Unrivaled (16 page)

“H
ey—” Tommy raced to catch up with Layla, who'd fled Jewel like the place was on fire. “Remember how you owe me that favor?”

Layla did a double take. It was like déjà vu, only this time she was on the receiving end. “Have you been talking to Aster?”

“What?” He squinted into the sun and walked alongside her.

She shook her head, slid on her sunglasses, and kept walking.

“I'm ready to collect.”

She continued to ignore him.

“You know, this is how rumors get started,” Tommy said. “Notice how no one's talking to each other anymore?
Freaks them out that we still are.”

“You're the one talking. I'm just trying to get to my ride.” Layla shook her head and made for the Jeep.

“Can't believe you already forgot about the time I saved your ass.” Tommy looked at her.

“Can't believe you've forgotten you're not exactly innocent.”

“Maybe so, but I handle it better.” He regretted it the instant he said it, and quickly tried to recover. “Besides, you don't strike me as the type to go back on your word.”

“I don't remember giving my word. You said, ‘You owe me,' and I said nothing.”

“You are seriously harsh.”

“And this is news?”

“What does a guy have to do to get a ride home?”

“Well, for starters, you could just come out and ask as opposed to all this cryptic nonsense about deals we never struck.” She propped open her door.

He laughed and climbed in beside her. “What happened to your bike?”

“My boyfriend and I made a trade.”

So, she had a boyfriend. Not necessarily good news, but not exactly a roadblock either, considering the way she'd kissed him.

“He a surfer?”

“Why?” Layla pulled onto the street.

“'Cause the floorboards are coated in two feet of sand.”

Layla shrugged and glanced in the rearview mirror. “So kick off your shoes and dream of Malibu. Meanwhile, where to?”

“Los Feliz.” He dropped his backpack between his feet. “Though I warn you, my place is a dump.”

“Well, it's not like I'm moving in.”

He shook his head. She was feisty as hell, which was exactly why he liked her.

“So, will you play me your demo tape?”

Tommy looked at her in shock. He didn't remember mentioning his music.

“You are a musician, right?”

He nodded slowly.

Did he really look like some kind of wannabe rocker cliché?

Was he that pathetic?

“Can I hear it?”

Tommy hesitated. If she hated it, she'd tell him. But if she didn't hate it, the compliment would mean more than most.

“Just because I'm bad at charming people, as you say, doesn't mean I'm bad at reading them.”

“I never said you—”

She waved it away. “The tape. I want to hear it. If for no other reason than it will save us from the slow, burning
torture of small talk.”

He slid the disc from his backpack and inserted it into the stereo. Holding his breath as the first strains of a six-string guitar filled the car. When his vocals kicked in, he thought he'd keel over from anxiety. Layla said nothing. And the few times he peeked, her expression was blank.

When the first song ended, she still hadn't spoken. Same went for the second and third. He was just about to beg her to put him out of his misery and give him the verdict—good or bad, either way he could take it—when she finally lowered the volume and said, “Your lyrics are amazing. Your voice is strong and distinctive. Your guitar playing—I'm assuming that's you on guitar?”

He nodded, barely able to breathe.

“You really slam that thing, which, I hope you take that as a compliment because it's meant as one.”

“But . . .” There was always a
but
.

“But nothing.” She shrugged, that simple statement bringing some of the sweetest relief he'd ever known. “It's all there. You've got a really strong foundation. It's like that car you drive. It's got all the makings of a classic; it just needs a little spit and polish and a fat wad of cash to push it over the edge.”

He looked at her in wonder. It was a compliment delivered like a fact. Nothing effusive about it. No,
Ohmigod, Tommy—you are the most awesomeness!
like all the other
girls had said, if only to get on his good side.

For that reason alone, Layla's compliment meant more to him than the opinions of anyone else who'd heard his music so far.

Ever since the contest began, his rock-star dream had taken a backseat as he became more and more determined to impress Ira through his business savvy. But as soon as it was over, he'd get back in the studio. Layla's comments confirmed it was a dream worth pursuing.

He could finally exhale.

When she cranked the volume and hit Repeat, choosing to spend the rest of the ride listening to his music, the compliment became even sweeter.

