Not only had Madison’s blood been discovered on the terrace, but according to the cops, a group of eyewitnesses reported seeing Aster leaving the club with a strange male they’d yet to ID. Unfortunately, Aster still couldn’t remember any of that. Though the fact that she’d been seen leaving should count for something, or at least that was what she thought until her lawyer reminded her that Madison was also seen leaving and yet her blood had ended up both on the terrace and the dress Aster had been wearing. People left places, people returned to places. What they really needed was for Aster to identify where she’d spent the night, but she wasn’t willing to share that just yet.
All Aster knew for sure was that she’d woken the next morning to a wicked hangover in a strange apartment and an empty bed, filled with regret for having wasted her virginity on someone who couldn’t bother to stick around long enough to brew her a cup of coffee.
Later, when a DVD was delivered to her apartment, Aster had gaped in horror at the grainy footage of her stripping and dancing before she quickly turned it off, unable to watch any more. At the time, she thought it the single worst thing that had ever happened to her. But that was before she’d been arrested for first-degree murder.
From the moment she’d joined Ira’s contest, her life had taken a turn for the worse, and yet here she was with both hands out, accepting his help and getting sucked further and further into his debt.
“Hey, you okay?” Ira regarded her with such concern that Aster fiercely shook the thought away and returned to the present. She knew how busy he was, and yet he’d still seen fit to sacrifice the better part of his day in order to help her. All of which made her feel bad for what she was about to say, but she said it anyway. “Trena Moretti?” She narrowed her gaze. “The reporter for the LA Times? The one responsible for the headline ‘Was It Murder?’”
Ira cocked his head, but otherwise gave nothing away.
“This interview isn’t about me, is it?”
He broke into a grin. His sexy grin. His charming grin. His shark grin. Like a Rorschach test, it depended entirely on the perception of whoever was on the receiving end. Aster viewed it as a mix of all three.
“Relax,” he said in a tone that was meant to be reassuring. “It’s a profile piece on me. She’s been trying to nail this down long before that headline.”
Aster’s shoulders sank in relief, leaving her feeling more than a little embarrassed for assuming the worst. Still, it was just a matter of time before word spread that she’d been sprung from jail and every journalist in the world came begging for an exclusive. Should she sit down with Oprah, Diane Sawyer, or Katie Couric? She had no idea, though eventually she’d have to decide.
Ira studied her with a speculative expression as he absently rubbed a thumb against the squared edge of his chin. And just like that, Aster grew tense all over again.
“Though now that you mention it . . .”
She did not like where this was heading. Not. At. All.
“No.” She was already shaking her head long before he could finish the thought. “I’m not ready. I mean, seriously, look at me! My hair is greasy, my face is a crime scene, and even though you’re too polite to mention it, I happen to know how bad I smell, since I haven’t had a proper shower in nearly a week.”
Ira dismissed her excuses with a quick wave of his hand. “All of which makes you even more perfect. Aster, think about it—sure, you’re not looking your best, but who would expect you to? You’re fresh from the can, which makes you vulnerable, authentic, and real.”
“None of which is good when you’re about to be interviewed for the role you played in a celebrity’s murder.”
“On the contrary.” Ira held firm. “You’ll come off as raw, fresh, and completely unrehearsed, which will only work in your favor, since your usual high-end look can be intimidating. Look, last thing I want is to push you into a situation you’re not prepared for, and if it makes you feel any better, I’ll be there the whole time. I won’t let her take advantage, I promise you that.”
Aster’s first instinct was to say no. Or rather, hell no—a thousand times no—absolutely, 100 percent no! But she couldn’t bring herself to form the words.
Ira seemed so convinced it would work, and despite his many flaws, Aster greatly admired his numerous achievements in life. Ira came from humble origins, and like most people who’d made the trip west, he’d arrived in LA with a dream. Unlike most people, in just a few years’ time he’d managed to turn that dream into an empire. It was pretty much the opposite of Aster’s story. Having been born and bred in Beverly Hills, a Persian Princess in an extremely wealthy family, she’d had every advantage handed to her, only to make a complete mess of her life and end up in jail at the age of eighteen.
Clearly her instincts couldn’t be trusted. So maybe it was time to let someone else call the shots for a while.
Next thing she knew, he was ushering her into his makeshift office and settling her in front of a fan that provided little relief against the unbearable heat. A few moments later, she heard his voice rising over the din of hammers and saws.
“And when it’s ready, this will be our VIP area,” he said.
Aster took a steadying breath and faced the woman with the gorgeous mane of wild bronze curls. Though they’d never met, Aster recognized Trena immediately. It was Trena who’d convinced the cops to question Ryan Hawthorne, though admittedly, that hadn’t exactly turned out as Aster had hoped. While Aster had no idea what Ryan had told the police, she had no doubt he was solely to blame for turning their attention to her and planting the blood-covered dress that was the most damning piece of evidence being used against her.
