Unrivaled (11 page)

M
adison Brooks lay curled on her side, sheltered by the shade of a large umbrella, enjoying the view of her infinity pool and the way it seemed to drop straight into the canyon beyond. After her luxurious closet, her backyard was her second favorite place on her property. As a child growing up thousands of miles from any piece of land capable of supporting a palm tree, her tropical paradise was yet another symbol of how far she'd come.

It was her first free day in . . . well, it'd been so long she couldn't remember when she'd last enjoyed a Saturday without at least one meeting, fitting, or script to read. But with the day stretching out before her like a delectable buffet with unlimited offerings, she was content to remain right there on the chaise, reveling in the fact that she had
absolutely nothing to do and nowhere to be.

“Hey, babe.”

At the sound of Ryan's voice, Blue, who'd been sleeping beside her, lifted his head, pinned back his ears, and let out a teeth-baring growl that had Madison toying with the idea of commanding him to attack. Of course she wouldn't do it, but that wasn't to say she wasn't tempted.

From a purely physical perspective, Ryan was as dreamy as they come. What with the way his sandy-blond hair caught the glinting rays of the sun, making it appear as though it'd been sprinkled with gold dust, the way his well-muscled legs strode purposefully toward her, the way his biceps popped under the strain of an arm loaded with Neiman Marcus shopping bags—it was easy to see why he'd single-handedly fueled the fantasies of so many teen girls (and most of their moms).

“You bring me a gift?” She lowered her sunglasses back to her nose. Sure, she was tired of him, but gifts were always appreciated and rarely returned.

He grinned his dazzling Ryan Hawthorne grin—the moneymaker, as he sometimes referred to it—and sorted through his collection of bags until he found the right one. “Did he just growl at me?” He cast a wary eye on Blue.

Madison watched as Blue leaped from the chair and trotted toward the house. Then she sat up straighter, crossed her legs at the shins, and dug through layers of soft white
tissue before she unearthed a small square jewelry box at the bottom.

Hoops. Yet another pair of gold hoops. Only these were far prettier than most in her collection, mostly due to the little turquoise bits that adorned them. Madison traced her finger around the rims, approving of them far more than she'd let on.

She leaned in to plant a perfunctory kiss on his cheek, only to have him turn his head at the very last moment, claiming the kiss.

His lips parted, his tongue darted forward, as his hand rose to the back of her head and he buried his fingers deep in her hair, angling her face closer to his. “I missed you, babe.” He breathed the words into her neck, her hair, before finding her lips once again.

He pulled her closer, and then closer still. And when his hand fell to her breast, his fingers about to ease beneath her bikini top, she pressed her palm firmly against his chest and pushed him away. “Easy, tiger.” She kept her tone playful as she summoned all her will not to wipe her mouth on her towel. It wasn't that Ryan was a bad kisser, but every kiss was the wrong kiss when it came from a person you could just barely tolerate. “I want to try on my new earrings before you get carried away.” She was hoping to distract him long enough that he'd forget where they'd left off.

Madison was convinced Ryan's heartthrob status was
due solely to the fact that not a single member of his adoring public would ever guess at the weird groans and embarrassing sex faces he made during the act. But Ryan's days as the reigning Teen King of prime-time TV were nearing an end. His show was on the verge of cancellation. The writers had run out of ideas, the plot had grown stale, and the ratings were falling—a death knell if she ever heard one. If Ryan's agent didn't book him something quick, preferably something bigger and better than the silly teen soap that had made him famous, he'd be officially declared a has-been by this time next year.

Aside from a handful of Teflon-coated, A-list elite who could survive a series of flops and still hold their fan base, the general rule in Hollywood was that you were only as good as your last project. The public was fickle—claiming their undying love and devotion one moment, while simultaneously looking for the next new face to adore.

The time was right to end things with Ryan. If the point of their relationship was to boost each other's images, then Ryan was about to become a serious detriment. She couldn't see a single reason to delay the inevitable.

“Gorgeous.” His eyes appeared to sweep across her face, yet his attention clearly drifted. Like he was looking inward rather than outward, like someone else had claimed a place in his memory.

“So, what else did you get me?” She studied him
carefully, knowing there was nothing more. She was more interested in how he'd reply. Ryan was the kind of actor who relied heavily on the script. Improvisation was not one of his strengths.

His brows merged as though he'd forgotten where he was—or maybe who he was with?

Was it possible Ryan had grown as tired of her as she'd grown of him?

For the first time in a long time, he intrigued her.

“Uh, nothing,” he said, his voice distracted as he struggled to return to the present. “The rest is just some basics I needed to replace. Been carrying 'em around in my car, figured I'd bring 'em inside in case I end up staying the night.”

She nodded like she understood, and she did, just not in the way he intended. Ryan was hiding something. And while there was a part of her that couldn't care less, the other part, the part that kept a tight vigil on her image and anything that might threaten it, was on full, red-flag alert.

