she didn’t give a shit about the answer. She just wanted the same thing Aster did, to get Ira to notice her in a sea of desperate wannabes too scared to speak up in his presence.
Yep. She was definitely one to watch.

SEVEN I CAN’T GET NO (SATISFACTION) (#ulink_e8839f91-d798-54d1-81f7-7949530ea1ca)
Tommy followed Ira’s assistant into his office, trying not to stare too hard at the way her hips swayed in her little black skirt. From what he’d seen, all of Ira’s assistants were smokin’. His dad was clearly living the good life.
“Mr. Redman, Tommy Phillips is here.” Her voice was prim, but the intimate look that followed was all Tommy needed to know Ira was nailing her.
Well, at least someone in his family was having some fun. His mom had sworn off men long ago. Claimed to be perfectly happy keeping house with her bilingual parrot. And despite Tommy’s good looks, in a showy town like LA it hardly compensated for the crap car, the shithole apartment, and the nearly empty wallet.
Tommy sat before Ira, wishing he’d taken time to prepare. He knew the importance of rehearsing for a gig, but when it came to the most important interview of his life, he hadn’t so much as bothered to go over some possible responses to Ira’s inevitable questions. And yet, nothing could’ve prepared him for the intensity of going one-on-one with Ira in a closed room with a pack of hot, clipboard-toting assistants standing by.
Ira leaned back in his chair and pushed his sleeves up his forearms, allowing a glimpse of the bracelet of small round beads that reminded Tommy of the prayer beads his mom always wore. It seemed like an odd choice for a man like Ira. Then again, most LA moguls liked to feign a spiritual side, claiming to adhere to a rigorous schedule of yoga and meditation before heading out into the world and obliterating competitors, entire companies, and anything else that got in their way.
Just above the bracelet was an expensive gold watch, this one a Cartier, as opposed to the Rolex of the other day. Probably had a whole collection of ‘em—one for every day of the month—while Tommy relied on his cell phone to keep track of time. And if things didn’t pick up, he’d be forced to hawk it on Craigslist.
This was a mistake—one of his biggest in a very long list. He should’ve left that stupid flyer in the trash where he’d originally tossed it.
“So,” Ira said. “Tell me something about you that I don’t already know.”
Tommy hesitated, unsure what he meant. Did Ira recognize him from that day at Farrington’s?
He forced his gaze to meet Ira’s, wondering how he’d react if Tommy said, “Well, Dad, as it just so happens, I’m the long-lost son you abandoned.”
Would Ira lose his cool? Have him tossed from the room?
Wasn’t worth finding out. Or at least not today.
“Guess that depends on what you do know.” Tommy practically dared Ira to remind him of how he’d nearly cried when Ira bought his dream guitar out from under him. He was guessing Ira was enough of a douchebag sadist to do it.
“You’re hungry.” Ira steepled his fingers and held them under his chin. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Question is, what are you hungry for?”
Rent money, a shelf full of Grammys, to prove myself worthy and one day surpass your success in ways you never saw coming.
Tommy shrugged and looked around the room. It was sleek, modern, minimal but expensive. Even the requisite ego wall, covered floor to ceiling with framed photos of Ira’s various magazine covers, was tastefully done. “I like to win.” Tommy shifted in his seat, then instantly regretted it. It made him look nervous, unsure of himself. He was, but it wasn’t like he needed to show it.
“Who doesn’t?” Ira frowned, the steeple collapsed, and his hands fell to his lap, where he fiddled with the tiger’s-eye beads on his bracelet, as Tommy wondered if something from Ira’s brief dalliance with his mom had managed to stick.