If nothing else, his actions proved Ryan was guilty. Why else would he bother setting her up and framing her for the crime unless he had something serious to hide?
Maybe Ira was right. Maybe talking to Trena was exactly what she needed. While she wasn’t sure where Trena stood, it couldn’t hurt to befriend her, or at the very least talk to her. If public opinion was truly ruled by headlines and sound bites, then it would serve Aster well to author a few that might turn the tide in her favor.
Trena had an agenda; everyone did. And while Aster had no idea what it might be, now that Trena was standing before her, giving Aster an appraising look while Ira acted like he hadn’t actually planned the whole thing, she had no choice but to play along and hope it wouldn’t come back to bite her.
“Aster Amirpour, meet Trena Moretti.” Ira presented the two women to each other.
“Well, this is certainly a surprise. Or at least it is for me.” Trena shook Aster’s hand and shot Ira a look like she recognized a setup when she saw one.
Aster looked to Ira for guidance. Seeing his nod of encouragement, she faced Trena and said, “Ira was generous enough to post my bail.” She hoped it was okay to share. But Ira looked pleased, as she figured he would be. Most people loved taking credit for their good deeds.
“Ira? Not your parents?” Trena tilted her chin in a way that caused her shock of wild curls to spring across her forehead and dangle over her amazing blue-green eyes.
Aster shrugged. She was willing to talk, but she would not bash her family, no matter how conflicted she currently felt about them.
“And how are you doing?” Trena narrowed her gaze on Aster’s split lip and the enormous purple shiner surrounding her eye.
Aster forced a half grin; it was the best she could do. She knew her pathetic appearance could work in her favor, but that didn’t mean she felt comfortable looking so defeated, beaten, and unkempt that it served to provoke pity.
“Any chance I could get an in-depth with you? I’m sure that after a week of being locked up for a crime you didn’t commit, you’ll want to get your own story out into the world.”
“So you don’t think I’m guilty?” Aster had assumed Trena was out for her blood. But the warm smile she received instead nearly pushed Aster to tears. Someone in the press believed her. Someone powerful enoug
h that people might actually listen to.
“Aster came directly from jail,” Ira said. “I made her swing by so I could take care of a few things, and she’s been waiting patiently for me to take her home. While I’m sure she wouldn’t mind answering a few questions, anything more will have to be scheduled for a later date. This isn’t exactly a comfortable venue—or at least not yet.”
Trena shot Ira a knowing look. Clearly she recognized the game he was playing. “I’ll want an exclusive,” she said.
Ira nodded. “But of course.”
Aster regarded them closely. The way they discussed her as though she was feeble and voiceless and not actually standing right there left her feeling simultaneously annoyed and relieved to let other people handle the weightier details of her life for a change.
Just for a little while, she promised herself. Just until I get a proper sleep, a shower, a professional blowout, an eyebrow wax, and get back on my game.
“You can film in any of the clubs—Night for Night, Jewel, the Vesper—up to you. I can give you exclusive access wherever you choose.” Ira inspected his nails like he wasn’t all that invested.
Aster noted the way Trena’s face lit up upon hearing the word film. It was so predictable—so Hollywood. Aster had yet to meet an ambitious person who didn’t secretly dream of being in front of the camera, and print journalists were no different. Still, it bugged her to see how willing Trena was to use Aster’s personal tragedy to elevate her own profile. staying true to the media’s motto: If it bleeds, it leads.
After only a moment’s hesitation, Trena reached forward to shake on it. Switching her focus to Aster, she said, “Do your friends know you’re out?”
Aster’s expression was blank. Her best friend, Safi, was no longer speaking to her; most people weren’t.
“Layla and Tommy,” Trena clarified.
Aster closed her eyes and sighed. More proof of just how much her life had gone off the rails. The two people she’d once written off as being completely beneath her were now the only true friends she had left in the world.
She opened her eyes and met Trena’s gaze. “No,” she finally said. Her voice sounding more timid than she liked, she cleared her throat and tried again. “Not yet. Just got my phone back and the battery’s dead. And so far, Ira’s managed to keep the news quiet.”
Trena considered the info. “We’ll want to move fast then. The one who leaks the story controls the story.”
Aster nodded gamely, though the truth was, she was growing annoyed. She knew Ira meant well, and maybe Trena did too. But she also knew better than to believe anyone ever acted purely out of goodwill. They were both working an angle, and while Aster had no idea what those angles might be, she knew it was time she stepped up her game and started working one too.
Ira had sprung her from jail, offered her a job, and given her a place to live, and for that she was grateful. But that didn’t mean he owned her. And it certainly didn’t mean he could use her as a means toward whatever endgame he was playing.
Or maybe it did mean exactly that.
Maybe Aster was in so deep, so indebted to him, he owned her completely.
