Unrivaled (10 page)

A
ster stood beside the DJ booth and gazed upon the dispersing crowd like a queen surveying her subjects. Her first official night on the job and she was already a success. It was like all the recent graduates from LA's most exclusive private schools had shown up wearing metallic moon and star tattoos, transforming the Night for Night dance floor into a writhing, swirling constellation of the next wave of LA's movers and shakers.

“Nice turnout.” Taylor stood alongside her.

Aster snuck a sideways glance at the pretty blonde. In her perforated leather minidress, she looked surprisingly chic and sexy for someone Aster had originally taken for a prep.

“Thanks!” She grinned. “It was so much bigger than I expected.”

“Was it?” Taylor narrowed her gaze.

Aster looked away, refusing to engage in whatever game Taylor was playing. All that mattered was that it was past closing time and the mob was just starting to thin.

“I thought we were a team,” Taylor said.

Aster continued to watch the dance floor, spotting her friend Safi and trying to make out the boy she was with before they faded into the crowd.

“You hijacked the night—made it all about you. You don't want to play on our team, no problem. We'll do just fine without you.”

“Will you?” Aster returned the look, watching as Taylor mumbled under her breath and stormed off to where Diego and Ash waited.

First night of the competition and her team had already turned against her. It was just as well. What was the point of working together when only one person would win? Even though Aster didn't understand the rules, she figured she'd be better rewarded for breaking them than trying to follow them.

The night was a success, and nothing Taylor said could change that. The only immediate problems Aster faced were her throbbing feet and aching cheeks thanks to her four-inch heels and an overload of grinning and air-kissing. Party hostess injuries. Well, she'd better get used to it. If things continued like this, she'd sail through the first week and beyond.

“Aster.” Ira came up behind her. “Got a moment?”

She followed him up the stairs and into an office that was strictly business, like Ira himself, not a single personal touch to be found. He gestured toward a chair, and Aster gratefully lowered herself onto the seat. Stifling a sigh of relief to finally be off her feet, she rubbed her aching calves while Ira rummaged through his desk.

“Those were decent numbers for a Thursday.” He retrieved a white envelope bearing the red Unrivaled Nightlife logo, then leaned back in his seat.

Aster smiled sedately while a fist-pumping happy dance raged in her head.

“Mind telling me how you did it?”

“I created a party within the party. Told everyone on my list that a golden star or moon tattoo would gain them entry.” She raised her wrist, displaying the one she wore. Then, feeling clumsy under the glare of his unblinking gaze, she dropped her hand to her lap. “Anyway, they had to go through me to get them, and I guess word spread.” She shrugged, unwilling to admit she'd possibly stolen kids that were on her teammates' list.

“And?”

She shifted in her seat, unsure what he meant.

“They got some metallic tattoos—is that it? No free drinks? No discounts at the door?”

“I can do that?” she asked, wondering why she hadn't thought of it.

“Only if your gets are famous. Which none of them were.”

She sank a little lower, not feeling quite as pleased with herself as she had a moment before. “I guess people like to feel like they're part of something cool.”

Ira gave her a thoughtful look. “What works on a Thursday will fail on a Saturday. You need to aim higher.”

She dropped her gaze to her lap.

“Anyway, I know you're tired, so here.” He slid the envelope across the desk, and without even checking, Aster knew it was filled with a fat wad of cash.

She lifted her gaze to meet his, their eyes locking for a long, lingering moment that left Aster wondering what he might expect in return.

“Wow . . . thank you.” She studied the envelope, wanting to believe it was a well-deserved prize, and not something shady that would leave her feeling dirty and compromised.

“I'm the one thanking you.” Ira watched her from a set of dark-blue eyes that saw much and revealed nothing. “You'll find I can be very generous toward those who impress me.” He nodded toward the envelope, while Aster scrambled for the perfect reply, but nothing came to mind. “Though I warn you . . .” His gaze deepened like he could see through her dress, right through her flesh. He was old enough to be her father, and yet, she couldn't help but wonder what it might be like to kiss him. Not that she wanted
to. She didn't. Not even. But still, Ira made her string of former boyfriends seem like an embarrassing succession of underdeveloped, fumbling boys in comparison. “I'm rarely impressed by the same thing twice.”

His voice jerked her away from her thoughts and not a moment too soon. She rubbed her lips together and tugged her dress closer to her knees, hoping she hadn't inadvertently revealed what she'd been thinking.