Tommy’s mom was one of those new-age hippies (except she really hated that word—the beliefs dated back thousands of years, she would say). Not only did she believe in the healing power of crystals but also that everyone was guided by angels, that Love with a capital L could cure anything, along with a whole list of other stuff Tommy could never fully align with. She was the one who should’ve moved to LA. It would’ve been a better fit. Though if he remembered correctly, she might’ve said something about tiger’s-eye being protective, guarding against curses and the like. All Tommy knew was on his first day of high school she’d slipped a similar stone into his pocket. By the end of third period he’d already lost it, and yet he still managed to survive those four years mostly unscathed. Though it made sense that Ira would need that sort of protection. A guy like that came with a long list of enemies just waiting to attack.
Tommy counted himself among them.
He picked at the hole in the knee of his jeans and waited for Ira to continue.
“Heard I caused you some trouble over at Farrington’s?” Ira paused, waiting for Tommy to confirm or deny.
It was a test. Every moment with Ira was a final exam.
“He canned me.” Tommy lifted his shoulders as though it was no big thing, but they both knew he was lying.
“You might think that makes me feel obligated to you.” Ira studied his nails, not polished, just filed and buffed, keeping the man in manicure. “But that would be a mistake.” He leveled his gaze on Tommy’s. “I tend to take a more nihilistic view—at least where the more mundane social mores are concerned.”
Was this guy for real? Did all of the interviews go like this—with Ira aimlessly pontificating like they both had all the time in the world?
And how the hell was Tommy expected to reply to a statement like that?
Ira was a major windbag who loved to hear his own voice.
Tommy was a man of much fewer words.
Clearly he took after his mother.
“You made a choice that day. You chose to act on your own and risk the consequence. All of our actions bring consequences. Getting fired was yours.”
Tommy ran his tongue across his gums, flipped his boot on his knee, and messed with the gash in the shank. No longer caring if Ira saw the sorry state of his shoes, his finances, his life. Seemed like he’d blown the interview long before he arrived. It was Farrington’s all over again.
The guy was completely devoid of an empathy gene. Great father figure he was turning out to be.
It was time to head back to Oklahoma, where people at least said what they meant and never made sport of other people’s well-being. Back home, he didn’t know a single person who behaved like Ira. They were good, down-home, solid, dependable folks. He couldn’t believe he’d just used the word folks—but yeah, folks who would never so much as—
“—which is why you’re not a good fit.”
The room fell silent. Tommy had no idea what had just happened. “So … I’m not a good fit because you like to take a nihilistic approach, or because you got me fired so easily?” He scrambled to catch up.
“What do you think?”
Tommy shook his head. This was un-fucking-believable.
“For someone who claims they love to win, you haven’t said a single thing to convince me.”
“You don’t even know me.” Tommy stood, struggling to keep his cool. He wasn’t good enough for the job, wasn’t good enough to be Ira’s son. He’d never felt as powerless as he did at that moment.
“Don’t I?” Ira tilted his head, studying Tommy like he saw right through him.
“You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
Ira shrugged and reached for his phone, which only enraged Tommy more. He might be broke, down on his luck, but he didn’t have to tolerate being treated like this, and he wouldn’t leave without Ira knowing it.
“Just so we’re clear—” He pushed his chair aside, nearly tipping it over. “The consequence of your decision will prove to be your loss, not mine.”
He made for the door, pushing past the assistants scurrying out of his way, just as Ira said, “I’m beginning to wonder if you’re right.”
Tommy pulled the door open, still committed to leaving while he was somewhat ahead.
“You’re my weakest candidate by far.”
Tommy scowled. Ira was an asshole. An asshole who didn’t know when to quit.
“But if you can learn to take that grudge of yours and use it to fuel your goals, as opposed to using it as your go-to excuse for remaining a victim, then you just might end up surprising us both.”
Tommy turned. “So now you’re quoting Oprah?”
Ira laughed. It was short, almost inaudible, but Tommy caught it nonetheless.
“Usually at this point, the groveling interviewee conveys a stream of gratitude they can barely contain.”
“I don’t remember groveling,” Tommy snapped, wondering if maybe he was the one who didn’t know when to quit.
