Unrivaled (12 page)

M
adison Brooks leaned against her ice-blue velvet headboard, watching Ryan slip into a pair of dark skinny jeans before handing over the smoldering joint that dangled from his lips.

She passed the joint under her nose. The scent reminded her of childhood, strangely enough, but then Madison's childhood had been stranger than most.

“It's not an incense stick, Mad. You're supposed to smoke it, not sniff it.” Ryan returned with outstretched fingers and an unbuttoned shirt, revealing the eight-pack abs he worked hard to maintain. He hated when she didn't partake, couldn't stand for anyone to be sober if he wasn't.

Madison gladly gave the joint back, musing on what else Ryan might hate about her. Just how long was his list? Was
it longer than the list she'd made of things she hated about him?
Oddly, the idea didn't disturb her.

She stretched her legs out and nudged her foot against the rumpled sheets, remembering how the party they'd started outside had eventually found its way in. He certainly hadn't hated her then. And, if she was going to be honest, she hadn't exactly hated him. It was totally warped, but there was something about this darker, secret-keeping side of Ryan that made her want to keep him around a bit longer.

Whether it was because she was just competitive enough to want to end the relationship as the one who got away (as opposed to the one who grew so monotonous and boring he couldn't wait for her to go), or because she had a fascination for secrets and the way they dictated how people lived and the decisions they made—she couldn't say for sure.

Maybe it was a combination of both.

Maybe it was neither.

It wasn't like she was going to run her case by a shrink to have it professionally analyzed.

Madison was one of the few in Hollywood who didn't see a therapist. Most everyone she knew, from the most elite star to the lowliest gofer, relied heavily on their weekly therapy sessions, along with the mood-enhancing drugs their therapists prescribed. Aside from a few well-vetted people, Madison's secrets belonged only to her. Her
childhood story was well documented by the press, and that wholly fabricated lie was the only version she intended to share.

Ryan sat on the edge of the bed, the joint wedged between his lips, as he tugged on his boots.

“What would happen if I took a picture of you and posted it on the net?” She reached for her phone, feeling dangerous, risky, willing to push every boundary.

He pinched the joint between his fingers and took a deep drag. “You wouldn't.” He spoke in that pot smokers' breath-holding way that never failed to get on her nerves.

“How can you be so sure you can trust me?” She snapped a series of pics until he pitched the joint and pounced, his clothed body landing on top of her naked one.

“Because that would hurt you as much as it would hurt me.” His gaze was direct. A bit sleepy and bloodshot, but direct all the same. That single look telling her he was well aware of the game they both played.

He reached for the phone and she swung it high over her head, grinning in triumph when he abandoned the quest and settled for kissing first her neck before working his way farther down.

He refused to stop until Madison melted beneath him. Then, grasping the phone from her hand, he deleted the pictures and said, “You smell like sex. Good sex.” He grinned and pushed away.

“You smell like someone who's not afraid to play dirty.” She frowned at the phone he'd abandoned by her side.

“You sure you don't want to come?” He returned to the mirror, ran his hands through his hair.

She slipped onto her side and plumped a pillow under her head. “I'd rather hang here, maybe sneak in a bubble bath.”

He grabbed his wallet and keys, came around for one last toke before carefully snuffing the joint. “I'll miss you, Mad.” He headed for the door.

“I have no doubt,” she whispered, watching him leave as her phone chimed with an incoming call from a number she hadn't seen in a very long while.

She'd barely gotten to hello, when a male voice said, “We have a problem.”

A
self-satisfied grin crept onto Aster's face as she headed up the stairs, well aware that Ryan Hawthorne would follow. Of course he'd follow. He'd basically followed her directly from the Neiman Marcus shoe department to the Night for Night dance floor. It was the perfect way to end the first week.

She'd spotted him the moment he walked into the club—well, she and every other girl in the vicinity. Though unlike the rest of them, Aster breezed past, pretending not to notice or care.

Guys like Ryan were used to girls fawning all over them—happy to bask in the glow of a big-name celebrity while requiring nothing in return. While it was probably an ego boost for the guys, it was degrading for the girls.
If they were after a quick hookup so they could brag to their friends, then whatever, carry on. But if they were hoping it would result in something more (and Aster suspected most of them were), then that was their first major mistake. Nobody in the history of relationships ever wanted to be with the person who was too easy to get—or at least not for long.

