Unrivaled (5 page)

M
adison Brooks sprawled across the plush velvet chaise tucked into the corner of her massive walk-in closet, sipping the freshly pressed green juice her assistant, Emily, delivered and wrinkling her nose at the dresses her stylist, Christina, pulled from an assortment of garment bags bearing the names of LA's most exclusive boutiques.

It was one of her favorite activities, in one of her favorite places—her closet serving as a sort of sanctuary from the incessant demands of her life. Every item—from the mirrored chests, to the soft woven rugs underfoot, to the crystal chandeliers dangling overhead, to the hand-painted silk wallpaper—was carefully chosen to exude feelings of unbridled luxury, comfort, and peace. The only thing even remotely out of place was Blue lying asleep at her feet.

While other starlets preferred their precious purse-size purebreds, for Madison, her scraggly mutt of indeterminate origins was everything a dog should be—solid, tough, no-nonsense, and a little rough around the edges. It was how she preferred her boyfriends too—or at least back when she was allowed to choose them herself.

If there was anything that surprised Madison about the inner workings of Hollywood, it was the approach to relationships as just another commodity—something to be bartered and arranged by a team of managers, publicists, and agents, or sometimes, the celebrities themselves.

The right pairing could raise an actor's profile in ways that were otherwise hard to achieve, ensuring endless publicity, a permanent place in the tabloids, and, more unfortunate, the annoyingly cutesy phenomenon of name blending. Problem was, most actors were so used to delving into character they'd actually start to believe they'd found the person they could not live without. The one who completed them. Or whatever movie line they'd been spoon-fed since they were a kid.

“I'm thinking this one would go well with those new Jimmy Choos.” Christina dangled a cute color-block dress before her, but Madison didn't want
cute
. She wanted something special, not the same tired thing everyone else was wearing.

Her phone chimed, but Madison ignored it. Not because
she was lazy (she wasn't), or because she was pampered to a ridiculous degree (she was), but because she knew it was Ryan and she had no interest in FaceTiming with him.

Christina paused, but Madison nodded for her to continue, until the ever-faithful Emily swooped in, retrieved Madison's phone from the table, and in a tone of hushed excitement said, “It's Ryan!”

Madison fought the urge to laugh. Emily was a good assistant—solid, dependable—but her fangirl crush on Ryan made her impossible to trust. The less she knew about Madison's true feelings for Ryan, the better.

“Hey, babe.” Ryan's voice was lazy and deep as his sandy-blond hair and sleepy green eyes filled up the screen. “I've been thinking about you all day. Have you been thinking about me?”

Madison watched as Christina and Emily crept from the room, closing the door behind them. “Of course.” She sank deeper into the cushions and pulled a cashmere throw over her lap. Whenever Ryan was around, or even on FaceTime, she found herself reaching for a pillow, a blanket, whatever she could find to build a barrier between them.

“Yeah? And what exactly were you thinking?” He sprawled full length on the couch in his on-set trailer, his head propped with a cushion, his hand working his belt.

“You couldn't handle it,” she said, her voice barely disguising her resentment for the way he always pushed her
into doing things that made her uncomfortable.

It wasn't that she was a prude—far from it—and it wasn't like Ryan wasn't a fine piece of boy specimen—as the hot young star of a popular TV drama, Ryan Hawthorne was the fuel of countless teen fantasies. He simply wasn't her type, and no amount of publicity would ever change that. After putting up with him for the last six months, she was more than ready to end it. Her agent had other ideas and was actively campaigning for her to continue the charade until she inked her next deal, but he wasn't the one who had to kiss him, watch him chew with his mouth open, or fend off his constant need for FaceTime sex. The public canoodling had dragged on long enough. It was time for RyMad to die. Though it was important to time it just right.

“Oh, I can handle it.” His voice was raspy, his breathing strained, as his fingers tugged at his zipper. In another half a second those pants would be gone.

“Baby—” She deepened her voice in the way Ryan liked. “You know Christina's here. Emily too.”

“Yeah, so, send 'em on an errand or something.” He kicked his boxers to his knees. “I miss you, baby. I need me some Mad time.”

Madison cringed. She hated when he said things like
Mad time
—there was nothing sexy about it. There was also nothing sexy about seeing Ryan Hawthorne bared on her screen, despite what his millions of fans might think.