“To your credit.” Ira nodded. Dividing his attention between his phone and Tommy, he said, “Jennifer will lead you to the back room, where the other candidates are waiting. You’ll need to remain there until the rest of the interviews are concluded, at which point you’ll receive your assignments.”
Tommy shook his head, trying to make sense of what had happened. Maybe Ira wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. Maybe he just took some getting used to. Besides, all that stuff about Oklahoma was bullshit. People are people. Prone to do what they’re prone to do. Geography had nothing to do with it.
“Oh, and Tommy?” Ira’s eyes glinted with an emotion Tommy couldn’t quite place. “I can see why you loved that guitar. My instructor says it’s as good a starter instrument as any.”
Another test. Ira was trying to rile him by inferring that his dream guitar was somehow inferior. But Tommy just grinned. Following Jennifer out the door, he said, “Glad to hear she’s working for you.”

EIGHT TEENAGE DREAM (#ulink_3c47a148-592d-5ed9-a447-3470d2226ee2)
Of course Aster made the cut. She saw how Ira looked at her. Like most men who’d risen to a place of power, he appreciated the sight of a pretty girl. Probably even thought his success somehow entitled him to date her. Only in Ira’s case, it wasn’t just that.
As Aster sat across from him, she couldn’t help but notice that while he clearly liked what he saw, it was more in terms of what her sexy good looks could do for his clubs (as opposed to him envisioning her legs wrapped around him, or whatever old men think about when they’re fantasizing about girls who are far too young for them). His eyes conducted a thorough inspection, evaluating her physical advantages like any other commodity, while determining the best way to exploit them for professional gain, and it didn’t bother her in the least. She’d survived enough disappointing auditions to know the score. This was the first time she’d nailed one.
She wondered if it had to do with his final question: What makes you think you can win this thing? All the while studying her with that deeply penetrating gaze of his.
For a few panicked moments she sat silently before him, trying to determine the best angle to follow. Finally deciding that Ira didn’t seem like the type to honor humility, she met his gaze and said, “Next to me, everyone else is an amateur.” Then she chased it with the sexy and confident grin she’d practiced earlier.
He’d gazed at her a good long time—enough for Aster to second-guess her answer. She was just about to say something to soften the boast, when he ordered his assistant to escort her into the next room.
What she didn’t expect when she got there was the unlikely group who’d made the cut too. Of course that damn Layla was there, she’d figured as much. But Tommy she’d pegged as a wild card. She guessed he was cute—if you liked ‘em low rent, anguished, and hungry. Aster did not. As for the rest, well, Karly was a surprise; then again, some guys (a lot of guys—most guys) really went for that sparkly, frothy blond look. The goth guy, Ash, made it, as did Brittney, the girl in cowboy boots and denim cutoffs so short they covered only slightly more ass than Aster’s Burberry bikini bottom. There was another guy, Jin, who was so skinny and pasty Aster figured him for a gamer or tech geek who rarely ventured outside, and an androgynous girl, Sydney, covered in loads of tattoos and piercings (or at least Aster thought she was a girl). Two of the guys, Diego and Zion, looked normal enough (well, normal for LA), which meant they looked like they’d strolled straight off the page of a Calvin Klein underwear ad. Cute, no doubt, but Aster didn’t go for the overtly pretty types. Guys like that tended to spend way too much time thinking about themselves, and not enough time focusing on her. The final two looked wholesome, all-American. The girl, Taylor, was so fresh faced and healthy, she looked like she came straight from an equestrian lesson, while the guy, Brandon, was tanned with just the right amount of windblown hair, like he’d docked his yacht in the harbor and was waiting for his driver to whisk him off for dinner and drinks at the club.
Ira had cast a wide net of looks and ethnicities. Six girls and six guys—not a single one over the age of nineteen. Guess he wasn’t joking when he said he was after a young, hot demographic of club goers.
Aster settled among them, making a point to avoid Layla, who she’d already deemed as the first to take down—and waited for what happened next. Unlike the earlier waiting room, this new room was silent. Probably because they were no longer potential comrades—they were now competitors out for the win.