“Don't say I didn't warn you.” Tommy paused before his front door, watching Layla roll her eyes in response. He was surprised she'd even agreed to come in. And though he wasn't sure what it meant, at the very least, he hoped they could find a way to be friends.

“I guarantee I've seen worse.”

“Doubtful.” He laughed but opened the door anyway. Trying to see his shithole apartment through Layla's eyes and cringing on her behalf.

She crossed the worn carpet to the other side of the room, aiming straight for his collection of vinyl stacked against the wall, where she promptly pulled
Led Zeppelin IV
from its
sleeve, placed it on the turntable, and lowered the needle. She turned to Tommy with a grin when the opening strains of “Going to California” filled the small space.

“You a Zeppelin fan?” Tommy handed her a beer.

“Thanks to my dad, I was raised on this stuff.” She clinked the neck of her bottle against his and took a sip. “Your music is reminiscent of Jimmy Page, and the lyrics remind me of you.”

Tommy stood before her, rendered temporarily speechless. “Jimmy Page is one of my idols,” he finally said. “As for the rest, well, thanks.”

She lifted the beer to her lips, took a long swig, and glanced around his small but mostly tidy den. “It's not as bad as you pretend.” She nodded. “I mean, there's no weird smell, you have an impressive collection of much-loved, well-read, waterlogged paperbacks, and who doesn't love a popcorn ceiling inexplicably speckled with gold bits?”

She flashed a wicked grin, then turned and headed straight for his bedroom as Tommy followed. It was his house, but she was in charge.

She stood next to the mattress on the floor and looked all around. “Candles. Decent sheets . . . how many girls have you brought here, Tommy?”

He opened his mouth to reply, then promptly shut it again. He wasn't sure how to answer. He wasn't sure he was willing to answer.

“Surely I'm not the first?”

“What if I said you were?” He watched her carefully, unsure where this was leading.

“Then I'd have no choice but to accuse you of lying.”

“Well, okay then.” He was more than willing to drop it.

The sight of Layla in his bedroom was way too tempting. Their kiss had been brief, but he wouldn't forget it anytime soon. As much as he wanted to repeat it, he needed to focus on winning the contest, not chase after a girl who was constantly giving him mixed signals, despite having a boyfriend. Eager to return to more neutral ground, he led her out of his room and over to the couch.

“So how'd you score Madison Brooks?” She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “It doesn't seem like her kind of club.”

Tommy sipped his beer. Layla ignored hers. “She just showed up,” he said, unwilling to share anything more.

“But what was she like? I mean, you talked to her, right?”

The question was simple, but when Tommy started messing with his hair and scratching at his cheek, he knew she suspected him of hiding something. Like she said, she was good at reading people.

“She was nice.” Tommy's voice was tentative. He wanted to say more but wasn't sure it was safe. His fingers played at the rim of his beer, as his gaze grew increasingly distant, lost in the memory of the night one of the
most celebrated girls in the world decided to drop into his club. “I mean, we didn't really talk all that much, but she wasn't anything like I expected. She was almost like—” His voice faded, he shook his head, unable to put a word to it.

Layla leaned forward, urging him to continue.

He searched the room as though he expected to find the answer written on the wall with peeling paint, the carpet with the creepy dark stain, or maybe even the torn cover of the Hunter S. Thompson paperback. “Like some of the girls I used to know back home,” he finally said.

Layla squinted, but he soon went on to explain.

“Not the kind I usually dated.” A small smile broke onto his face. “She just seemed really normal. Uncomplicated. Not spoiled. Like she didn't belong in the glamorous life she'd found herself in. Like there was a part of her that was better suited to a much simpler existence in a much smaller place . . .”

His voice halted. From the incredulous look on Layla's face, he'd revealed far more than he should have.

“So, you come up with all
that
.” She drew air circles with her finger. “And yet, you claim you ‘didn't really talk all that much.'” She cocked her head, allowing her hair to flop into her eyes. “Sounds like you talked a lot more than you let on.”

Tommy shifted uncomfortably, picked at a loose thread
on the cushion. “Maybe it's better if we don't talk about the competition.”

“Why not?” She narrowed her gaze. “It's the only thing we have in common.”