“But I still haven't found a dress for
Jimmy Kimmel
tomorrow,” she cooed in a way she hoped was convincing.

“Does Jimmy have
this
?”

“Pretty sure he does.” He was too far gone to notice she'd rolled her eyes.

“You always look good, baby.” His voice was hoarse.

Madison muted the volume, absentmindedly fingering the scar on the inside of her arm—the only blemish on her flawless white skin. She was often asked about it in interviews, but Madison had a well-rehearsed answer for everything regarding her past.

She waited for Ryan to go through the motions, wondering how much longer she could put him off without him catching on to just how much she'd grown to despise him. Once it was done, she raised the volume and purred, “You have no idea how much I miss you.” Not a total lie, she reasoned, since he clearly had no idea she didn't miss him one bit. “But now is not a good time.”

He made no move to cover himself, even though she'd made it clear that round two would not happen on her watch. Though a second later he was pulling a T-shirt over his head, saying, “Rain check?”

That was the one good thing about Ryan—he had the attention span of a gnat, and his moods were easily changed. He was just about to nail down a time, when Madison smiled apologetically and pushed End.

She leaned against the cushions and waited. Emily and Christina were probably mashed against the door frame, eavesdropping. They'd check in soon enough.

“So . . .” As if on cue, Christina peeked into the room. Her blue eyes worried, shoulders rising to her ears. “None of them work?”

Madison blinked. Maybe those dresses weren't all as bad as she'd thought—surely at least one was a keeper?

Then again, why not pretend to hate them? It was good to shake people up. Make them try harder. Sharpen their game.

She scrunched her nose and shook her head. She had a long, hot summer of talk shows, movie promos, and photo shoots. Christina would have to exert a little more effort.

“From what I hear, Heather's dying to wear the black one,” Christina said.

Madison crossed her legs and purposely nudged a still-sleeping Blue with her toes, amused by the way his ears perked up for a second before flopping down again. The thought of her annoying former costar brought a scowl to her face. Heather was always trying to promote herself through her connections, no matter how tenuous, to bigger celebrities, and Madison would never forgive herself for having fallen for it.

It was back in the early days when they'd first met. Back when she didn't really know anyone and was so grateful
to make a friend in a town where she didn't have any, she ignored Heather's more alarming traits—her pathological competitiveness among them. Though as soon as Madison hit it big, her star blazing so bright Heather's was reduced to a flicker, the snide comments, thinly veiled insults, and fits of jealousy increased to where Madison could no longer overlook them. So she cut Heather off; visited her local dog shelter; found her new best friend, Blue; and never looked back. And yet, Heather still continued to stalk her, always tagging her on Twitter, or trying to copy Madison's every move, like there was a formula for success other than hard work, determination, and a little sprinkle of fairy dust. What a bore.

“Well, I think the only reason she wants it is because she thinks you want it.” Christina turned toward the rolling rack and started closing the heavy bags so she could haul them back to her car—the sight of which made Madison feel a little sad for rushing the process.

After the fiasco with Heather, Madison hadn't made other friends. She had plenty of hangers-on, sure, but not a single bestie. The problem with girls (the nice ones, not the crazy ones like Heather) was they always wanted to delve too deep. To share and confide, to glean her innermost thoughts, explore the territory of their mutual mommy and daddy issues, and, unlike boys, they couldn't be dissuaded with sex (or at least not most of them); they demanded
answers instead. It was the sort of intimacy Madison just couldn't risk. The moments spent trying on clothes and gossiping with Christina were as close as Madison got to girl bonding.

“Well, won't she be disappointed to learn I rejected it.” Madison was determined to delay Christina's departure for as long as she could. “Unless we don't tell her. Might be fun to watch her try to trump me in yet another tireless round of
Who Wore It Better?
”

Christina grinned knowingly. She had a reputation for being the best, limiting her list of clients to the topmost members of the Hollywood elite. “I don't think that's going to happen anytime soon.”

Madison's lips curved into a half smile as she nudged Blue again with her toes. “You've been here for over an hour and the only gossip I get from you is about Heather? Are you holding out on me?”

Christina shot her an alarmed look, and then seeing Madison was joking (well, kind of), she relaxed and said, “It's been a slow week. But I did hear something about a competition that Ira Redman's running. Have you heard about it? He's posted flyers all over town.”

