So far, it was mostly purchase orders and bills—the everyday bureaucracy of running a string of successful nightclubs. Or at least that was what he thought, until he came across a heavy file titled Unrivaled Finalists.
The first document was a list of their names and contact information, along with a photo of each of them. The date listed at the top left corner was the same date the interviews had taken place.
Had Ira already chosen the finalists before the contest even began?
And if so, did that mean he’d been setting them up from day one?
His fingers trembled with rage. It was one thing to think the worst of his dad. It was another to prove he’d been right all along.
Tommy had always assumed Layla made the cut because of her blog. As a club promoter, her numbers were poor. But her posts about Madison’s disappearance amounted to free publicity for Ira. He’d given her insider access to the Madison scandal, and in return Layla didn’t hesitate to write about it.
Aster was easy. She was beautiful, snooty, spoiled, rich, and willing to do just about anything in pursuit of her dreams. In other words, she was just the sort of girl the whole world would be all too willing to root against.
But that still left Tommy. Up until the moment Ira had offered him the job, Tommy was convinced he’d blown the interview. But with every favor Ira granted, Tommy was sure there was another, darker motivation behind it. Ira never acted from kindness.
He raced through the pages, surprised to find they focused more on the competitors than the contest. While plenty of employers were known to run background checks, the info Ira had collected went much further than that. Ira had kept them under surveillance from the day of their interviews, and he’d collected the photos to prove it.
There was a pic of Tommy and Layla standing outside a restaurant on Abbot Kinney Boulevard. Tommy recognized it from the day he’d asked her to meet him at Lemonade. He’d been looking to form an alliance, hoping to pool their talents and work together. Only he’d flubbed the pitch and had ended up alienating her.
He dug deeper. Flipping past a photo of Aster and Ryan embracing in the Night for Night parking lot, he unearthed a separate file buried beneath it, with Madison’s name printed on the front.
Inside was a picture of Madison as a young girl. She was barefoot and bedraggled, dragging an old doll by her side. Along the top someone had written in all caps: MARYDELLA, WV, age 8.
It was the same picture someone had sent Layla—the same one that had covered the walls of Madison’s cell.
Farther in, Tommy found a newspaper article about the fire. Just beneath was another childhood photo of Madison. Only this time her hair was neatly combed, her dress was pressed and clean, and she sat smiling beside a plain, nondescript woman Tommy was sure he’d never seen, and yet something about her seemed vaguely familiar.
He flipped it over. On the back someone had written MaryDella & Eileen. Eileen was Paul Banks’s mother.
Why would Ira even have such a picture?
After photographing both sides, Tommy was about to dig deeper when he noticed footsteps sounding in the hall.
“What’re you doing?” The voice belonged to a girl. Probably one of Ira’s hot assistants—there was no shortage of them.
“I need to check something,” Ira said. “It’ll only take a minute.”
The doorknob rattled, sending Tommy into a panic as he quickly abandoned the folder, swiped at the light switch, and raced for the small supply closet. Contorting his body to fit, he managed to ease the door shut just as the office door swung open.
Inside the closet it was hot and dark, and there was barely enough room to hold him. Something sharp wedged into the middle of his back, forcing Tommy to take short, shallow breaths in an attempt to keep the noise to a minimum, though he was sure the frantic pounding of his heart would give him away. The only thing standing between him and Ira was a thin piece of wood and a knob with no lock.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Ira sounded hurried, if not wholly annoyed.
“Sitting in your chair, seeing what it’s like to be you.”
“Yeah, and what do you think?” Ira seemed distracted. The girl was flirting, but he’d clearly lost interest.
“I think it would be a lot more fun if you came over here and joined me.”
Tommy closed his eyes and cringed, hoping Ira would deny her request.
“How about I take your picture instead?”
“Again?” The girl tried to sound burdened, but it was clear she loved the attention.
“Like you ever tire of it.”
She let out a low, throaty laugh. “You mean, like this . . . or maybe even this . . .”
After a series of muffled thumps (what the hell are they doing out there?) Ira said, “You ready?”
“Always.”
Tommy listened as the door clicked shut, the lock engaged, and the outside room descended into silence. Determined to wait a bit longer to make sure no one returned, he slipped a hand into his pocket in search of his phone, only to find it was gone.
He reached into his other pocket. Then both front pockets. It was nowhere to be found.
Closing his eyes, he did a mental retracing of his steps. He’d taken a couple of pics of the photo . . . then he’d heard footsteps . . . shut the light . . . raced for the closet . . .
The file—he’d closed the cover and left his cell phone inside!
Tommy sprang from his hiding place and bolted for Ira’s desk. The file was gone, but Tommy’s phone sat prominently in its place. A quick check showed that Ira had deleted the photo of Madison and Eileen and replaced it with one of the girl. Her hair was long and blond, her lips parted and pink, as the tip of her tongue slid suggestively over her teeth. And though he’d purposely angled the shot in a way that obscured her eyes, an impressive cleavage was on full display.
Ira was taunting him. Letting Tommy know he hadn’t gotten away with anything. Hell, he’d probably known he was there all along. In an instant, Tommy’s biggest concern shifted from the fear of getting caught to the fear of why Ira had chosen to let him get away with it.