“We both like Zeppelin,” he said. It was a pathetic attempt, but he was eager to return to a more peaceful state. He hated confrontation. Especially when he had no idea why he was being confronted. “What're you doing?” he asked, watching as she leaped from the couch and inexplicably made for the door.

“This was a bad idea.” She ran a hand through her white-blond hair and frowned. “Competition and friendship don't mix.”

“But—you barely drank any of your beer.” He pointed stupidly at the mostly full bottle as though that was enough to convince her to stay.

“You finish it,” she snapped, her mood shifting so quickly he could barely keep up. “Like you said, you handle it better.”

Without another word, she let herself out. Leaving Tommy to wonder what the hell had just happened.

M
adison sat on the patio at Nobu gazing out at Malibu Beach, enjoying the feel of the soft breeze brushing over her cheek. Ever since she'd moved to LA, the ocean had become a welcome retreat. Watching the waves continuously lap at the shore was her favorite way to meditate. She'd thought about buying a place by the water, but with all the public access, beach houses were tough to safeguard. Besides, for the moment, all her dreams were on hold until her problem was handled.

“Was that James I just saw?” Ryan bent to give her a perfunctory kiss. “You know, the bouncer at Night for Night? Could've sworn I just saw him tipping the valet and collecting a sick matte-black CTS-V coupe.” He shook his head. “Didn't know being a bouncer paid so well.”

Madison shrugged like she had no idea what he was talking about. Ryan didn't need to know about her arrangement with James or anyone else on her payroll. What she was about to divulge was revealing enough. She could only hope he'd cooperate—that their time together hadn't resulted in complete animosity.

He claimed his seat reluctantly, wearing an expression of wary distrust. Well, they'd have to find a way around all that. Now more than ever they needed each other.

“So, what's this about?” He centered his green eyes on her, his voice surprisingly brusque.

She gazed out at the sea, watching the sun slice through glorious bands of purple and pink as it dove toward the glistening silver-blue water. “Remember that night when you wanted to come here for dinner but I chose to stay home, so you said you were going out with your friends but you really went to see Aster Amirpour at Night for Night?”

His eyes widened, but he soon got control of his face and switched into neutral.

“I was just wondering—exactly how serious are you about Aster?” She leaned back in her seat, observing him closely. Watching as he shook his head, clutched the sides of his chair. He was just about to bail when she reached toward him and said, “Please—no more games. Let's be straight for a change.”

He flashed her a dubious look, shot a hand through his
tousled blond hair. The silence stretched between them until he finally relented. “I don't know.” He splayed his hands on the smooth wood tabletop, studying his fingers as though trying to recall the lines that went with this scene. “I guess my interest lies somewhere between not very and very.”

Madison nodded. “And what is it you see in her, aside from the obvious?”

He ran a hand over his face, gazed at the other diners, before returning to her. “Mad, come on.” He flipped his hands on the table and frowned. “What's this about?”

“It's about getting to the truth.”

“Jeez, I . . . this is really uncomfortable, okay?”

Madison nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“Fine.” He focused on his fork, pressing the tines with the tips of his fingers. “According to my shrink—”

“You told your shrink?” She knew he saw a shrink, everyone did, but she didn't realize he actually confided in her. She figured he was just there for the medical marijuana prescription she'd written for him.

“I thought it was like confession—that I was supposed to confide all my sins.” He shrugged. “Anyway, according to her, my attraction to Aster is about her needing me in ways you never could. She also says I'm acting out because of my show getting canceled. Trying to bolster my ego and feel important again.” He looked away, as though it pained him to say it.

“And what if I said she was wrong?”

Madison observed him placidly, knowing she'd clinched it when he tilted his head, nodded for her to go on.

“What if I told you I do need you—more than you could ever guess?”

Ryan licked his lips and leaned toward her, clearly aware that a deal was about to be struck. “I'm listening.”

“Good.” Madison grinned, settled deeper into her seat. “Order us some drinks, and I'll explain everything. But first you have to promise not to tell your shrink, your priest, or anyone else what I'm about to tell you.”

He nodded agreeably and flagged down a waiter. As the man approached, Ryan flashed Madison his best heartthrob grin and said, “And then later, you can tell me all about Della, your arrangement with James, and how you really got that scar on your arm.”