Unrivaled (24 page)

L
ayla moved through the crowded club, the percussive techno beat throbbing in her head, as she took a mental tally of her gets before ultimately losing track and giving up. It was a lot. The most bodies she'd ever pulled in. And it was all thanks to her Beautiful Idols blog.

Not like she could compete with the kind of numbers they were scoring at Night for Night and the Vesper, but that was only because they'd turned into Madison shrines, and Jewel hadn't played an actual part in the drama, so there were fewer pop culture vultures dropping in. Though she was gaining a sizable list of publicity-starved B- and C-list celebrities. Including Sugar Mills, who Aster had sent over, as though that somehow made up for Ryan Hawthorne. Hardly. But she'd deal with that later.

“Can you even believe this?” she said to Zion, shouting to be heard over the music.

“Oh, like you can't?” He narrowed his dark eyes on hers, shaking his regal head as he made for his table of models.

Layla looked after him, unsure if the snub was because they were the last two standing at Jewel after Ira cut Karly, along with Taylor at Night for Night, last week, dropping the competitors to just six—because he knew her blog was mostly responsible for the kind of crowds Jewel was pulling in and it made him resent her—or if he was just being a bitch because he was clearly destined to lose and he refused to accept it.

Funny how gullible people were when it came to celebrities. Never realizing that nearly all pics of celebs frolicking at the beach in minuscule bikinis, or doing complicated yoga poses in the wild, were mostly staged by the celebrities themselves. And lately, Layla was so inundated with requests to catch them pretending to act spontaneously, between that and the club she had little time for anything else.

Sometimes she pretended to hate it, but it was mostly for Mateo's benefit. For someone who'd never fit in, who'd never been part of the popular crowd, she had to admit she actually kind of liked being in demand.

“Looks like you've been holding out on me.”

Layla turned to find Heather Rollins standing behind
her, gripping a miserable-looking Mateo by the arm.

What the—?

Layla stared. Blinked. Stared again. Sure her eyes were deceiving her. Mateo had never once stopped by Jewel. He hated clubs. And yet there he was, hanging with Heather.

“Poor thing looked lost, so I figured I'd help him find his way. Where've you been hiding him, Layla?” She clutched Mateo's bicep with both hands, nudging her body against him as she grinned flirtatiously. “All this time I've been sharing my secrets, didn't realize you were still hiding yours.” She pursed her lips and shot Layla a disapproving look.

“Not a secret, just my boyfriend,” she said, watching as Mateo jerked free of Heather's grip and moved to stand beside her. Aware of the sudden rush of heat rising to her cheeks as she glanced between them, she felt nervous, inflamed. Must have something to do with her two worlds unexpectedly colliding. She worked hard to keep her life carefully compartmentalized. She wasn't one for surprises.

“Well, stop hiding him and start bringing him around.” Heather's gaze lingered on Mateo, as he pressed a hand to the small of Layla's back and steered her away.

“Who the hell is that?” he asked, sounding as annoyed as Layla felt.

“She's not so bad,” Layla said, unsure what frustrated her more—having to defend Heather Rollins, or Mateo
showing up unannounced.

He looked around the club, seeming agitated, unnerved, totally unlike his usual self. “How do you know her?”

Layla closed her eyes and shook her head. Seriously? This was what he wanted to discuss when they'd barely seen each other all week? She took a steadying breath. “She's a regular fixture on my blog, which you clearly no longer read or you'd know that.” She sighed, forced a more muted stance. “We hang out sometimes, that's all.”

Mateo shot her a conflicted look, but Layla moved past it and took his hand in hers. “You can't blame her for hanging all over you.” She inched closer, ran her fingers over the neck of his T-shirt. “Not when you come in here looking so amazing.”

She cast an appreciative look at his dark jeans, charcoal V-neck tee, and black linen blazer—a far cry from his usual board shorts and wet suits. Clearly he'd made an effort, and she wanted him to know just how much she appreciated the gesture.

“C'mon.” She grabbed hold of his lapels and pulled him closer. “Wanna drink?”

He shook his head.

“Wanna dance?”

He squinted. “You don't dance.”

“I do with you.”

He frowned and looked away. “How many of these kids
are messed up on Molly, or worse?”

Layla sighed. It took all her effort not to roll her eyes. “Not sure.” She shrugged. “It's not like I took a survey.”

“And it doesn't bother you that they might be?”

“Last I checked, I didn't work for the DEA, and neither did you.” She let go of his jacket, crossed her arms over her chest, and stared at him. “What's really going on here?” she asked. Everything about him was grossly out of character.

“What's going on with you?” He rubbed his lips together, ran a hand through his hair.