She crossed her legs and massaged the tight muscles around her ankle and calf. It’d been a long day, and her toes were starting to ache after so many hours inside the take-no-prisoners Louboutin toe box. She snuck a glance at Layla, wondering if her cheap knockoffs hurt too, only to discover they’d been replaced with a pair of serious-looking black motorcycle boots.
“It’s been a long and grueling day.” Ira strode into the room, followed by his usual team of assistants. “Which should give you an indication of the level of commitment I expect. Though before you get too full of yourselves for having made it this far, let me remind you that not a single one of you is over nineteen—which makes you woefully inexperienced, despite what you think. Working for me will allow for the sort of real-life education you can’t get at school. But before I continue, is anyone having second thoughts? Anyone want to back out?” He surveyed the room for a beat before continuing. “So, on to the logistics … there are legal forms to fill out. My assistants will guide you through the process. But first, you’re probably wondering which clubs you’ll promote.”
Everyone nodded like they’d been wondering exactly that, Aster included. She had her heart set on Night for Night, the Casablanca-chic rooftop treasure. It was a perfect fit in every way—classy, sexy, and named after a cinematography technique used for night filming. She’d had a thing for Morocco ever since she came across a stack of her mother’s old Vogues and spent the entire day staring at the spread of Talitha Getty wearing white patent-leather boots and a colorful coat, lounging on a roof with a mysterious man in the background. If Aster had to pick one single, defining moment that would shape who she’d hoped to one day become—it was that shot of Talitha Getty. She looked beautiful, pampered, exotic, and adored. Maybe even the slightest bit bored—but in a good way. Like her life was so full of lush adventures, she couldn’t help but wonder if there was anything left to amuse her. She tapped her hamsa pendant for luck while Ira squinted at the clipboard his assistant held before him.
“Layla Harrison—you’re promoting Night for Night.”
Aster involuntarily gasped and shot a quick look at Layla, trying to gauge her reaction. But Layla just nodded, gave nothing away.
“Tommy Phillips—” When Ira’s gaze centered on Tommy, Aster could’ve sworn she saw something pass between them. Something she couldn’t quite read. “You’re promoting Jewel.”
If Tommy looked upset, it was probably because he had his heart set on the Vesper. It was gaining a reputation as a gritty underground club attracting top-notch musicians—a perfect match for someone like Tommy. Jewel was sleek and modern and attracted a high-end crowd—it was out of his league.
Ira made his way down the list, and even though she’d been keeping track, she couldn’t stop from groaning when Ira’s gaze settled on hers. She knew what was coming.
“Aster Amirpour—you’ll be promoting the Vesper.”
She shook her head as her hand shot up.
“Problem?” Ira looked at her
“I’d like to request a different club.” There was no way she’d fit in at the Vesper, and someone as business savvy as Ira should’ve known that. She wondered if he was testing her, testing all of them.
Ira studied her for a long moment. “Then I guess you’ll have to find someone to trade with.” He left without another word, leaving his assistants to pass out the piles of legal forms.
Aster shoved the forms in her purse. She needed to get to the three other people who got Night for Night that she hadn’t almost run over.
“It’s Sydney, right?” Aster approached the girl who, from what Aster could tell, was wearing a full bodysuit of tattoos.
She was about to compliment Sydney on her septum piercing, anything to get on her good side, when Sydney snapped, “Don’t bother. I already traded with Taylor.” She turned away before Aster could react to the snub.
She headed for Diego and Jin on the other side of the room, but when she got there, they were already negotiating with Brittney and Ash, which left only Layla.
Great.
And on top of that, Layla was gone.
“Hey—Aster?”
She turned to find Tommy standing behind her.
“I was wondering if you were up for a trade?”
“Not unless you got Night for Night, which we both know you didn’t.” She raced for the door. Layla had probably already left, and Aster needed to reach her while she still had a chance. But when she replayed her words, she forced herself to turn back. She’d already made one enemy. She didn’t need to start a collection. “Sorry,” she said. “That was uncalled for.”