Aster had managed to remain a virgin for as long as she had, not because of her parents' expectations (that had little if anything to do with it, not to mention, her virginity was a technicality at best), but because she held herself in such high regard she'd yet to find someone worthy of sharing such an intimate part of herself. Not that she thought Ryan Hawthorne was that person. For one thing, he had a famous girlfriend. For another, Aster desperately needed to not upset that very famous girlfriend if she had any hope of getting Madison to the club.

Still, there was nothing wrong with a little harmless flirtation. And what better way to drive Ryan crazy than to ignore him?

She reached the top of the landing when a cool hand circled her wrist, pulled her behind a pillar, and said, “I lost sleep wondering how this mystery might end. Would she buy the shoes—would she not?”

She lifted her gaze to meet his. “Do I know you?” She watched as he threw his head back and laughed.

“Are you always this big of a tease?” He angled closer until his face was just inches from hers. She could make out the sheen of stubble on his chin, see the individual amber flecks in his eyes. But it was the lips that really struck her—those perfect, pouty, endlessly photographed lips. She wondered what they'd be like to kiss.

“Where's Madison?” Her tone was sharper than intended.

“So you do know who I am.”

“I know who your girlfriend is, but you and I have never actually met.”

His laugh came easily. “Ryan. Ryan Hawthorne.” He offered a hand.

“Aster Amirpour.” She took his hand in hers, then quickly pulled away.

“Actually, Mad decided to stay in.” He raked his fingers through his hair.

“So, why didn't you join her?”

A slow grin crept over his face. “I tried to be a good boy, but the mystery of the shoes had to be solved.”

Aster's mind ran wild with all the different ways she could play it. Ryan Hawthorne had access to the world she desperately wanted to join, but she needed to keep her head and play it smart. She'd string Ryan along—he seemed to enjoy it—but not to the point of risking Madison's wrath.

She was glad Madison had stayed home. Sure, she needed
the get, but she was so far ahead of the game, there was no way she'd get cut. Besides, she'd lured Ryan Hawthorne to Night for Night; wasn't that triumph enough? Maybe he didn't count for as many points as Madison, but he was still at the top of the list, and if she could spend a little more time with him, she knew she could convince him to return, maybe next time with Madison.

“Shit.” Ryan stepped away from Aster, putting more of a platonic distance between them. “Fans. And even worse, fans with camera phones.”

Sure enough, word of his arrival had spread, and Aster was horrified to find her old private-school friends acting decidedly uncool for kids who'd grown up rich and privileged in Beverly Hills, where celebrity sightings were not a big deal.

“Hey, Aster!” they called, looking pointedly at Ryan.

She frowned, grasped his hand in hers, and led him back down the stairs and over to the Riad, Night for Night's private VIP area.

“So, you work here.” He settled into a tented cabana as Aster drew the filmy curtains around them. “And here I thought you were the newest Victoria's Secret Angel.”

She rolled her eyes and groaned. “Did you use that line on Madison too?”

He reached for the bottle of champagne chilling on ice, popped the top, and poured them each a glass. “Madison
and I were introduced by our agents—it was all very romantic, I assure you.” He leaned back against the cushions as Aster fiddled with the stem of her glass, unsure how to respond.

She was surprised by his openness, his unexpected level of honesty, not to mention his obvious fatigue regarding all things Madison. While she knew better than to believe anything she read in the tabloids, especially when it came to Hollywood's most buzzed-about power couple (if they weren't claiming a breakup was imminent, they were breathlessly searching for a baby bump every time Madison wore a flowy top), she was still shocked to hear him refer to their meeting in such a bored way.

Was Ryan already over her?

And if so, did Madison know?

Was that why she'd chosen to stay home?

And, more importantly, what did it all mean for Aster? Would she have to rethink her whole strategy, or—

“You know, you seem a little obsessed with Madison. It's the second time you've mentioned her.”

Aster lifted her glass to her lips. He was right about that. She'd done an exhaustive amount of research. Had even made a folder full of pictures and interview clippings documenting her rise to the top. Madison was living the life Aster longed for, and Aster would do everything she could to emulate her, but it wasn't like she'd share that with Ryan.

“Just want to make sure you're not headed for trouble,” she said, trying to find the balance between flirty and demure. “You know, sitting alone in this cabana with me.”

“So, this is purely out of concern?”

She hesitated. He was smarter than she'd expected. He'd know if she lied. “Not entirely,” she admitted. “I'm thinking Madison would make for one scary enemy. I'm determined not to find out either way.”