Madison shot her a curious look. She knew Ira the way she knew most people connected to the industry—through the party, charity, and awards shows circuit. Of course she was aware of his reputation as the nightclub czar of LA,
everyone was, but most of their contact had been relegated to Ira trying to lure her to his clubs through flattery and gifts. For her last birthday he'd sent her a red Hermès Kelly bag, which cost three times more than the Gucci bag her agent had sent. She'd quickly unwrapped it, added it to her collection of designer handbags, and told Emily to send him a thank-you card.

“Anyway, it's something to do with promoting his clubs, but I have a friend on the inside who says you're on his list of gets. So prepare for a bunch of desperate kids trying to lure you in!”

Madison settled deeper into the cushions, a sigh of contentment escaping her lips. So what if her life was filled with suck-ups and sycophants—all of them handsomely paid to fluff her ego and laugh at her jokes? She was still the luckiest person she knew, living the kind of gilded existence most people couldn't conceive of. And wasn't one of the major benefits of being rich and famous the unfettered access to all the right things?

The right table in a crowded restaurant with a three-hour wait.

The right first-class seat on an overbooked flight.

The right VIP pass to any concert or sporting event worth seeing.

The right clothes arriving straight to her door for her to try on at her leisure.

The right team of people who kept her life running safely and smoothly, for which she paid dearly.

She'd worked hard for the privilege and saw no reason not to milk it.

If Ira Redman wanted to enlist a bunch of kids to flatter her, who was she to stop him?

“Come back tomorrow morning,” she said, assuming Christina would move any other appointments she might have. “And bring me something pretty. I want to leave Jimmy speechless. Oh, and get me a list of those kids from your friend. I like to know who's stalking me.”

L
ayla felt bad lying to Mateo, but really, what choice did she have? He'd made it clear that day at the beach exactly what he thought of the LA club scene. Admitting she'd decided to show up for the interview would only upset him. Besides, it wasn't like anything would ever come of it. Surely Ira would see she didn't fit in that world.

She steered her Kawasaki Ninja 250R toward Jewel, the club designated for the interview, about to claim a space that had just opened, when, seemingly out of nowhere, a white C-Class Mercedes swerved into her lane, forcing Layla to squeeze hard on the brakes. Her back wheel fishtailed wildly as she fought to keep control of the bike. Finally screeching to a stop and miraculously managing to stay upright, she watched in a mixture of frustration and
outrage when the driver stole the spot right out from under her.

“Hey!” Layla yelled, her heart racing frantically thanks to the near-death experience. “What the hell?” She watched as a dark-haired girl in a tight black dress rolled out of the car with such arrogance and ease Layla was completely incensed. “That was
my
space!” she shouted in outrage. In a place where street parking was scarce, space snatching was a serious breach of common decency.

The girl anchored her sunglasses onto her forehead and glared dismissively. “How can it be your space if I'm in it?”

Layla stared in astonishment. So enraged she practically spit when she said, “Are you for real? You almost killed me!”

The girl shot Layla a derisive look, shook her long hair over her shoulder, and headed for the club. By the time Layla found another, less desirable space, the girl was long gone. She'd probably jumped the line and was already inside, while Layla slogged along with the rest of them, slowly wending their way toward the door.

She removed her helmet, ran a hand through her wheat-colored hair, and checked her reflection in the smudgy glass window, hoping her gray V-neck tee, shrunken black blazer, and tight leather leggings looked more rocker chick than Hell's Angel. Then she traded her heavy boots for a pair of designer knockoff stilettos she'd bought for the occasion
and could still barely walk in.

Despite making a living reporting on the celebrity scene, she couldn't remember the last time she'd been inside a club. Most of her stories revolved more around the closing-time antics, when the celebrities spilled out the doors, swaying precariously on their Jimmy Choos as they made their way to their rides. Those drunken, unguarded moments provided loads of material. She'd learned that firsthand after nearly getting clipped one night by some B-list jerk driving a Porsche. When Layla used her cell to record the offense, the celeb went after her, and she sold the resulting coverage to TMZ in an act of revenge that inadvertently kick-started her freelance career.

It wasn't exactly the writing gig she'd dreamed of, but it'd gotten her through high school without having to rely on her dad, whose career as an artist was either feast or famine. And while she told herself she was doing her part to chip away at a world she despised, most of the time she felt more like a low-life paparazzi than an actual journalist. But, if this gig with Ira worked out, she could put all that behind her.