“Won’t argue with that.” Tommy’s face broke into a grin that made his eyes gleam. Maybe he was cuter than she’d first thought.
“It’s just—I really want Night for Night.”
“Well, Jewel’s a closer match than the Vesper, no?”
Sure it was better, but better wasn’t good enough. “Can you help me get to Layla?” she asked, hoping he’d made a better impression than she had.
He ran a hand over his chin and shot her a skeptical look. “Doubtful,” he said.
“Would you be willing to at least try?” She gave him her best grin, the one she saved for auditions and head shots.
“Depends.” He folded his arms across his chest and shifted his weight to his heels, like he had all the time in the world. “What’s in it for me?”
“The Vesper.” She shrugged. “That’s what you want, right?”
He studied her for a moment, then led her to the entry, where Layla was talking on her phone, until she saw Aster and Tommy and hastily ended the call.
“Can I help you?” She frowned.
Tommy hooked a thumb toward Aster. “I was thinking you two should meet.”
“We’ve met—” Layla turned away. “She nearly killed me in pursuit of a parking space.”
“And I want to apologize for that.” Aster hurried alongside her.
“So, it’s true.” Tommy looked amused by the news.
“No, it’s not true,” Aster snapped. “I didn’t even see her. It was all a big misunderstanding.”
“Oh, you saw me.” Layla whirled on her. “Don’t even try to pretend like you didn’t.”
“No wonder you needed me to mediate.” Tommy looked at Aster, shaking his head.
“Believe me,” Aster said. “I’m already regretting that.”
“Maybe so, but deal’s a deal,” Tommy reminded her. “I did my part, now you do yours.”
“What deal? What’s going on?” Layla glanced between them.
“Aster wants to switch clubs.”
“Um, hello! I’m right here and I can speak for myself!” Aster shook her head. Maybe she should just stick with the Vesper; it would be better than dealing with this. But who was she kidding? It was a disaster in the making. Besides, she was still convinced this was all part of some weird game Ira was playing.
“Then why’d you ask me to help?”
“I asked you to help me find her, not to—ugh, just forget it, Okay? Listen.” Aster faced them both. “Here’s the deal. We all want each other’s clubs. So I’m proposing we put our personal feelings aside and—”
“I don’t want your club.” Layla made her way out the door and onto a street crowded with tourists, as Aster and Tommy rushed to follow.
“You’re seriously trying to tell me you want Night for Night? You wouldn’t prefer Jewel?”
Layla stopped. “What’s the difference? A club’s a club.”
“You can’t be serious!” Aster cried, scowling at a guy wearing a Superman costume that looked ratty and decrepit under the glare of the bright summer sun. It probably smelled bad too. And yet there was no shortage of tourists willing to pay to take pictures with costume-wearing weirdos like him. Sometimes people completely boggled her brain. Layla included.
“Way to negotiate.” Tommy laughed, which only annoyed Aster more, mostly because he was right. This whole thing was a mess, and it was all her fault. Something about these two pushed all her buttons. Normally she had no problem making friends and keeping her cool.
“There’s a big difference,” Aster said, determined to rein herself in. “And Layla, you’re far more suited to Jewel.”
“And why’s that?” She folded her arms across her chest, guarding against whatever insult Aster might sling.
“Because it’s sharp, modern, and eccentric. All the things Tommy’s not, but you are.”
“Oh.” Layla seemed to visibly relax, if only a little. “So let me get this straight. Tommy wants your club, and you want my club.”
“Yes.” Aster stood uncertainly before her. Surely even Layla could see the logic in her plan.
“Well, good luck to you both.”
Layla made for her bike, as Aster hurried alongside her and Tommy stayed put. “Just give me a minute,” Aster called after her. “That’s all I ask.”
To her surprise, Layla stopped and looked pointedly at the time on her phone.