“Can you be more specific?” She frowned.

“What happened to your blog and the inside story you were supposed to uncover?”

Layla looked at him, sensing that what he really wanted to ask was:
What happened to you?

“Mateo, why did you come here?” she asked, ignoring the question. There was no good way to answer it that wouldn't just make everything worse.

When he met her gaze, the fight seemed to seep out of him. “To see you.” He shook his head.

“Well, I'm here. Right in front of you. Asking you to dance. Question is: What are you going to do about it?”

Without hesitation, he grasped her hand, led her into the crowd, and pressed his lips against hers. The move reminded her of the time she'd danced with Tommy—a time she preferred to forget.

But maybe this kiss with Mateo could erase all of that. Or, at the very least, superimpose a better memory on top of the bad one.

She pushed closer, slowly grinding her hips against his. Relieved when Mateo anchored his hands at her waist and closed whatever space existed between them.

               
Spotlight

               
Green-eyed teen heartthrob Ryan Hawthorne has been missing from the club circuit these days, and who could blame him? With a recent run of bad luck, including a canceled show; the embarrassing public breakup at Night for Night nightclub with his former A-lister girlfriend, Madison Brooks; and the rash of rumors in the wake of her disappearance, it's understandable he'd take a break from his party-boy ways. If there was ever a time for some serious self-reflection, it's now. As it turns out, that's exactly what Ryan's been up to, and we at
Spotlight
were thrilled when he took time out to answer our questions.

               
Spotlight:
We're sure you're aware of the frenzy
following Madison's disappearance, but considering your former relationship with her, we're wondering—what are your theories?

               
Ryan:
I don't have any theories. And I certainly don't buy into the conspiracy theories floating around. Look—I've said it before, and I'll say it again—I'm deeply sorry about the way things ended between me and Mad. I'd do anything to get her back. And I plan to do exactly that—if she'll have me. But for now, I respect her right to lie low, and I ask everyone else to grant her that too. She's had a rough go of it, mostly thanks to me. And while I can't rewrite the past, I can work on becoming the kind of boyfriend Madison deserves.

               
Spotlight:
And what about Aster Amirpour?

               
Ryan:
What about her? Getting involved with Aster is something I deeply regret. There's absolutely no excuse for my behavior and the way I betrayed Madison. Now I'm just eager to put that behind me as a lesson learned and do whatever it takes to try to redeem myself.

               
Spotlight:
Well, everyone loves a good redemption story, so we're rooting for you, Ryan! But unlike certain news reports, you seem convinced that Madison Brooks is alive and well.

               
Ryan:
Because she is alive and well. It's irresponsible
to print things that suggest otherwise when there's absolutely no evidence to back it. But hey, I get it, sensationalism sells.

               
Spotlight:
What would you like to say to Madison in case she's reading this?

               
Ryan:
I want to tell her that I love her—that I'm sorry for my actions—and when she's ready to resurface, I hope she'll find it within herself to give me a second chance.

Aster rolled her eyes and chucked the gossip mag to the other side of her room.
He loves her. He's sorry.
It was nothing but lies. But then Ryan was an accomplished liar. Look at all the lies he'd told Aster that she'd been dumb enough to believe.

Well, not anymore.

She shook away the thought and headed inside her walk-in closet, toes sinking into the plush ivory carpet as she tried to decide which of the two new dresses she should wear to the club. Funny how she'd started the week sobbing in the police station parking lot, with an empty wallet and nowhere to go, only to end it ensconced in a swanky penthouse apartment in the W hotel (thanks to Ira Redman, who owned the luxury pad), and her place in the competition intact.

Ira was right. The very thing she thought would lead
to her doom ended up being the best thing that had ever happened to her. Sure, her parents still weren't speaking to her, but she talked to Javen nearly every day, so at least she had that. And while she couldn't claim complete independence, seeing as she owed her current luxurious lifestyle to the generosity of Ira Redman, and while she wasn't exactly proud of the events that had spawned her good fortune, there was no denying Madison's disappearance and Aster's notoriety were directly responsible for the surge in numbers at all of Ira's clubs. Not to mention how she'd had her pick of interested agents, who'd already lined up a bunch of interviews and photo shoots.

A far cry from the day she'd left the police station, only to have Ira whisk her into the amazing apartment, where he'd settled her onto the sleek dove-gray leather couch with a cup of green tea while one of his many assistants arranged her belongings in her new room.

“You don't have to do this,” she'd said, feeling small and overwhelmed in such a luxurious space. The floor-to-ceiling windows provided an amazing view of the city. The furnishings were modern, sleek, and of the highest quality. She could never repay him.