When she finally reached the door and the bouncer permitted her entry (the six people ahead of her weren't nearly so lucky), she was handed an application and a name tag to stick on her blazer, then directed to a photographer, who clicked the shutter so fast Layla was sure he'd caught
her mid-blink. Still dazed from the flash, she was then ushered by yet another assistant into the Vault—Jewel's much-coveted, much-talked-about, legendary VIP section, which resembled the inside of a very plush jewelry box (as opposed to the actual bank vault Layla expected)—where she was told to wait.

Most people flocked to the front and center seats in an attempt to get noticed, but Layla headed straight for the back. Not because she was shy (she was), not because she was feeling intimidated (she definitely was), but because that particular vantage point allowed her to scope out the room, scrutinize her rivals, and determine who to beat and who to dismiss.

While she never got competitive over the usual things like being the prettiest girl in the room (the effort required to go from cute to pretty just wasn't worth it), or gaining the attention of the hottest boys (it was already done—Mateo was the hottest guy in town), when it came to nailing the interview, she morphed into a cunning strategist fixed on securing the job no matter the cost.

Of course the girl who'd stolen her parking space (Aster, according to her name tag) was sitting front and center, and worse, she didn't even blink or look away when Layla caught her openly staring. Her gaze remained focused, wide, and assured, and she brandished her startling beauty like a weapon meant to intimidate. So Layla did the only
thing she could think of—she rolled her eyes and looked away, painfully aware she'd just time traveled straight back to junior high. Still, ignoring the mean girls was never an option. It hadn't worked then, it wouldn't work now. Girls like Aster had a loud bark, but Layla had a sharp, nasty bite. Aster would be a fool to underestimate her.

The rest of the crowd was pretty much a cross section of so many looks it reminded her of an
American Idol
casting call. There were goths, punks, metalheads, rappers, princessy blondes, a girl wearing pink cowboy boots and cutoffs so insanely short Layla wondered if she'd mistakenly wandered in looking for a bikini wax—all of them jockeying for attention. All of them completely clueless, in Layla's estimation.

“Hey, you're the girl with the bike, right?” There was enough of an accent to prove he wasn't a native. “I saw you ride up.”

Layla's gaze roamed past a pair of destroyed black leather motorcycle boots and frayed jeans slashed at the knee, before pausing on a vintage Jimmy Page T-shirt that looked so overly laundered she couldn't help but wonder if he'd slept in it.

She shrugged in response. The weirdness with Aster had left her ready to hate on just about anyone who invaded her space, starting with this walking, talking indie-rocker cliché who'd probably never straddled a bike in his life.

“Mind if I sit here?”

“Whatever,” she mumbled, overcome with shame the second she said it. It wasn't like her to act like such a snot. Still, she wasn't there to make friends, and she definitely wasn't there to make small talk with some LA transplant desperate for connection, and she couldn't think of a better way to get those two points across.

He lowered himself into the seat, settling into such a major manspread, one of his knees bumped against hers.

She sighed loud enough for him to hear. She had graduated from a snot to a colossal bitch, but she just didn't care.

“Sorry.” He drew his legs in, which was better, until his foot started to jiggle.

She focused hard on her cell, doing her best to ignore him, but there was no use.

“Can you just—”

He followed the tip of her pointing finger to his bouncing foot.

“Oh. Guess I'm a little nervous.” He laughed. “Which probably makes me sound really uncool, but there it is. So, how'd you hear about this?”

Completely out of patience, Layla turned to him and said, “Listen—can we not do this?”

“Do what?” His grin was slow, wide, and disarmingly open. And when her gaze met his, all she could manage was a sharp intake of breath. His eyes were the most intense
shade of blue she'd ever seen.

She stole a quick glance at his name tag,
Tommy
,
and fought to pull herself together. “Let's not chitchat, make small talk, or pretend to be friends.” Her tone was harsh, way too harsh for the circumstance, but she was beginning to think she should've listened to Mateo and avoided this place.

“Your call.” Tommy shrugged. Dismissing her so easily she couldn't help but feel a little incensed by that too. “Too bad, though. From what I've seen so far, friends are in short supply around here.”

His words settled around her. And while part of her wished she could lighten up, another part, the part that was frustrated, insecure, and woefully out of her league, said, “Yeah, well, welcome to Hollywood.”