“Listen, I’m sorry for what happened earlier.” Aster fought to catch her breath, the words hurried but heartfelt. “Truly. But if you’ll just—”
“Tell me.” Layla cocked her head and narrowed her gaze, and despite the way her features sharpened, Aster was surprised to find she was actually pretty. “If you’d gotten Night for Night, would you have tried to apologize?”
Aster took a moment to answer, unsure how to play it. “Honestly?” she finally relented. “Probably not.”
Layla nodded, seemingly satisfied. “So, what’s in it for me?”
Aster studied Layla, trying to determine why she was interested in Ira’s contest. She assumed most people were after the money, but something about Layla told her it wasn’t just that. Still, money was the only thing she could think to offer. “I’ll give you my share of the first week’s marketing money.”
Layla rolled her eyes. “Please, you drive a Mercedes. A C-Class, but still a Mercedes. I don’t want your money, I want something that will truly cost you.”
Aster was shocked by the snub. A C-Class Mercedes beat a cheap bike any day, but whatever; Layla was trying to get to her and Aster wouldn’t fall for it. “Name it,” Aster said, ready for this to be over.
“I will. Just as soon as I think of something.”
Aster’s eyes widened. She couldn’t be serious, could she?
Layla paused long enough for a foreign tour group to go by, their leader excitedly pointing out all the landmarks the locals never even bothered to look at. “I’ll let you know when I decide,” she finally said.
“I’m not comfortable with that,” Aster snapped.
“That sounds more like your problem than mine.” Layla shrugged. “And don’t even think about trying to back out when payday comes around, because I will hold you to it.”
Aster gnawed the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit she’d yet to cure herself of. “You’re not going to ask for the soul of my firstborn child or something, are you?”
Layla rolled her eyes. “Why would I want your illegitimate mistake?”
Aster sighed. The girl was a nightmare. Who knew what she’d demand? Well, she’d deal with it later. For now she had Night for Night, and that was all that really mattered. “Guess you’re representing Jewel,” she said.
Layla shrugged like she didn’t care either way, leaving Aster to second-guess the deal she’d just struck as she watched the other girl walk away.
“You convince her?” Tommy called, as Aster made her way back.
Aster nodded, wondering if she looked as shaken as she felt. “I feel like I just made a deal with the devil, but yeah, it’s done.”
“Hope it turns out to be worth it.” Tommy squinted against the sun, eyeing her carefully.
She shrugged, clicked her key fob, and unlocked her car. Remembering her manners, something that had been in short supply all day, she looked over her shoulder and said, “Hey, Tommy—good luck with the Vesper.”
“Good luck to you.” He grinned.
The competition had officially begun.

NINE SUMMERTIME SADNESS (#ulink_4e606082-3025-5f1d-9bb9-85252cb567e1)
Layla stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel at the same moment there was a knock at the door.
“I’ll get it,” Mateo offered, pausing a moment to grin appreciatively at the sight of Layla naked before heading down the hall.
She wrapped the towel around herself and pulled a comb through her hair. It looked awful, more neglected than usual, like the hair of an overstressed soccer mom who’d run out of Xanax. She should try harder. Maybe do something with the color. Though she doubted she would. It was bad enough she’d worn a pair of toe-numbing stilettos in order to look the part for the interview. If she started highlighting her hair, where would it end? Scouring Pinterest boards, looking for nail art ideas? She refused to be that girl.
Then again, Mateo had exhibited some major appreciation for the shoes. Especially when she’d kept them on well after everything else had come off. And lately, making Mateo happy went a long way toward alleviating her guilt over not telling him she was working for Ira. She wanted to. She just hadn’t found the right time. But tonight she’d tell him for sure. It was her first official day on the job, and the last thing she wanted was for Mateo to discover the truth on his own.
She rubbed some moisturizer into her skin, letting the towel slowly drop to the floor like some kind of bathroom burlesque, winking salaciously at Mateo through the mirror as he returned with a large white envelope clutched in his hand.