She nodded in reply, knowing she'd just played her one greatest hit on an otherwise empty playlist. First thing tomorrow she'd brainstorm—as soon as she got a decent night's sleep. She stifled a yawn. Waited to see if there was more. But when Ira rose from his chair, she was quick to stand too.

He came around the desk to offer his hand—a hand that practically swallowed hers, capable of crushing her fingers without any effort.

“Now go get some rest.” He led her back into the nearly empty club, leaving Aster to wonder if he was going to walk her to her car. And if so, was it awkward, sexy, grotesque? Before she could decide, he told one of the bouncers, James, to escort her outside, leaving Aster to tuck the envelope into her bag and make her way to her Mercedes. She waited for James to leave before she opened the envelope and thumbed through the stash of twenties and hundreds that certainly added up to—a lot. It wasn't like she was dumb enough to
sit alone in her car on Hollywood Boulevard, counting her fortune.

She tucked the envelope back into her bag and pulled onto the street. Reveling in the fact that she'd managed to gain Ira's notice for something more than her looks.

Now, if she could just manage to sneak past Nanny Mitra, the night would be complete.

T
ommy headed back inside the Vesper, aware of the girl following him—Serena, Savannah, Scarlet—he couldn't be sure.

How long was it since he'd last been with a girl? It was too depressing to calculate, but he did anyway. Amy. His ex-girlfriend from Oklahoma. Right before he broke the news of his move. After that, it'd been nothing but tears, recriminations, and . . . it was better not to think about. Point was, LA had proved to be a long and brutal dry spell. The locals loved to complain about the drought; well, Tommy was smack in the middle of his own personal famine, and if this girl with the name he couldn't remember was offering relief, who was he to turn it down?

He had nothing to feel guilty about. No one to answer
to. Besides, a man could only go so long without sustenance. Allowing his eyes to feast on the bounty before him—the perfect breasts (probably not real, but who cared?), the slim waist curving into a pair of plush hourglass hips—he looked right at her and said, “You should probably go.”

She blinked, tilted a bit on those skyscraper heels. “You serious?” She looked like she couldn't believe he was turning down such a delectable offer. He could hardly believe it himself.

Still, tempting as she was, he didn't want to settle for a night with some hot girl he had nothing in common with. She had a groupie's knowledge of music, which he could forgive, but so far she'd agreed with everything he'd said, which had become really boring, really fast.

“Sorry,” he said. “The club's closed.”

“I can't believe this.” She pouted adorably but made no move to leave.

“If it makes you feel better, neither can I.” He shrugged.

“Is this because of your girlfriend?”

He squinted, having no idea what she was getting at.

“The girl on the bike.” She hooked a thumb toward the door that led to the street.

She was offering a way out that would save face for them both, but not wanting to lie, he said, “It's complicated.”

“Isn't it always.” She shot him a lopsided grin and planted a kiss on his cheek, leaving him with the lingering scent of
sweetness, promise, and girl, and it was all he could do not to race after her.

The bartenders were still cleaning up. The manager was somewhere in back. And since Tommy was too amped to return to his shithole apartment, he grabbed a spare guitar, took his place onstage, and started to play. So lost in his music, it wasn't until the second song ended that he noticed Ira Redman was watching.

Tommy lifted the guitar over his head and placed it against the stool, shrinking under the glare of Ira's harsh gaze.

“Needed to blow off some steam,” Tommy said, feeling the need to explain, but wishing it hadn't come off so awkward.

“Funny you chose music over the girl.”

Tommy stared. How much had Ira seen?

“How'd the first night go?”

Tommy shrugged. “You tell me.”

“I'm more interested in how
you
think it went.”

Unlike the rest of his team, he didn't have a big group of friends to pull in. So he'd had some cards made, passed them around his favorite record store, and made sure to leave some at the yoga studio down the street. As far as strategies went, it was far from genius; still, it had resulted in plenty of nonfamous gets and some smokin' hot yoga girls.

Ira stared at Tommy, waiting for an answer, but Tommy knew better than to boast, especially when there was nothing worth boasting about. Ira would only call him on it. Make him feel shakier than he already did. He was ruthless. The way he'd ditched Tommy's mom after learning she was pregnant was all the proof Tommy needed. Sure, he'd left her some cash—enough to cover the abortion. But he couldn't bother to stick around long enough to drive her to the clinic. Ira just assumed then, like he did now, that everyone would gladly do his bidding. It probably never occurred to him she'd use the money to buy diapers and a crib.

