In an instant, the colored lights switched off and a series of spotlights kicked in. She blinked against the sudden brightness and looked toward the far side of the room, where an image of a hand was projected onto a wall, pointing in the direction it presumably wanted her to go. Not knowing what else to do, she followed. Ira said he wanted RED to be an experience—the ultimate performance space—and so far, she had to admit she’d never experienced anything like it.
She found herself staring down a long hallway offering various doors to choose from. Ira had told her about this part as well, claiming some of them would be auditory, some visual, and all where you could choose your own ending.
At the end of the hall a pair of eyes stared back, seeming to beckon her closer. Once she’d reached a certain point, the eyes veered in the direction of the door on her right. So Layla grasped the knob and stepped inside.
The first thought that came to mind was how creepy it was.
The second was that she had no intention of staying.
She turned, eager to flee, when the door slammed shut and locked from the outside.
THIRTY-SEVEN
ANY OL’ BARSTOOL
Tommy crossed the large, cavernous, all-white space and approached Ira sitting alone at the bar.
“What do you think?” Ira turned on his stool and swung an arm wide, gesturing toward his latest creation.
Tommy looked all around. “Well, it’s really, really white.”
Ira laughed and punched a few prompts on his iPad, first drenching the space in slanted gray shadows and lines before switching it to a deep bloody red that seemed to drip down the walls and spread across the floor.
“I think of it as a canvas,” Ira said. “Those are just two of the landscapes I can create. It’s seemingly limitless. Check this out.” He tapped another prompt and the room glowed a deep, translucent blue. There were colorful coral reefs, sharks swimming by, like being under the sea, no tank or wet suit necessary. After a moment, he switched it back to red.
Tommy paused uncertainly. Ira had summoned him there just a few hours earlier, and Tommy still didn’t know why.
“Sit. Have a drink,” Ira said.
Tommy obeyed, watching as Ira grabbed the bottle of Unrivaled tequila, filled a couple of shot glasses bearing the word RED, and pushed one before him.
Tommy paused. His last encounter with tequila, just the day before, hadn’t gone down so well. Still, Ira was waiting, so he braced for the worst, hoped for the best, and tossed back his drink. As soon as it was empty, Ira filled his glass again and looked at him expectantly. “I’m pacing myself,” Tommy said, raising a hand in protest.
Ira laughed and drained his own glass.
Tommy tilted back on his stool. He felt nervous, anxious. The whole scene set him on edge, partly due to the strange heightened environment, and partly because he worried Ira was softening him up before he called him out on breaking into the Vesper. He wondered if he should mention it first—beat Ira to the punch. Since they both knew it happened, it seemed strange to not just get it out into the open.
“How are things going at Elixir? Malina treating you well?” Ira asked, before Tommy could put a voice to his thoughts.
Tommy debated whether to confess. Deciding Ira probably already knew, he said, “Been better.”
Ira gave him a look that encouraged him to continue.
“I screwed up.” He ran a hand through his hair and toyed with the rim of his shot glass. “She threatened to cancel the contract.”
“Not sure she can do that,” Ira said.
Tommy shrugged. “She thinks she can, and that’s all that matters.”
“Do you want me to speak to her on your behalf? Or set up a meet with a lawyer?”
Ira was acting like a dad, and it made Tommy uncomfortable. Why was Ira always trying to help him, or at least pretending to help him? Should he tell him? Finally speak the truth he’d been waiting to put into words?
Tommy wavered, on the verge of a full-blown confession, when instead he shook his head and said, “She has the grounds. And honestly, I’m not sure I’m cut out for all this.”
“All what?” Ira’s gaze was as sharp as his tone.
Tommy could sense an impending lecture, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t cut out for that either. Last thing he wanted was to confide in Ira Redman, the very person responsible for getting him into this mess.
Malina was pissed about the botched Rolling Stone interview and had threatened not only to cancel his contract, but to kick him out of the apartment as well. He had an appointment to speak with her first thing in the morning. A week ago, he wouldn’t have thought twice about keeping it. Now, he was no longer sure.
He remembered the way Madison had lectured him when she called him out for complaining about the haters and tabloids.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe he was ungrateful, or unwilling to take the bad with the good.
Maybe he was being naive.
Maybe he just didn’t have it in him.
Maybe he really was spineless and scared and would always be more comfortable being a big fish in a minuscule pond, where admiration was assured and little was required in return.
All he knew was that the summer had forced him to face some harsh truths that left him questioning who he was, what he stood for, and just how far he was willing to go to accomplish his dreams.
He studied Ira sitting beside him. To most, Ira was a living legend. But Tommy could only guess at the sort of questionable things he might’ve done in order to rise so high. He wasn’t sure he was willing to follow Ira’s lead.
“I don’t know how much longer I’m going to stick around.” Tommy cleared his throat before adding, “I don’t think I’m a good fit for this town.”
Ira regarded him with a searing gaze. “We all tell ourselves a story, Tommy. We make up entire narratives about who we are and what we’re capable of. We set limits on ourselves without ever being tested. It’s natural, human, though it’s also an excuse for playing small. You have a gift. I’ve seen it firsthand. Which is why I’d strongly caution you against scripting an ending that indulges your fears before you’ve had a chance to discover if they’re even valid or real.”
