Unrivaled (6 page)

F
ive minutes into the ordeal was all it took for Aster to dismiss everyone in the room as a possible competitor. Nightclubs thrived on glamour and beauty—the unattractive need not apply. That single requirement was enough to ensure that Aster secured the top spot.

Still, Layla (Lila? She had to squint to read the name tag) could pose a threat. She wasn't nearly as pretty as Aster, but damn if she hadn't hesitated to call her on that unfortunate parking space incident. Aster hadn't even seen her until she was already climbing out of her car and Layla got up in her face. She'd been so agitated during the drive from Beverly Hills to Hollywood—alternating between
you can do it!
style pep talks and complete despair that she was fresh out of high school and had already sunk to this
level—that when Layla went after her, Aster responded the only way she knew how—by acting like the worst, most haughty version of herself.

Everyone had a go-to defense. Some got angry, like Layla—some made jokes, like Aster's brother, Javen—and some acted like stupid arrogant peacocks. Well, it was done now. There was no going back. Besides, Aster had a feeling that deep down, Layla wasn't as tough as she seemed. As someone used to acting her way through most facets of life, Aster found it easy to recognize the trait in another. The game was equal parts illusion and distraction, but on Layla's part, it was poorly played.

For one thing, her shoes were 100 percent
not
Louboutins. The red on the sole was way off. Never mind the heel height. And the way she'd stumbled into the room like a newborn colt testing its legs—clearly she hadn't bothered to practice walking in them like Aster when she'd scored her first pair. Total rookie move. Even the biggest amateur knew you had to rehearse the role you wanted to play until you owned it so fully, you could no longer distinguish yourself from the fiction. Layla was out of her league. She might try to come off as strong and capable, but those sad knockoff shoes told the story of an imposter trying to inhabit a world she did not understand. And yet, clearly Layla was every bit as hungry and ruthless as Aster. Willing to play dirty if that was what it took, which
was exactly why Aster focused on her.

Aster was an achiever, used to excelling at pretty much anything she set her mind to. Good grades, prom queen, class president—it had all been hers for the taking. But with her acting career failing to launch, she needed this job more than ever. The gig was sleazy, completely beneath her—but that was exactly the reason she needed to clinch it. If she couldn't succeed as a lowly nightclub promoter, then what would that say about her?

Ira took his place at the podium, and Aster wasted no time crossing her legs in a way that significantly hiked up the hem of her Hervé Léger bandage dress, hoping to draw attention to a healthy expanse of tanned and toned thigh, while also sending the message she knew how to play this particular game.

Dressed in dark denim jeans and a black shirt, Ira somehow managed to look as tall, assured, and commanding as though he were standing behind the presidential podium wearing a bespoke suit.

“You all share one thing in common,” he began. “You were drawn to the idea of an epic competition, access to the hottest clubs, and, let's not forget, the promise of an enormous cash prize.”

His gaze swept the room, and when it met Aster's, she could've sworn he held it just a little bit longer. Then again, it was entirely possible she'd imagined it. Ira was
magnetic—time seemed to stop and start depending on where he directed his attention.

“Like you, I was young and hungry once.” Ira shot them a well-practiced grin. “Back then, I would've jumped at the kind of opportunity I'm offering you.”

Another dramatic pause.
Sheesh. Is
everyone vying for a SAG card? No wonder it's so tough to book a job.

“The rules are simple. Those who make the cut will be assigned a club to promote. At first you'll be working in teams, but don't think for a moment you can slack off and let the others pull your weight. I'll be watching. I'm always watching. I know everyone who walks through my doors, and I'll know whose efforts reeled them in.” He reached for a bottle of water and took a slow, purposeful swig that seemed less about thirst and more about allowing time for his words to sink in. Ira was positioning himself as a sort of all-seeing, all-knowing sage, and judging by the sudden onset of shifting and throat clearing, it worked.

“Getting a good turnout at your club earns you points. And I'm not going to mince words, since we're all adults. . . .” Ira checked with his assistant. “They're all adults, right? You checked IDs?” The assistant smiled coyly. “In the world of nightclubs, the younger, the hotter, and the more famous your
gets
, the more points they're worth. The clubs are all eighteen and up—eighteen to party, twenty-one to drink. Obviously.” He quirked a brow,
allowed enough time for people to laugh, which of course they did, then went on to say, “Each week, the promoter with the least number of points will be eliminated, while the promoter with the most points will earn cash to spend on marketing and party planning for their clubs. The promoter with the most points at the end of the summer wins. And by ‘wins,' I mean the winner will walk away with
half of all the cover charges collected by the clubs during the course of the summer
.”

The words were spoken in italics. Or at least that was how Aster heard it.