“I was thinking we should go out tonight.” He acted as though the “going out” was a rare event, when they both knew it was the basis of their relationship. Being seen was imperative.

Instead of readily agreeing like she normally would, she leaned back, slowly, languidly, curling an arm around the back of her head, making her cleavage swell in a way he usually couldn't resist. When the move barely
registered, she knew Ryan either had been, or was about to be, a very bad boy. “I don't know. . . .” She dragged out each word. “What did you have in mind?”

He rubbed his chin as though thinking it over, but his jiggling knee betrayed him. “Dinner at Nobu Malibu? We haven't been in a while.”

Madison squinted, having no idea where he was leading. But there was something about the way he broached it, something so furtive and guilty, she knew right then she wouldn't end things today. For the first time in their relationship, she wondered if maybe she wasn't the only one playing this game.

“Hmmm . . . maybe . . .” She purred the words like a cat, uncrossed her legs slowly, seductively, before crossing them again, allowing one perfect thigh to slide against the other. Surely he'd see that. Surely he'd react.

“Whatever you want, babe.” His voice adopted the deeper tone she knew all too well, as he trained his focus on her. “Dinner can wait—but this—” He traced the tip of his index finger over the peak of her ribs into the valley of her smooth, taut abdomen until it was nudging beneath the band of her bikini bottom. “This is all I can think about.” He bent his head toward hers, as Madison closed her eyes, thought of a boy from a faraway place, and returned the kiss with the kind of fervor that surprised them both.

“B
ro, you gonna set us up, or what?”

Tommy peered past the bouncer at the two punks he knew from Farrington's. He'd been called to the door to deal with them, and all he could think was,
How the hell did they find me?

“We need to be on that list, bro!” one of them shouted. Was it Ethan? Tommy could never remember their names. Much less tell them apart.

He gazed past them. The line was long, filled with more important, age-appropriate gets.

“You know them?” The bouncer shot Tommy an impatient look.

He nodded reluctantly, knowing if he didn't, they'd make the kind of scene he couldn't afford.

“They eighteen?”

“Twenty-one, yo!” Ethan added a fist pump to go with it that made him look anything but.

“Eighteen.” Tommy shot the kids a look of warning, knowing even that was a stretch.

“You say so.” The bouncer was dubious, but lifted the rope anyway and granted them access.

“Suh-weet!”
They burst into the darkened club, nodding their heads as they took in the graffiti-covered walls, the large stage, the crowded bar, and all the good-looking girls.

“What the hell is this? You guys stalking me?” Tommy grabbed them each by the sleeve and hauled them back toward him. He'd always been fonder of them than he liked to admit, but at the moment, he was pretty annoyed they had shown up.

“You wish.” Ethan sneered and jerked out of his grasp. “This is so much better than your last gig,” he said. “Glad we kept in touch.”

“We didn't.” Tommy shook his head, trying not to laugh. He didn't want to encourage them any more than he had.

“So when you gonna set us up with some of those black wristbands so we can get this party started?” This came from the other one, crap, what was his name? Colpher. That was it—some kind of last-name-as-first-name kind of thing.

Tommy stared between them. “How'd you hear about that?”

“Word's out, bro.” They grinned in anticipation, as Tommy ran a hand over his chin, trying to decide if that was good news or bad.

It was only the second night of the trial, and apparently news had already spread to guitar stores and skate parks. His liberal use of the black wristbands, usually reserved for the twenty-one-and-over crowd, had given his numbers an even bigger bump than he'd anticipated. While he saw no harm in aging up certain eighteen-year-olds eager to get a three-year jump on the party, these two couldn't be more than fourteen tops, and Tommy refused to corrupt them any more than they already were.

“Listen—” He swiped a hand through his hair and looked toward the door, watching more of his gets filing in. “Hang out as long as you want. But don't cause any trouble, and don't even think about swiping a wristband.”

Tommy watched as their faces fell in the kind of disappointment that was almost comical to watch. “You are the worst club promoter ever,” Colpher said.

“Why you dissing us like that?” Ethan scowled.

“Yeah, yeah.” Tommy laughed and ushered them to a spot near the stage he normally saved for VIPs. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” he told them. “And pay attention to this next band—you might learn something. But remember, I'm
watching you.” He illustrated the point by aiming V fingers from his eyes to theirs. “You act like idiots, I won't hesitate to call your parents and tell them to come get you.”

He watched them settle in, clearly pleased with themselves; then, ensuring the rest of his team wasn't looking, he slipped out the side door and made his way down the boulevard.

I
n less than two hours the first week of competition would officially end. In less than twelve, Layla would be the first to get cut. She could only imagine the look on Queen Bitch Aster's face when Ira inevitably called Layla's name. She'd toss her glossy hair over her shoulder and cock a haughty brow in knowing disdain, watching from the plush seat of her throne as Layla left in disgrace, a metaphorical tail tucked between her legs.