“Could've been better,” Tommy finally admitted. “And it will be. I have an idea I'd like to discuss, if you have a minute.” He stepped offstage, preferring to be on equal footing. “I want to take that back room and turn it into a private space.”

Ira frowned. “It's already a private space.”

“No, I mean
private
as in VIP access only.”

“That's where the bands hang between sets.”

“Exactly,” Tommy said. “We've got a good summer lineup, and if we opened that room to a select group of people, gave it more of a lounge feel, we could increase our numbers and up our cool factor.”

Ira looked him over but gave nothing away.

“And I want to run it and get credit for the gets, since
I'm the one who thought of it.”

“What about your team?”

“What about them?” Tommy shrugged dismissively.

“And which VIPs can you deliver?”

“At the moment, none.” No point in lying. “But soon, plenty. More than that room can handle.”

Ira got up without a word and headed toward his office, calling over his shoulder to say, “For now, why don't you work out a plan that doesn't depend on my help.”

Tommy glared at his back, wondering who he hated more in that moment, Ira or himself. It was a good idea—bordering on great—but his delivery had been a mess. It was simultaneously cocky and sloppy. No wonder Ira hadn't taken him seriously. Still, watch him steal the idea and deny Tommy the credit.

He snatched his leather jacket and banged outside to his wreck of a car. Screw it. He'd find another way to build his numbers and impress the old man in a way he'd have to acknowledge. He had an idea he'd been spinning as a backup, but he was hoping to put it off until later in the contest, in case he got desperate. It was risky as hell and could land the club in serious trouble. Still, he saw no reason to wait, as nothing good ever came from playing it safe. If nothing else, Ira would admire his drive. And if it worked, it would secure him the win. Tomorrow he'd test it. By Saturday, he'd have the kinks ironed out. By Sunday,
Ira would be rewarding him for a job well done.

He wondered if Layla would pull it together by then.

He grinned at the memory of Layla's face—that sweet urchin face with the pouty lips, clear, wide-set eyes, and a complexion pure as porcelain.

When it came to the kind of networking needed to succeed at this job, she was her own worst enemy. LA was a town of actors and storytellers, populated by those more comfortable playing an imaginary role than being themselves, and the prize always went to the one who faked it best.

Layla didn't know how to be anything
but
herself. Wouldn't be long before she came around and admitted he'd been right all along.

The Scarlet-Savannah-Serenas of the world had nothing on her. He'd waited this long to get with a girl; he figured he might as well hold out for the one who truly intrigued him.

L
uckily, Javen had silenced the house alarm, which allowed Aster to sneak into her room without alerting Nanny Mitra and fall into a deep, soundless sleep. Or at least it was deep and soundless until her phone chimed the next morning with a text from one of Ira's assistants, confirming Night for Night had brought in the biggest haul, thanks to Aster's efforts. Though there was complete silence from her team, which made her feel bad. Aster wasn't used to being hated.

What was that saying about success breeding contempt? Apparently it was true.

She leaned against her tufted silk headboard, fumbled through her bag for the envelope Ira gave her, and spread the contents across her crisp white Frette sheets. Despite
her family's massive wealth, when it came to their kids, her parents kept a tight fist. She owned exactly two dresses she could wear to the club—one of which she'd worn for the interview, and the other last night. The rest of her wardrobe consisted of stuff her mother approved of, which meant buying more dresses, really sexy (but tasteful, not trashy) dresses was imperative. A few more stilettos would also be good. Maybe some jewelry as well—the trendy, costumey stuff—the kind of things that would make her mother faint if she ever caught Aster wearing them.

She transferred the money to her wallet, rang the maid to send up some coffee, and headed for the shower. She had a big day of shopping ahead.

Having grown up in Beverly Hills, Aster knew plenty of boutiques that would've worked, but she wanted a place with no connection to her mom. Luckily, her mom never set foot inside Neiman's (she was devoted to Saks), which was how Neiman's became Aster's first choice.

She left her car with the valet and headed up the escalator, where she perused the endless racks of dresses, perfectly content to browse for as long as it took. When it came to serious shopping, she preferred to go it alone. She'd yet to meet a salesperson who didn't try to impress their personal taste onto her.