“The harder everyone works, the bigger the prize. The profits could be
huge
and they're for the winner to keep.”

Blah, blah, blah. Aster couldn't care less about the cash. Sure it would be nice to buy her own Burberry bikinis, but it was the connections that truly interested her. Her agent was right—Ira's clubs attracted Hollywood's finest. She was beginning to wonder why she hadn't thought of it herself.

“Any questions?” Ira's tone made it clear that questions weren't actually welcomed, but just as Aster was raising her hand, having no idea what she would ask but determined to be noticed, that damn Layla beat her to it.

“What about the first week?”

Ira squinted, fiddled with the cap on his water bottle. “What about it?”

“Will we be given a promotional allowance to get started?”

“Only twelve will make the cut. No use talking details that won't apply to most.”

Layla nodded, then shot Aster a squinty look.

Clearly she didn't give a shit about the answer. She just wanted the same thing Aster did, to get Ira to notice her in a sea of desperate wannabes too scared to speak up in his presence.

Yep. She was definitely one to watch.

T
ommy followed Ira's assistant into his office, trying not to stare too hard at the way her hips swayed in her little black skirt. From what he'd seen, all of Ira's assistants were smokin'. His dad was clearly living the good life.

“Mr. Redman, Tommy Phillips is here.” Her voice was prim, but the intimate look that followed was all Tommy needed to know Ira was nailing her.

Well, at least someone in his family was having some fun. His mom had sworn off men long ago. Claimed to be perfectly happy keeping house with her bilingual parrot. And despite Tommy's good looks, in a showy town like LA it hardly compensated for the crap car, the shithole apartment, and the nearly empty wallet.

Tommy sat before Ira, wishing he'd taken time to prepare. He knew the importance of rehearsing for a gig, but when it came to the most important interview of his life, he hadn't so much as bothered to go over some possible responses to Ira's inevitable questions. And yet, nothing could've prepared him for the intensity of going one-on-one with Ira in a closed room with a pack of hot, clipboard-toting assistants standing by.

Ira leaned back in his chair and pushed his sleeves up his forearms, allowing a glimpse of the bracelet of small round beads that reminded Tommy of the prayer beads his mom always wore. It seemed like an odd choice for a man like Ira. Then again, most LA moguls liked to feign a spiritual side, claiming to adhere to a rigorous schedule of yoga and meditation before heading out into the world and obliterating competitors, entire companies, and anything else that got in their way.

Just above the bracelet was an expensive gold watch, this one a Cartier, as opposed to the Rolex of the other day. Probably had a whole collection of 'em—one for every day of the month—while Tommy relied on his cell phone to keep track of time. And if things didn't pick up, he'd be forced to hawk it on Craigslist.

This was a mistake—one of his biggest in a very long list. He should've left that stupid flyer in the trash where he'd originally tossed it.

“So,” Ira said. “Tell me something about you that I don't already know.”

Tommy hesitated, unsure what he meant. Did Ira recognize him from that day at Farrington's?

He forced his gaze to meet Ira's, wondering how he'd react if Tommy said, “Well,
Dad
, as it just so happens, I'm the long-lost son you abandoned.”

Would Ira lose his cool? Have him tossed from the room?

Wasn't worth finding out. Or at least not today.

“Guess that depends on what you
do
know.” Tommy practically dared Ira to remind him of how he'd nearly cried when Ira bought his dream guitar out from under him. He was guessing Ira was enough of a douchebag sadist to do it.

“You're hungry.” Ira steepled his fingers and held them under his chin. “Otherwise you wouldn't be here. Question is, what are you hungry for?”

Rent money, a shelf full of Grammys, to prove myself worthy and one day surpass your success in ways you never saw coming.

Tommy shrugged and looked around the room. It was sleek, modern, minimal but expensive. Even the requisite ego wall, covered floor to ceiling with framed photos of Ira's various magazine covers, was tastefully done. “I like to win.” Tommy shifted in his seat, then instantly regretted it. It made him look nervous, unsure of himself. He was, but it wasn't like he needed to show it.

“Who doesn't?” Ira frowned, the steeple collapsed, and his hands fell to his lap, where he fiddled with the tiger's-eye beads on his bracelet, as Tommy wondered if something from Ira's brief dalliance with his mom had managed to stick.

Tommy's mom was one of those new-age hippies (except she really hated that word—the beliefs dated back thousands of years, she would say). Not only did she believe in the healing power of crystals but also that everyone was guided by angels, that Love with a capital
L
could cure anything, along with a whole list of other stuff Tommy could never fully align with. She was the one who should've moved to LA. It would've been a better fit. Though if he remembered correctly, she might've said something about tiger's-eye being protective, guarding against curses and the like. All Tommy knew was on his first day of high school she'd slipped a similar stone into his pocket. By the end of third period he'd already lost it, and yet he still managed to survive those four years mostly unscathed. Though it made sense that Ira would need that sort of protection. A guy like that came with a long list of enemies just waiting to attack.