He took a swig of champagne, then leaned so close he had to rest his hand on her knee to keep from falling into her lap. “Tell you what, no more Madison talk, okay? I'm sorry for the smarmy line I ran by you earlier. I'm embarrassed I tried. I can see you're no overeager groupie who will pretend to be charmed by whatever I say. Truth is, you intrigue me. And trust me when I say I did my best to stay away. Even tried to persuade Mad to join me for a nice romantic dinner, hoping it would keep me from doing something there's no turning back from—”

Before he could continue, Aster lifted a hand between them, halting his words. She needed him to slow down, needed them both to take a step back.

“I'm eighteen years old. I come from an area of Beverly Hills you might know as Tehrangeles,
and I'd be under permanent house arrest if my family knew I was here, wearing these clothes and talking to you. I dream of being an actress, but it's proven impossible to catch a break. So I
took this job hoping it'll help me live the life of my dreams as opposed to the life my parents have dreamed for me. Ira wants us to fill up the clubs, but if we can bring in celebrities, it counts more toward the win. And I'm telling you this because I already know about you since you're famous, but also because you're saying all kinds of complimentary stuff, when you don't know the first thing about me. Also, I figured you'd find out eventually and I didn't want you to think I was stringing you along, even though, admittedly, in the beginning, I was.” She took a deep breath and clamped her lips shut. Fearing she'd gone too far when he cocked his head and narrowed his eyes.

“So, you were stringing me along in the beginning, and now?”

She paused; she'd already said too much. But with his green eyes boring into hers, he was impossible to resist. “Now I'm doing something I'll no doubt regret.” She heaved a deep exhale, hardly able to believe she'd veered so far from her earlier vow, which had made better sense. She steeled herself for any reply he might volley, but she was wholly unprepared for the unexpected gentleness of the kiss that followed.

It was just one kiss. Soft. Warm. Over almost as quickly as it started. But the impression lingered.

He drew away and ran his fingers along the curve of her jaw, looking at her as though she was something both
fragile and wonderful. “I'll tell you what, Aster Amirpour of Tehrangeles
.
” His gaze glinted on hers. “If it helps you secure the win and live the life of your dreams, then I'll return as often as I can. I'll even bring Madison. But you have to remember when you see us together that nothing in this town is ever quite what it seems.”

L
ayla woke with a raging headache, a soul stained with regret, and her father sitting on the edge of her bed, wearing an old paint-splattered Neil Young concert tee, looking unshaven, scruffy, but still handsome, while peering at her with concern.

“You okay?” he asked, his silver-streaked hair flopping into his eyes.

He seemed sincere, but she couldn't bear to face him, so she grabbed the extra pillow and held it over her head.

“Come on. None of that. I got you a treat.” He tossed the pillow aside and handed her a cup of coffee from her favorite place down the street.

“I don't deserve a treat.” She inched up the wooden headboard and took a small sip.

“I added a couple shots of tequila, you know—little hair of the dog—”

“You didn't!” She pushed the cup away, but her dad just laughed and pushed it right back. “You know you're not supposed to joke about that stuff.” She reached for the aspirin and water he'd left on her nightstand. “And you're not supposed to help me feel better.” She swallowed the aspirin and chased it with a big gulp of water, before returning to the coffee.

“Wikipedia claims otherwise.”

She started to laugh, then instantly regretted it when it increased the pounding in her head. “You're supposed to lecture me, steep me in shame.”

“Figured I could skip that part. You usually handle that just fine on your own.”

She closed her eyes and fell back against the pillows, wishing she could rewind the last week and start over. In addition to all her bad decisions, of which there were many, she'd gotten drunk on tequila and kissed a boy she had no business kissing. What a train wreck she'd become.

Did that mean she was just like her mom?

Was the propensity for betrayal genetic?

She sincerely hoped not.

“So what happened? You try to outdrink all your gets? Is this an occupational hazard of working in a nightclub?”

She rolled her eyes. “I didn't have any gets.”

“So who's Tommy then?”

Her eyes flew open. How did he know that name? But an instant later the memory bitch-slapped her smack in the brain.

She'd bolted to the bathroom right after that kiss, only to exit and find Tommy waiting to warn her Ira was there. Then he hauled her outside before Ira could see her.

“Tommy is—” She shook her head and shrugged, having no idea how to explain.

“Well, he got you home safely, so he can't be all bad.”

He'd insisted on driving her bike, and for the first half of the ride she'd made fun of the way he handled it. The second half she asked him to pull over so she could hurl into the gutter. By the time they got to her door, she fumbled for her keys for so long Tommy took his chances on ringing the bell.

“Sorry we woke you,” she said. It was the least of a long list of things she felt sorry about.

“Who said you woke me?” Her dad sipped his coffee. “I was in the studio. Working.”