“Of course I don't.” Ira had claimed the couch just opposite. “But I didn't get where I am by ignoring opportunities that have been handed to me, and you're smart and ambitious enough to understand what I mean.”

She'd taken a tentative sip of her tea and waited for him to continue.

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but it was your ambition, first and foremost, that sent you into Ryan Hawthorne's arms?”

Aster had folded her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and hung her head in a way that encouraged her hair to fall over her face. More than anything, she wanted to cling to the belief that she'd truly cared about Ryan. She didn't want to think she'd willingly wasted her virginity on someone who'd cared as little for her as she did for him. But if Ira wasn't fooled, how much longer could she continue to fool herself?

“He was on the list.” Ira's voice had remained neutral, just stating the facts as he saw them. It was the first time since the whole mess began that she hadn't felt the harsh sting of criticism. “And so you were determined to claim him as one of your gets, probably figuring where Ryan goes, Madison follows?”

She'd lifted her shoulders, unfolded her legs. She felt raw, exposed, incapable of hiding the truth. For the first time in days, she was ready to talk. “In the beginning—” She'd snuck a peek at Ira, seeking the strength to continue. “I liked the attention. He liked the attention, or at least he seemed to. But then . . .” She'd reached for her tea, holding the cup between her chest and her chin, trying to summon whatever it was she'd convinced herself she'd felt about
Ryan. “I thought he liked me. I truly believed the things that he said.”

“Your first mistake,” Ira had snapped, his entire demeanor displaying a distinct lack of sympathy. “Never, ever believe an actor. They're always acting. There's no off switch. You of all people should know that.”

She'd frowned into her cup. “Please, I'm a failed actor.”

“Are you?”

Her gaze met his.

“Or are you just failing yourself?”

Her shoulders had slumped. Her head felt too heavy for her neck to support. It was like whatever force had been holding her together had suddenly vacated, leaving her loose-limbed, limp, and desperately in need of guidance, and who better to direct her than Ira?

“After you finish your tea and pull yourself together, you're going to that police station. Failing to make good on your word will only annoy them, and that's something you don't want to do. But you won't go in as an emotional basket case with an overly sensitive tear trigger. You'll go in with a carefully crafted script that you absolutely will not deviate from. Once that's behind you, you will lose the victim mentality, stop hiding, and finally recognize your current predicament as the moment you've always dreamed of. And don't even try to pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, because we both know you've dreamed
your whole life of having your picture in the tabloids and your name on everyone's lips. Maybe it didn't happen the way you'd envisioned, but now that it's here, it's your job to make the most of it. The very thing that makes you ashamed is the very thing that just might make you a star. Night for Night is still going strong, but it's got less to do with your fellow team member and more to do with the notoriety of all that went down. People love a good scandal, Aster. And, as it happens, you have the starring role in this particular story. Better embrace it, before something else happens and you fade into obscurity.”

She'd hid her face in her hands, massaging her temples with her thumbs and taking a moment to process his words. “Ira, do you have kids?” She'd lifted her gaze to meet his.

He looked amused, but otherwise shook his head.

“That's too bad. I think you'd make a great dad.”

Before she could finish, he was roaring with laughter. When he'd finally calmed down, he said, “I'm pretty sure that's the first time anyone has ever said that to me. I'm also sure it'll be the last. So—” He was back to business again. “You on board? Ready to take control of your life?”

Aster had glanced around the apartment. She could get used to living like that. “Yes,” she said, voice filled with conviction. “I'm all in.”

Ira nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Good, so here's what you're going to do. . . .” He'd leaned toward her and laid out the plan.

Still, nothing could've prepared her for the humiliation of sitting across from that creepy Detective Larsen, struggling not to focus on his leering face, as he'd asked her a series of demeaning questions that, thankfully, the attorney Ira assigned would not let her answer. She'd basically pleaded the Fifth, until Larsen gave up and told her to leave. She shuddered to think what might've happened if Ira hadn't saved her from going alone.

She shook off the memory and shimmied into the black lace minidress. She was just slipping into her shoes when she heard someone knock. Teetering on one Manolo, she opened the door to find one of the hotel staff delivering a small packet.

“Sorry to bother, it's marked ‘urgent.'”

Aster stared at the envelope. There was no return address, which struck her as strange. Though she was already running late, she was intrigued enough to slip her index finger under the flap and dump the contents into her hand.

It was a homemade DVD in a clear plastic case with her name written in black.

Her belly churned, a wave of apprehension coursed through her, as her mind reeled with a thousand possibilities, none of them good. She stumbled toward the TV, unable to so much as breathe as the large flat-screen flickered to life and she collapsed on the couch.

Her worst fear had come true.