Tommy grew still. It wasn’t the first time Ira had gone on a philosophical bent. Hell, he liked to pontificate more than anyone Tommy had ever met. What he didn’t understand was why Ira could possibly give enough of a shit to put so much thought into warning him against the worst part of himself.
There was a strange intimacy to the moment. They were alone, with no immediate threat of distraction. It was, Tommy realized, the perfect opportunity to confront one of his biggest fears and tell Ira the other half of the dream that had fueled the move west. Ira had just praised him, so surely he wouldn’t reject the idea of Tommy being his son.
It was all in play, just like he’d imagined. Tommy was famous, he had a record deal (well, at least for the moment), and enough money banked that he didn’t actually need Ira’s help. There was nothing Ira could give him that Tommy didn’t already have.
Except a willingness to admit to being his father.
It was now or never. He’d rehearsed the speech so many times the words were easily summoned.
His hands splayed on the table before him, he inhaled long and deep. His mouth opened to speak, when he suddenly realized that while he did want to salvage the record deal and continue to pursue his dreams, he was done caring what Ira Redman thought of him. All that mattered now was what Tommy thought of himself.
He pushed the shot glass away. “I’ve got an early morning.” He started to rise from his stool.
Ira’s gaze narrowed and held fast to his. “I’d like if you could stick around just a bit longer. I’ve got something special planned that I’d hate for you to miss.” He flashed Tommy a look that said the offer was nonnegotiable, and then he led him down a long hall to the last door on the left.
Tommy glanced nervously between Ira and th
e door.
“Why don’t you wait in here?” Ira swung the door open and ushered Tommy inside yet another room done up all in white. “Make yourself comfortable.” He gestured toward the long bench against the far wall. “The show will begin soon.”
The next thing Tommy knew, Ira was gone, and the door locked behind him.
THIRTY-EIGHT
LA WOMAN
Trena gazed around the empty white space, surprised to find she was the only one there. At the very least, she’d expected to find Ira waiting, but as it was, no one was even working the door.
She moved toward the bar, where she saw two shot glasses sitting side by side, one full, one empty, and beside them a bottle of Unrivaled tequila.
If nothing else, it was a sign that at least someone had been there. She just didn’t know if they still were.
The space was quiet, too quiet. And the way the light played against the stark white walls, splattering them with bright droplets of red, set her on edge.
“Welcome.”
Trena turned to find Heather Rollins dressed in a body-skimming white dress.
“I hope we haven’t kept you waiting too long.”
Trena frowned. We? So far Heather was the only person she’d seen. And something about her arrival seemed oddly showy, even for Ira’s standards.
“I’m here to see Ira.” Trena played it firm, professional. She was there to do a walk-through, frame a couple of scenes, and get a feel for the place. She wasn’t the least bit interested in Ira’s theatrics. It was a waste of her time.
Heather grinned. “I know, and you will, soon enough. Meanwhile, he’s asked me to show you around and explain his ideas.”
Trena looked her over. Heather was camera ready and flawlessly groomed. Her white dress hugged every curve, and her blond hair was perfectly fluffed and curled. “So, let me guess—you serve as a sort of club ambassador?”
Heather laughed. “Sure. That works. But before we begin, can I get you a drink?” She nodded toward the bar, causing Trena to notice that other than the open bottle of tequila, the shelves were completely empty.
Trena returned her focus to Heather. “I never drink on assignment. I prefer we get started.”
Heather led her away from the bar and down a short hall, where she stopped before a closed door. “First, a bit of a tour, and an explanation as to the sort of place Ira envisions.”
Trena braced for the worst. Dealing with Ira was a never-ending power struggle. The show was called In-Depth with Trena Moretti, yet Ira assumed he could insert his views into the script and control that too.
“He’s not interested in the same old run-of-the-mill profile piece.” Heather glanced over her shoulder. “He wants something different, and I’m sure you do too.”
Trena gave a noncommittal nod. So far they were on the same page. She had no interest in repeating the usual tired format. And yet, it struck her as odd that Ira would choose Heather Rollins to speak on his behalf. If anything, she would’ve expected Aster, or Layla, or one of his numerous assistants. Not some B-list TV star. Still, Trena’s job at the moment was to look, listen, and learn. The time for judgment and conclusions would come later.
“He wants to tell a story.”
“The story of Ira?”
Heather shook her luxurious mane of blond hair. “No, I don’t mean a biography. Anyone who wants to know that can simply pick up a back issue of Fortune or Vanity Fair. Ira wants the focus to be not just on him, but on the world that surrounds him.”
Trena stared wordlessly. She had no idea what Heather was getting at.
“His vision for RED was to build a space where one can create their own narrative. The guest list will be extremely limited, very exclusive, and expertly curated. Unlike his other clubs, it’s not about the number of bodies that walk through the door. It’s about cultivating an interesting and eclectic group of adventurous people who are willing to check their egos in order to engage with each other in deeply experimental, new ways.”