Layla brightened. At least one of them was taking positive steps in his life. “When can I see it?”

“Soon.” He nodded, took another sip.

“Really?”

He shrugged unconvincingly and gazed out the window. “When it's ready. Meanwhile, I've got some interest
from one of the bigger galleries. This could be the one that changes everything. Or at least it better be.”

His jaw tensed with worry, causing Layla to study him with concern. It'd been years since he'd last sold a piece. And while it had fetched a high price, surely the money was close to running out by now.

She was about to ask him about it, but before she could get to it, he grinned and ruffled her hair.

“Hey—watch the head!” She playfully batted his hand. “Feels like I'm hosting a heavy metal band in there.”

“Metallica or Iron Maiden?” His gaze narrowed as though he was trying to decide which would be worse.

“It's a metalpalooza, featuring Metallica, Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath . . . who'd I leave out?”

He made an exaggerated grimace. “You know what you need?”

“A time machine?”

“Yes.” He nodded sagely, his blue eyes crinkling at the sides. “But until then, how 'bout I take you to breakfast. Something big, greasy, and loaded with trans fats.”

“See, now you've just gone from being too soft on me to enabling me. It's a slippery slope, Dad.”

“We'll discuss over breakfast. You can fill me in on the correct way to proceed when your daughter stumbles home drunk with a boy who's not her boyfriend.” His gaze met hers. It was even sharper than his words.

“Looks like you got it down after all.” She smiled wanly. “But I'm sorry I can't join you. I need to head out to a meeting so Ira can fire me.”

Layla pulled up to Night for Night, wondering why Ira didn't just send the bad news via messenger. It would serve as a sort of poetic bookend to how the whole mess began. Well, at least they weren't meeting at Jewel. In her mind, the entire club was one gigantic crime scene she hoped never to revisit.

By the time she walked into the Moroccan-themed club, most everyone was there. She was five minutes early—they were probably ten. Yet another example of how poorly suited she was for the job.

She risked a quick glance at Aster, as perfect and prissy as ever in her short white tennis dress and long, glossy ponytail, and purposely avoided meeting Tommy's gaze. Though a quick head count told her Goth Boy was missing, and she couldn't help but hope his failure to show would count as a forfeit, allow her one more week to make up for the last.

But who was she kidding? She'd already been pegged as the first to go. Probably why they all looked so smug and relaxed, texting on their cell phones, or in Tommy's case, sprawling on one of the sofas, feet propped on an ottoman, taking a nap.

She needed to find another way to get to journalism school. Now more than ever a move out of state was imperative.

As luck would have it, Goth Boy slipped in seconds before Ira's swarm of assistants took their place before the contestants.

Layla found a vacant chair and sank into the cushions, looking lazy, insubordinate, but she was beyond caring. She just hoped they'd hurry up and fire her so she could get back on her bike and go on a nice, long, head-clearing ride. Laguna might be nice. And she could invite Mateo to join her. He'd like the surf, and they needed to spend some time together. . . .

“. . . not surprisingly, Thursday night was our slowest night of the week.”

When had Ira started talking? Layla forced herself to sit up straighter.

“Though there's no question the Night for Night team pulled in the most heads, mostly thanks to Aster Amirpour.”

Layla fought back a smirk. Of course, Queen Bitch Aster got all the credit. Why was life so stinkin' unfair?

“Numbers at all three clubs steadily increased, culminating in last night, which saw the biggest draw yet. Each club managed to bring in decent crowds, but some more decent than others.” He took a moment to gaze leisurely among them. Stupid sadist was enjoying himself. He'd probably
drag it out for as long as he could, like he was the host of some dumb reality TV show.

“As you may know, the Vesper is the smallest of the three clubs, while Jewel is the largest.”

Well, there you have it. I never stood a chance. I was destined to lose from day one
.

“So the winners are decided on a percentage basis—which is to say we calculate the percentage based on club capacity versus absolute numbers. With that in mind, the winner for Saturday night is . . .”

There it was, the long pause Layla had been waiting for. She was surprised there wasn't a drumroll. Ira was so freaking dramatic.

“The Vesper.”

Layla tried not to scowl as the Vesper crowd all virtually high-fived from their various corners.

“You guys have a bit of an underdog vibe, as the size of your crowd bears a direct correlation to the popularity of the bands that come through. That said, we've managed to book some solid summer acts, so I expect to see bigger and better numbers from here. Night for Night, you're second. You were close, but close isn't first.”

There were eight people in the room all breathing easier. Layla wasn't among them. Still, maybe she should just close her eyes and take a little catnap like Tommy had. Surely they'd wake her in time to get sacked.