Next thing he knew, the alarm sounded through the building. Ira must’ve set it, purposely locking him in. Tommy had only a handful of seconds to make it outside before it rang straight through to security.
Would he find Ira waiting, ready to bust him for trespassing, breaking and entering, or whatever trumped-up charge he’d hold against him?
Anything was possible, but Tommy had no choice but to see it through to the end.
He flew down the stairs, raced past the bar, and burst outside just seconds before the alarm sounded its flat, ominous tone. Anyone still inside wouldn’t be able to hide for very long.
He took another peek at the picture of the blond girl. Without the eyes, she was impossible to identify. Then again, it didn’t really matter. There was no shortage of hot blondes in LA, and clearly it was more about Ira mocking him than anything else.
Tommy paused before the security camera long enough to flash it the middle-finger salute. Then he made his way across the empty parking lot, unable to shake the unmistakable feeling of being watched from afar.
THIRTY
CALIFORNIA DREAMING
Layla stood before the coffeemaker, waiting for the brew cycle to finish. She could’ve picked up the pot at any point and filled her cup, but the longer she could delay the long walk of shame back to her cubicle, the better.
She’d psyched herself up during the commute by repeating the mantra that her first day back at work wouldn’t be nearly as bad as she feared. From the moment she entered the Unrivaled corporate headquarters and saw the way everyone openly turned and stared, she knew she’d been right all along—it wasn’t nearly as bad as she’d feared, it was far worse than she’d ever imagined.
Quitting isn’t an option. Another mantra she silently chanted as she moved from her desk, where she’d dropped her bag, to the break room, where she was currently
hiding.
Quitting isn’t an option. Yet another lie she told herself. Truth was, she could give notice at any time. And once that was accomplished, she could pick up the phone, call Larsen, and tell him to head over to Tommy’s swanky apartment, where Madison was hiding.
In less time than it would take for a pot of coffee to fill, Layla could effectively clear her name, quit the soul-sucking job, and get on with her life.
And yet, as simple as it seemed on the surface, deep down she knew she’d never go through with it. She’d given her word, and she’d never been one to renege on a promise.
“You’re back.”
At the sound of Ira’s voice, Layla stiffened. Then slowly, methodically, she filled her cup and prepared to face him.
“I didn’t expect to see you so soon. I told H.D. you should take as much time as you need.”
Layla forced a tight grin and nervously reached for a stir stick, mostly to burn off the nervous energy Ira never failed to invoke.
Ira loomed in the doorway, looking as tall, dark, and handsome as any other Hollywood leading man. But between the slant of his gaze and Layla’s suspicions, his appearance veered much closer to villain than hero.
“I’m not really one for taking it easy,” she said. “Never have been.”
“I can relate.” Ira met her grin with one that, on the surface anyway, seemed more or less genuine. “But as it turns out, I’m glad you’re back. I have a new venture I’d very much like you to be a part of.”
Layla stuck to a neutral expression and braced for whatever came next. Ira was always promoting his brand, which in turn promoted himself. His entire empire was in service of raising his profile, securing his position of power, and adding to his already considerable wealth. His string of nightclubs had cemented his image as the nightlife czar of LA, and now, with his recently launched tequila label, his brand had been elevated to the sort of global audience Layla suspected he’d always dreamed of.
Still, as much as she made fun of him in her head, she had to admit it was a business model that did deserve a certain amount of respect. Ira had come from humble beginnings, and in a relatively short time he’d managed to make a huge name for himself. If it had been anyone else, Layla would be flattered by his interest. But where Ira was concerned, everything he did was best viewed through a scrim of suspicion.
“It’s about RED.”
Layla started. She’d been so lost in her thoughts that at first she could’ve sworn he’d said code red, which seemed a perfect fit for how she currently felt at being trapped alone in the break room with him.
“I’ve had countless offers to franchise the clubs, and while I’m not interested in relinquishing control, I am giving serious consideration to additional locations. Right now, I’m looking at the possibility of adding a Vesper in New York City, a Jewel in Chicago, a Night for Night in Miami, possibly Vegas as well. And that’s just the beginning. Of course, it’s all still in the talking and scouting stages, but when it comes to RED, I want it to be different. Something truly special.”
He paused as though waiting for her to react. Layla merely nodded for him to continue. When his left eye twitched the tiniest bit, she took it as a signal that her lack of enthusiasm had annoyed him.
“I think of RED as the crown of the Unrivaled empire. It marks the culmination of nearly two decades of work. Nineteen years ago I landed in this city and went straight to work.”
“So you’re not from here.” She wasn’t sure why she said it, and from the irritated flattening of his lips, he did not appreciate the interruption. But now that it was out there, he had no real choice but to acknowledge the statement.
“No.” His reply was curt. A second later, in a more jovial tone, he added, “Considering all the magazine articles and interviews I’ve done, I would’ve assumed you’d know that by now. Are you telling me you showed up at the interview without researching my backstory?”