She strained to make out the lettering, but Mateo’s fingers covered the logo. “Did Publishers Clearing House finally send me that million-dollar check?” She laughed playfully, until she saw the hurt expression on Mateo’s face and the laughter died on her lips.
Today was the day Ira was sending their first list of celebrity gets, which Layla assumed would arrive by email. It never occurred to her he’d opt for home delivery. And now her phone was chiming with incoming texts—most likely from her team wanting to strategize.
“You gonna get that?” Mateo struggled to keep his face neutral as he nodded toward her phone.
She shook her head, reached for her towel, and quickly covered herself.
“What if Ira needs you?” he said when her phone chimed again.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat, searching for just the right words to explain, only those words didn’t really exist.
“When were you going to tell me? Or were you ever going to tell me?”
“Tonight.” She lifted her gaze to meet his, needing him to believe it.
“And how long have you known?”
She hung her head, if for no other reason than to avoid the hurt look on his face. He’d always been so open and honest with her. Layla was the shady one—the dealer of secrets and lies.
“Couple days,” she said, voice barely audible.
He exhaled long and deep. If disappointment had a sound, Mateo’s sigh would be it. He willingly forfeited the envelope. Her fingers reluctantly seized it. As much as she’d wanted the job, in the face of betraying Mateo, it no longer seemed worth it.
“You already know how I feel about that scene. But if this is what you want, it’s not my place to stop you,” he said.
“But it’s not like that!” Layla gripped the envelope so tightly it crinkled in protest. “I’m doing it to honor Carlos, to shine a light on that dark, murky world, and so I—” She stalled. Finishing the thought meant revealing another secret, and she absolutely was not ready for that.
Though she’d had no problem revealing that secret to Ira. As soon as he’d asked why she wanted to win, she blurted out the truth about needing to find a way to pay for journalism school. The interview ended shortly after, and out of all the questions he’d asked, and there’d been quite a few, she knew that was the answer that clinched it.
But this was Mateo, and there was no good way to say: Oh, and by the way, I have my heart set on journalism school in New York, and I’m hoping this job will cough up enough cash so I can move far away. And just so you know—you’re not invited.
How could she convey that to Mateo, of all people?
But from the length of her silence, she already had. Or at least she’d alarmed him enough to prompt him to ask, “So you can what, Layla?” His voice carried an edge, but his shoulders sank in defeat. “Is this about the prize money? Because you know I’d gladly give you whatever I have.”
She gazed around her room, taking in the dark wood floors and white beach-board walls that matched the rest of the remodeled Venice Beach bungalow, the jumble of freshly laundered clothes in need of sorting, the stack of books she’d been meaning to get to as soon as she found some free time. She paused on the portrait her father had painted of her at age five. Her head thrown back, eyes shut tight, mouth stretched wide as she laughed at something she could no longer remember. It was probably the last time her life felt so uncomplicated, the last time she’d felt like a kid. Within a year her mom would be gone, and she and her dad would take the first tentative steps toward forging a new life without her.
Maybe her mom’s abandonment had affected her more than she’d thought. Maybe a therapist would say it had something to do with her becoming the sort of perfectionist who couldn’t bear to disappoint anyone, lest they leave. All she knew for sure was she never wanted to disappoint Mateo—and yet, she knew she eventually would.
She gnawed her bottom lip, pulled the towel tighter around her. A quick glimpse of his face told her anything she said would be met with suspicion.
“The only reason I didn’t tell you is because I knew you wouldn’t approve, and I can’t stand to upset you….”
“I’m not upset.” He shook his head, started again. “Okay, I’m upset that you hid it. But mostly I’m worried about you getting involved in that scene.”
“You don’t have to worry.”
“Of course I do. I love you.” He spoke as though it was really that simple—like there was no other way to reply. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, causing his jeans to slip enticingly low. “And when will we see each other? You’ll be working every night of the week.”

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