“Sure.” She ran her finger along the rim. “Hold your breath and wait for it.” She finished her drink and refilled her shot glass again.
“I like your honesty.” He motioned to the bottle. “But in case you haven’t heard—sharing is caring. I’ve got my own problems, you know.”
Layla considered him for a long, intense moment. Her gaze lingered over the errant clump of light-brown hair that insisted on falling into his eyes, the worn Black Keys T-shirt that perfectly skimmed his lean, muscular frame, the faded jeans that hung low on his hips, the brown leather belt so worn she couldn’t help but wonder how many girls had unbuckled it in a hurry. . . .
She tossed back her drink, poured herself another, and then filled a glass for him. If Tommy thought she was being “honest,” then clearly he hadn’t a clue what honesty looked like. Her annoyance with him wasn’t for the reasons he thought. She was annoyed with him for being right, for showing up at her club just in time to catch her in a deeply shameful moment of failure and insecurity. For those stupid blue eyes.
She emptied her glass, poured another shot, downed it, then pushed her glass aside. It was time to stop playing games and get to the point. “What the hell are you doing here? Did Ira send you?”
He shook his head, grabbed the bottle, tipped a few more drops into his glass, and finished them off in a single toss. “I came to see you.”
She rolled her eyes, tried to say something insulting, but the tequila was drowning her brain cells and she couldn’t think of a single reply.
“Come on, dance with me.” His fingers reached across the counter and circled her wrist.
“I don’t dance.” She yanked free of his grip, hating the way her wrist went from warm to cold the moment he released it.
“You serious?” Tommy’s face creased like he was seconds away from howling with laughter.
“I know.” Layla laughed in spite of herself. “I couldn’t be worse suited for this job.”
His gaze turned serious. “One dance. Then I’ll head back to the Vesper so fast you’ll forget I was here.”
Layla studied him closely. Last she saw he’d been flirting with the kind of curvy blonde she could never compete with. She wondered if he’d gone home with her. She figured he had.
“Come on.” His voice was gentle, his gaze sincere, or as sincere as it could get for a guy she hadn’t decided to trust. She struggled to come up with one good reason not to go along, but her usually well-honed instincts were so diluted, next thing she knew she was following him onto the dance floor.
He pulled her deep into the throng, keeping a decent distance until the crowd surged around them, pushing them closer, and he slid a hand around the curve of her hip and pressed his lips to hers.
I need to push him away. I need to stop this. I need to go to the bathroom and make myself vomit so I can get this tequila out of my system and stop doing things I’ll only regret. . . .
Ignoring the voice in her head, she rose onto her toes and kissed him right back.
Because she’d spent the last two years with Mateo, kissing Tommy felt foreign, illicit, and sexy in the way only bad things can be.
“Tommy . . . ,” she murmured, not realizing she’d said it out loud, until he whispered her name in the same breathless way.
Despite his efforts to continue, despite her desire to let him, something about the sound of her name on his lips snapped her back to reality.
She released herself from his grip and pressed through the crowd, torn between relief and annoyance that he hadn’t tried to follow. That he simply remained inside the circle of writhing bodies, silently watching her go.
NINETEEN
WICKED GAME
Madison 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.”
TWENTY
LIPS LIKE SUGAR
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 veere
d 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.”
TWENTY-ONE
SUNDAY BLOODY SUNDAY
Layla 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.”