She dragged her haul into a fitting room and breezed
through a pile of sexy bodycon dresses until she'd narrowed it down to one absolute fave and two backups. She was just about to change and head down to the shoe department when she overheard a girl in the next room say, “You'll never guess who's here! It's that guy from that TV show. You know, that one with the green eyes and jeez, I can't believe I forgot his name—he dates Madison Brooks.”

Aster pressed against the door, her heart beating frantically. “Ryan Hawthorne,” she whispered, waiting for the girl's friend to confirm it.

“Ryan Hawthorne?”

“Yes, and he's right downstairs. Probably buying something for Madison.”

“If his show gets axed, that'll be his last gift to her in a while.”

They both laughed.

“You have to see him. He's even cuter in person.”

“On it. I don't want these jeans anyway. They give me mom butt.”

Before Aster could hear any more, she was slipping out of her dressing room wearing the sexiest of the three dresses and heading downstairs. Unfortunately, the girl had failed to mention where Ryan was, but if he really was shopping for Madison, then he was either in cosmetics, handbags, or jewelry . . . which made for a lot of square footage to search.

She crept past the fragrance counter, made a detour past a pile of Prada bags, and was just veering toward a display case of statement necklaces when she realized the girl must've been wrong. With his signature tousled blond hair, tanned skin, and green eyes, Ryan Hawthorne was impossible to miss, and from what Aster could see, there wasn't a single guy in the store who could nail Ryan's golden-boy look. Though there were plenty who tried.

It was too good to be true.
She cast a last look toward the jewelry counter as she made her way toward shoes, spotting a guy about Ryan's height with Ryan's tight build, wearing a black beanie and dark sunglasses. Of course Ryan wouldn't head out without some sort of disguise. Even in a store that was used to dealing with celebrities, there were bound to be a few tourists who wouldn't think twice about mobbing him. And yet, despite his attempt to go incognito, the longer Aster watched, the more she grew convinced it was him.

Even from a distance she could tell he really was cuter in person. But more important, he was wrapping up the transaction, which meant he could leave at any second. She had to act fast.

Grabbing the first Manolos within reach, she slid one onto her foot and stood before the mirror, angling her leg in a way that inched the dress higher, as she waited for Ryan Hawthorne to breeze past.

Only he didn't breeze past.

He stopped in his tracks and lifted his sunglasses high onto his head to admire the view. Not exactly a cool move for a guy who was known to be dating Hollywood's It Girl, but for Aster, it was a sign as good as any that she was on the right track.

The job, the dress, the shoes, it was all about to lead somewhere good. Ryan's blatant look of unadulterated male appreciation was enough for Aster to screw up enough courage to say, “Should I buy them?” She inched the dress higher.

“They've got my vote.” Ryan's voice was throaty and tight, as he lost the battle to stifle the grin that took over his perfectly chiseled face.

She moved her gaze over his famously ripped and cut body, currently clad in jeans and a T-shirt. Her pulse thrummed, her hands started to shake, yet she still managed to look into the mirror and say, “Mmm . . . I don't know . . .” She swiveled her hips from side to side, all too aware of Ryan grinning like a fool who needed to move on but was completely unable to do so.

“I feel like I can't go until I see how this ends,” he said, oblivious to the swarm of salespeople and shoppers beginning to gather, instinctively drawn to the scent of a scandal in the making.

The last thing she wanted was to get Ryan in trouble
with the press, much less Madison, who she desperately needed and pretty much worshipped. Still, she wasn't about to let the opportunity slip. Fate had put Ryan into her path; it was up to her to make the most of it.

“Well, you could always swing by Night for Night tomorrow night and see what I decide. If I buy them, I'll wear them. . . .” She swiveled again, flashed him her most seductive head-shot grin. Deciding it was better to leave him wanting more, she shot one last flirtatious look over her shoulder and headed for her dressing room. So taken by the excitement of what just occurred she could barely contain herself. It wasn't her first celebrity encounter, but it was the first one that mattered.

If she knew anything about men, especially spoiled, entitled men (and wasn't she practically an expert, having spent an entire lifetime surrounded by them?), she knew for a fact that theirs was an encounter he would not soon forget.

It was just a matter of time before he came to the club, and if he showed up with Madison, even better. Either way, victory was about to be hers.