“Jewel was last.” Layla popped an eye open long enough to see Ira addressing the Jewel team with a stern face. “If you don't pick it up, you won't stand a chance in hell of winning this competition.”

Layla cringed. She couldn't help it. She made up one-fourth of their group, but she took 100 percent responsibility for the failure.

“I don't know what happened, but I suggest you figure it out.”

So there it was, they'd been properly chastised. Now on with the public beheading!

“The club with the highest totals this week is the Vesper.”

“But—” Aster nearly leaped from her chair.

Ira quirked a brow.

“But I brought in Ryan Hawthorne!”

“Ryan's not Madison. The get wasn't enough to overcome the Vesper's numbers.”

Aster frowned. “Next time I'll get Madison,” she mumbled, sinking back to her seat.

“My advice to you”—he stole a quick look at Aster—“to all of you, is not to get too comfortable. Rules can change on a whim. You need to be ready for whatever I throw at you. Now, on to the cut—”

Layla uncrossed her legs and ran her hands down the front of her dark skinny jeans. She should've made more
of an effort on her appearance so she wouldn't so closely resemble the loser she was.

“Layla Harrison?”

The moment had arrived. She'd soon be the dead girl walking. Ira would do his best to embarrass her, of that she was sure. But it couldn't be any worse than the numerous ways she'd embarrassed herself last night alone. As soon as it was over, she'd be on her way, never have to see these people again.

“How you feeling?”

She shrugged, painfully aware of everyone openly staring.

“You helped yourself to a sizable amount of top-shelf tequila last night.”

Layla rubbed her lips together, refusing to confirm or deny.

“Nothing wrong with knocking back a few, but not in the club when you're under twenty-one.”

She grabbed her bag, ready to bail, when Tommy rose from the couch and said, “That was me, not Layla.”

Ira shot him a shrewd look, while Layla stared incredulously.

“I was checking out the competition, not that there was any.” He stole a glance at Layla, before returning to Ira. “Guess I got carried away.”

The way Tommy stood before Ira, Layla couldn't help
but notice there was something markedly different about him. He wasn't doing this for her. This was about challenging Ira, daring the boss to fire him, all the while sure that he wouldn't. The silent standoff lingering for so long, everyone started fidgeting and shifting—everyone except Tommy, who stood his ground, making whatever incomprehensible point he was determined to make.

“Don't let it happen again,” Ira finally said, his voice sharp, gaze unwavering. But Tommy just nodded and returned to his seat, as Ira turned his focus to Ash.

“The impressive numbers at Night for Night were no thanks to you. You pulled in maybe ten people max. We won't stand for that.”

With the heavy eye makeup he wore, it was impossible to tell what Goth Boy might be thinking.

“You have anything to say for yourself?”

“No, man, just—thanks for the opportunity.” He leaped from his seat and made for the door as Layla stared in confusion. Not understanding how she'd managed to survive another week. If Ira knew about the tequila, then clearly he knew her numbers were even worse than Ash's.

Whatever. She'd accept the reprieve for the gift that it was. Last night had marked her very last screwup.

A few minutes later, Tommy headed for the door as Layla rushed to catch up. “What was that about?” she asked.

He swung the door open, forcing her to shield her eyes
from the glare. Sometimes the incessant brightness felt like an assault. The forced cheeriness of three hundred and thirty days of sun was downright annoying. She'd give anything for just one rainy day.

“That was about me saving you.
Again.
”

Layla shrank under his piercing blue gaze. As much as she dreaded bringing it up, she needed him to know she considered their kiss a mistake she would never repeat.

“Tommy, about—” she started to explain, but he spoke right over her.

“Forget it. It'll be our little secret.”

She stood awkwardly before him, wanting to believe it, not sure that she could.

“As for what happened in there—” He hooked a thumb toward the club. “I'll let you know when I'm ready to collect on the favor.”

“Excuse me?” She ran after him. “I don't remember asking you to do that. I was ready to pay the price.”

“Clearly.” He shook his head. “You didn't even put up a fight. So I took a swing for you.”

She was afraid of the answer, but forced herself to ask the question anyway. “Why?”

His gaze roamed hers, studying her for an uncomfortable moment before he finally conceded, “I have my reasons. And now, because of it, you have a second chance to decide what you really want out of life.”

She watched him slide behind the wheel of his car, wanting to shout some nasty retort, knowing she should thank him instead, and settling on neither.

And now, she owed him. Great. She could only imagine what he'd ask in return.