Backstory. It was such a weird, Hollywood way to phrase it. It left Layla wondering if Ira’s backstory might turn out to be as fictional as Madison’s.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I’d forgotten. You’re from Oklahoma, right?” She forced her gaze to remain steady. She had researched his backstory, and thanks to Trena, she now knew he’d purposely omitted the time he’d spent there. What she couldn’t figure out was if he deemed it unimportant and therefore unworthy of a mention, or if he’d intentionally left it out for other, more nefarious reasons. This might be her chance to find out.
Ira squinted. “No,” he said. “I’m not.”
Layla frowned, as though she wasn’t quite willing to give up on the idea. “Huh.” She took a sip of her coffee and studied him from over the rim of her mug. “Could’ve sworn you did a short stint at the university there.” She swallowed hard and wondered why she didn’t just shut the hell up. Instead, she did the opposite, and continued to dig the hole he’d most likely use to bury her in. “Don’t mind me.” She took another small sip. “With everything that’s been going on, my mind’s turned to mush. Tommy’s from Oklahoma, not you.” She paused for a beat, searching Ira’s face for any hint of a reaction, but Ira remained as impassive and unreadable as ever. “Anyway, what were you saying about RED being the . . . ?”
Ira stared without blinking, then went on to say, “RED is no ordinary nightclub—it’s an experience, an event. I’ve poured a great deal of money into it, more than any of my other clubs combined. It’s going to be highly unique. The first of its kind.”
Layla tried to look as though she was following, but so far it felt like a hard sell for a place she had no plans to frequent. She wished he’d just get to the point.
“There’s nothing else like it . . . ,” he continued.
She fought hard not to roll her eyes. First of its kind! Nothing else like it! And the most recent accolade: It defies description! To her ears, it all added up to nothing more than a bunch of nonsensical hype.
“I envision it as a sort of performance space.”
Layla frowned. “You mean like for weddings and stuff? Like you plan to rent it out?” Did Ira want her to be a wedding planner? Because she couldn’t think of a job she’d be worse suited for.
His gaze darkened. He preferred to be the one talking. “Performance space in the most literal sense.”
She continued sipping her coffee and fought to smile with her eyes, though she doubted her ability to feign such a look.
“The space is all white—like an empty canvas, a blank slate in which to design your own night and write your own ending.”
Layla continued to fake interest, but Ira was veering toward the surreal. It was beginning to feel more like the late-night ramblings of a stoner after too many bong hits than a conversation with a world-famous tycoon. The way the fluorescent lights overhead illuminated the pale yellow walls of the employee break room seemed to reinforce the bizarre, dreamlike feel.
“Picture a series of long hallways with multiple doors to choose from. Some of the rooms will offer a mostly auditory experience, while others will be more visually driven, where you’re entering a performance in progress—maybe as a participant, maybe just an observer—to be determined. The idea is for the experience to be so seamless that the line between fiction and reality is blurred.” He paused, clearly demanding a response from her.
“Wow. That sounds . . .” Layla stalled. She had a hard time imagining any of it, much less attaching a label to his vision. “Ambitious.” She nodded firmly. It was the best she could offer under such scrutiny.
Ira’s gaze drifted. “It is. And that’s where you come in.” He leveled his focus on her. “I’m planning a soft opening of sorts. We’re still building out the space, so it’s not yet ready for the public. But Trena Moretti has agreed to devote an entire show to me and the business I’ve built, and we’ve decided to include some of the before shots of RED. I’d like you to be a part of that.”
On the outside, Layla nodded uncertainly. Inside, she wondered
what she could possibly add.
“What I’m offering is the chance of a lifetime. I’m asking you to join a small, exclusive group hand-selected by me to represent what I hope will become the crown jewel of my brand. All I ask from you is to keep an open mind. You never know what you’re capable of until you’re put to the test. Also, dress appropriately. You will be filmed.”
Layla froze. The part about being put to the test was similar to what Trena had said at Lake Shrine. And while there was nothing unusual about the statement itself, it did strike her as odd to hear the same advice twice in the course of a week.
“So, when is this happening?”
“Tomorrow night, seven sharp. Are we in agreement?”
What she wanted to say was, No, we are definitely not! Then flee as fast and far as her legs would carry her. She’d known Ira since the start of the summer and it was probably the longest conversation they’d ever had, and it gave her the creeps.
Instead, she forced what she hoped was an amiable expression and said, “I’d be honored.”
“Great,” he said, already turning away. “Tomorrow night then. And don’t mention this to anyone. You know how upset people get when they don’t make the list.”
THIRTY-ONE
I TOOK A PILL IN IBIZA
Madison Brooks was restless. Aimlessly roaming the expanse of Tommy’s apartment, she rifled through his extensive vinyl collection and picked up random framed photos before setting them back down again with barely so much as a glance. She felt edgy. Fidgety. Once again she was counting the minutes until she could make her escape.
So far, Tommy had been nothing but generous, and to Madison’s chagrin, a perfect gentleman. He’d made up a room for her, given her free run of the place, and had even stocked his fridge according to the long, detailed list she gave him. It was the most luxury she’d enjoyed in a very long while, and yet, she still felt as trapped as she had when she’d been locked up in the cinder-block cell.