Tommy counted himself among them.

He picked at the hole in the knee of his jeans and waited for Ira to continue.

“Heard I caused you some trouble over at Farrington's?” Ira paused, waiting for Tommy to confirm or deny.

It was a test. Every moment with Ira was a final exam.

“He canned me.” Tommy lifted his shoulders as though it was no big thing, but they both knew he was lying.

“You might think that makes me feel obligated to you.” Ira studied his nails, not polished, just filed and buffed, keeping the
man
in manicure. “But that would be a mistake.” He leveled his gaze on Tommy's. “I tend to take a more nihilistic view—at least where the more mundane social mores are concerned.”

Was this guy for real? Did all of the interviews go like this—with Ira aimlessly pontificating like they both had all the time in the world?

And how the hell was Tommy expected to reply to a statement like that?

Ira was a major windbag who loved to hear his own voice.

Tommy was a man of much fewer words.

Clearly he took after his mother.

“You made a choice that day. You chose to act on your own and risk the consequence. All of our actions bring consequences. Getting fired was yours.”

Tommy ran his tongue across his gums, flipped his boot on his knee, and messed with the gash in the shank. No longer caring if Ira saw the sorry state of his shoes, his finances, his life. Seemed like he'd blown the interview long before he arrived. It was Farrington's all over again.
The guy was completely devoid of an empathy gene. Great father figure he was turning out to be.

It was time to head back to Oklahoma, where people at least said what they meant and never made sport of other people's well-being. Back home, he didn't know a single person who behaved like Ira. They were good, down-home, solid, dependable folks. He couldn't believe he'd just used the word
folks
—but yeah,
folks
who would never so much as—

“—which is why you're not a good fit.”

The room fell silent. Tommy had no idea what had just happened. “So . . . I'm not a good fit because you like to take a nihilistic approach, or because you got me fired so easily?” He scrambled to catch up.

“What do you think?”

Tommy shook his head. This was un-fucking-believable.

“For someone who claims they love to win, you haven't said a single thing to convince me.”

“You don't even know me.” Tommy stood, struggling to keep his cool. He wasn't good enough for the job, wasn't good enough to be Ira's son. He'd never felt as powerless as he did at that moment.

“Don't I?” Ira tilted his head, studying Tommy like he saw right through him.

“You have no idea what I'm capable of.”

Ira shrugged and reached for his phone, which only
enraged Tommy more. He might be broke, down on his luck, but he didn't have to tolerate being treated like this, and he wouldn't leave without Ira knowing it.

“Just so we're clear—” He pushed his chair aside, nearly tipping it over. “The consequence of
your
decision will prove to be your loss, not mine.”

He made for the door, pushing past the assistants scurrying out of his way, just as Ira said, “I'm beginning to wonder if you're right.”

Tommy pulled the door open, still committed to leaving while he was somewhat ahead.

“You're my weakest candidate by far.”

Tommy scowled. Ira was an asshole. An asshole who didn't know when to quit.

“But if you can learn to take that grudge of yours and use it to fuel your goals, as opposed to using it as your go-to excuse for remaining a victim, then you just might end up surprising us both.”

Tommy turned. “So now you're quoting Oprah?”

Ira laughed. It was short, almost inaudible, but Tommy caught it nonetheless.

“Usually at this point, the groveling interviewee conveys a stream of gratitude they can barely contain.”

“I don't remember groveling,” Tommy snapped, wondering if maybe he was the one who didn't know when to quit.

“To your credit.” Ira nodded. Dividing his attention between his phone and Tommy, he said, “Jennifer will lead you to the back room, where the other candidates are waiting. You'll need to remain there until the rest of the interviews are concluded, at which point you'll receive your assignments.”

Tommy shook his head, trying to make sense of what had happened. Maybe Ira wasn't as bad as he'd thought. Maybe he just took some getting used to. Besides, all that stuff about Oklahoma was bullshit. People are people. Prone to do what they're prone to do. Geography had nothing to do with it.

“Oh, and Tommy?” Ira's eyes glinted with an emotion Tommy couldn't quite place. “I can see why you loved that guitar. My instructor says it's as good a starter instrument as any.”

Another test. Ira was trying to rile him by inferring that his dream guitar was somehow inferior. But Tommy just grinned. Following Jennifer out the door, he said, “Glad to hear she's working for you.”