The things that made her a successful blogger worked against her as a promoter. She might be whip smart, but she was a cynical loner at heart—more used to poking fun at celebrity culture than courting it. Her embarrassing attempts to lure people to Jewel—lame social media shout-outs and invites—had left her feeling like the world's biggest poseur.

Relying on her blog seemed sleazy and unprofessional, something that would ultimately work against her. But if by chance she got another week, she'd waste no time doing everything short of bribing her readers to get them to Jewel. Otherwise, there was no point continuing. Trying to balance her work at the club and her relationship with Mateo was stressing her out. While he didn't hold a grudge, he didn't exactly support her either. It felt like her world was split into two not-quite-equal jagged bits, neither one of them willing to adapt to the other.

Karly and Brandon walked by, slowing long enough to give her the stink eye, which she probably deserved, but it wasn't like it was her fault she lacked the right friends to succeed at this stuff. It was high school all over again. She was out of her element, didn't fit in. Only back then, she'd been a lot better at pretending not to care.

Screw it. Screw them. Screw Ira. Screw all of it
. She headed for the bar, slipped around to the other side, and helped herself to a shot of top-shelf tequila. She'd failed in the most spectacular way—the least she could do was numb some of the pain.

“Last time I had one of those, I drank it straight out of a navel with a hit of lemon and salt, but I hear a glass is just as effective.”

Tommy stood before her, his navy-blue eyes glinting on hers.

Layla scowled, tossed her head back, and drained the
tequila. “You shouldn't be here.” She slammed the glass on the bar a little harder than intended. The alcohol was already slipping through her bloodstream, warming her from the inside and working its magic. The effect was so nice she reached for the bottle and poured herself another.

“You ever gonna cut me a break?” Tommy pressed his palms against the counter and leaned toward her, wearing a hopeful expression.

“Sure.” She ran her finger along the rim. “Hold your breath and wait for it.” She finished her drink and refilled her shot glass again.

“I like your honesty.” He motioned to the bottle. “But in case you haven't heard—sharing is caring. I've got my own problems, you know.”

Layla considered him for a long, intense moment. Her gaze lingered over the errant clump of light-brown hair that insisted on falling into his eyes, the worn Black Keys T-shirt that perfectly skimmed his lean, muscular frame, the faded jeans that hung low on his hips, the brown leather belt so worn she couldn't help but wonder how many girls had unbuckled it in a hurry. . . .

She tossed back her drink, poured herself another, and then filled a glass for him. If Tommy thought she was being “honest,” then clearly he hadn't a clue what honesty looked like. Her annoyance with him wasn't for the reasons he thought. She was annoyed with him for being right, for
showing up at her club just in time to catch her in a deeply shameful moment of failure and insecurity. For those stupid blue eyes.

She emptied her glass, poured another shot, downed it, then pushed her glass aside. It was time to stop playing games and get to the point. “What the hell are you doing here? Did Ira send you?”

He shook his head, grabbed the bottle, tipped a few more drops into his glass, and finished them off in a single toss. “I came to see you.”

She rolled her eyes, tried to say something insulting, but the tequila was drowning her brain cells and she couldn't think of a single reply.

“Come on, dance with me.” His fingers reached across the counter and circled her wrist.

“I don't dance.” She yanked free of his grip, hating the way her wrist went from warm to cold the moment he released it.

“You serious?” Tommy's face creased like he was seconds away from howling with laughter.

“I know.” Layla laughed in spite of herself. “I couldn't be worse suited for this job.”

His gaze turned serious. “One dance. Then I'll head back to the Vesper so fast you'll forget I was here.”

Layla studied him closely. Last she saw he'd been flirting with the kind of curvy blonde she could never compete
with. She wondered if he'd gone home with her. She figured he had.

“Come on.” His voice was gentle, his gaze sincere, or as sincere as it could get for a guy she hadn't decided to trust. She struggled to come up with one good reason not to go along, but her usually well-honed instincts were so diluted, next thing she knew she was following him onto the dance floor.

He pulled her deep into the throng, keeping a decent distance until the crowd surged around them, pushing them closer, and he slid a hand around the curve of her hip and pressed his lips to hers.

I need to push him away. I need to stop this. I need to go to the bathroom and make myself vomit so I can get this tequila out of my system and stop doing things I'll only regret. . . .

Ignoring the voice in her head, she rose onto her toes and kissed him right back.

Because she'd spent the last two years with Mateo, kissing Tommy felt foreign, illicit, and sexy in the way only bad things can be.

“Tommy . . . ,” she murmured, not realizing she'd said it out loud, until he whispered her name in the same breathless way.

Despite his efforts to continue, despite her desire to let him, something about the sound of her name on his lips
snapped her back to reality.

She released herself from his grip and pressed through the crowd, torn between relief and annoyance that he hadn't tried to follow. That he simply remained inside the circle of writhing bodies, silently watching her go.