“It’s starting to sound like a combination of Soho House and a private sex club.”
“Not at all!” Heather’s face was aghast. She’d completely missed the fact that Trena was joking.
Trena vowed to lighten up and go easy on her. After all, Heather was merely the mouthpiece, and she’d probably spent days memorizing the spiel. The least Trena could do was pretend to go along.
While she’d been lost in her thoughts, she realized Heather had taken the opportunity to study her. “How’s it going with James?” she asked, brown eyes flashing.
“Excuse me?” Trena balked.
Heather shot her a knowing grin. “Can’t say I blame you. James is hot as fuck and loyal to the core. You could do a lot worse, you know.”
Trena stared in shock. Surely Heather had wandered wildly off script.
“Wondering if we can get back on topic,” Trena said, her voice stiff.
Heather gave a casual shrug. “Sorry if I caught you off guard. Consider that part of checking your ego.”
“Along with my right to privacy?”
Heather paused to consider. “In some cases, yes. But surely not all.”
Trena was scrambling to make sense of the weirdness, when Heather motioned toward the sign on the door, which consisted of raised white letters that spelled WATCH. Opening the door, she ushered Trena inside.
Again, the room was done all in white. There were several rows of comfortable-looking white lounge chairs, all of them with individual video monitors.
“Ira’s taken the idea of reality TV and kicked it up several notches,” Heather said in response to Trena’s reaction. “To quote the great prophet Andy Warhol,” she said without the slightest hint of irony, “‘In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes.’ So why should the housewives and the Kardashians have all the fun?”
“You’re going to film people?”
“Those who sign the consent form, yes. Those who prefer to watch can come here and indulge their inner voyeur.”
Trena nodded like she was getting the hang of it, but she wasn’t, or at least not entirely.
“So each room is a set?”
“Yes.” Heather made a steeple with her hands, supporting her chin. “That’s why everything is white, like a blank canvas. The participants decide the design.” She dropped her hands to her hips and said, “So, what do you think?”
Trena rehearsed a few responses in her head. Rejecting them all, she said, “Are you the spokesperson just for tonight, or every night?”
Heather laughed. “Just tonight.”
“And why have you agreed to do this? Surely it’s taking time away from everything else you have going on?”
Heather met Trena’s gaze and held it for longer than expected. “Because Ira asked me to help.” Quickly switching gears, she added, “Anyway, for tonight, we thought it would be really cool if we let you guide the narrative.”
“But I thought this was just a walk-through. I don’t have my camera crew. I’m not sure what’s going on here.”
“Not to worry, you will.” Heather grinned. Leading her out of the room and to the mouth of a long hallway marked with doors on each side, she said, “And trust me, you’re in for a big surprise.”
THIRTY-NINE
LOST AND FOUND
Madison lifted herself off the floor and looked all around. She felt woozy, uncertain. Nearly losing her footing, she needed a moment to stabilize before she could take in her surroundings.
Last time she’d found herself locked in a room, it was nothing like this. Nonetheless, the intent was the same. To isolate her from the rest of the world, then release all her shame.
Of course her purse was missing, leaving her unarmed. But she’d seen her attacker, which was a sort of ammunition all its own. Though considering the size and scale of the crime, it was doubtful the enemy had acted alone. There were more of them still out there, somewhere.
She wandered the perimeter, tapping her knuckles against w
alls that appeared solid and unmovable. If that turned out to be true, then she was completely at the mercy of her captor, with no real chance of escape.
This was not how it was supposed to go down. She’d made a plan, studied it from every angle, and convinced herself it was a good one. The mistake was keeping Paul in the dark. She’d texted him from the beach, planning to meet in person so she could tell him everything she’d learned. After, she figured she’d find a place to lay low while he did whatever necessary to ensure her safety. Then, with Paul by her side, she’d reenter the world. It was simple. Easy. Seemingly foolproof. And yet, once again, her captor was way ahead of her.
From seemingly out of nowhere, an image of herself was projected onto the wall. The name MaryDella Slocum was written above a picture of her at age eight, barefoot, dirty, and wearing a size-too-small dress. It was the same photo that had covered the walls of her earlier cell, and that, thanks to Layla’s blog and Trena Moretti’s show, had gone viral all over the world.
She stretched her gaze toward the ceiling and spotted a camera aimed right at her. She stepped to the left and then to the right, noting the way the camera followed her every move. Whether she was simply being observed or actually filmed, there was no way to tell. Realizing she wouldn’t be getting out of there anytime soon, she settled onto a long white bench and watched the series of images play across the wall.
It was like a scrapbook of old memories, most of which she’d successfully wiped from her mind. There were old class pictures from junior high that seemed more or less benign, but there were also photos of her parents, looking haggard and grim, which felt more ominous in tone.
Paul had been right all along—this was purely an act of revenge. The goal was to take away everything she’d worked so hard to build by exposing her numerous lies to the world.
So far, they were well ahead, having managed to outsmart her at every turn. If Madison were ever to find her way out of that room, she’d find that the fans who’d once lauded her had turned so vehemently against her she might never succeed in winning them back.