All she knew for sure was that she needed a shower and a decent bed that didn’t reek of the bodily functions of the hundred or so people who had slept there before. She needed to take control of her life, and she needed to start now. Leave them with no doubt of who was ultimately calling the shots.
While it was nice having Ira steer for a while, truth was, Aster had always made a much better driver than passenger. Spotting James on the far side of the room, Aster stood before Ira and Trena and said, “Call me tomorrow. We’ll set something up. I’m sure Ira will be happy to pass on my number. But for now, I’ve got a date with a bubble bath, a carton of Ben & Jerry’s, and some much-needed z’s.”
EIGHT
SHE SELLS SANCTUARY
Mateo Luna approached the entrance of Ivy at the Shore and contemplated his choices. Technically, it wasn’t too late to bolt. In fact, it would probably be better for everyone involved. Or at least it would be better for him. Though it certainly wouldn’t be better for his family. They were depending on him. He literally held his little sister’s life in his hands.
The thought was sobering enough to convince him to move forward and go through with the plan.
While most people wouldn’t hesitate to seize the chance to become rich and famous, Mateo had no interest in fame, and he certainly didn’t aspire to live the life of a Kardashian. Still, he was desperately in need of a quick and sizable money grab, and while it remained to be seen if this particular path would provide the easiest route, if things worked out as he hoped, it would certainly be the quickest. And at the moment, speed was of the essence.
“Mateo Luna?” The hostess looked him over and waited for him to confirm. He nodded, wondering how she recognized him, when she said, “Follow me.”
She flashed a flirtatious grin over her shoulder and led him through the garden-like setting, past a patio known to be popular with celebrities, and toward a small table tucked away in the back, close to the fireplace. While the hostess was lovely, Mateo couldn’t bring himself to do much more than notice.
His life had revolved around Layla for so long that suddenly finding himself without her left him feeling adrift. He missed her smile, her kiss. He missed the way she’d slept curled up all around him, and he knew he wouldn’t be over her anytime soon.
She’d kissed another, which he’d already forgiven. Relegating it to a drunken slip, he was willing to put it behind them no matter how much it hurt. It was the lying he couldn’t accept. He’d truly believed they were different from most couples he knew. That they were honest and open—that they’d left nothing unacknowledged or unsaid. But Layla had hidden the truth, and while he still had no idea who had sent the text—what kind of person would act in such a deliberately mean-spirited way—there was no denying it was time to move on.
Problem was, Layla was a hard act to follow, and the heartbreak she’d caused left him too wounded to go looking for a replacement.
“Your server will be right over.” The hostess motioned to a vacant wicker-backed chair, and Mateo squinted in confusion at the pretty blonde seated among an array of colorful cushions. Her pink glossy lips curved into a grin as she slid her glass toward him.
“This is the most amazing chardonnay,” she said as though she’d been expecting him. “You’ve simply got to try it!”
He pressed his lips into a frown and looked all around. Clearly this was some kind of mistake.
“Well, sit down, silly.” She nudged his chair with her foot until he reluctantly lowered himself onto the seat. “Now seriously, try it.” She slid the glass before him. “I’m dying to hear what you think!”
He grabbed the glass by the stem and took a small sip. While he wouldn’t call it amazing, it wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever tasted.
She leaned forward, looked at him expectantly.
He ran a self-conscious hand through his hair. “Amazing,” he mumbled, forcing a half grin and returning the glass. His mind was in a whirl, trying to determine how the heck he’d found himself sitting across from Heather Rollins.
He’d met her once before, the night he’d stopped by Jewel looking to surprise Layla at work. Only Heather had found him first, and she’d made a big show of hanging all over him. While she was undeniably pretty, she just wasn’t his type. Heather was all sugar and shine—the girl equivalent of cotton candy. Whereas Layla was equal parts snark and smarts—her sweet side revealed to only a few.
He remembered how surprised he’d been when he’d complained about Heather, only to listen in shock as Layla had defended her. At the time, Mateo had taken it as further proof of just how far Layla had fallen and how fast.
“You should order one.”
Mateo had been so lost in his thoughts it took a moment to realize she was referring to the wine and had motioned for the server.
“No, I’m
good. Just . . . water, please.”
“You in AA?” Heather whispered the moment the waitress left, eyes widening as though she’d unwittingly uncovered a secret. Then, reading the perplexed look on his face, she said, “You ordered water.”
“No . . . just . . . trying to stay hydrated.” He rubbed a hand across his chin, wishing he could start over, or at the very least delete his response. This was not going at all the way he’d envisioned.
“So that’s how you stay so fit. Who do you train with?” At the word fit, she reached across the table, past the ceramic pitcher of multicolored roses, and squeezed his forearm. Though he was tempted to shrug away from her touch, he was surprised to find her hand cool, soft, and strangely comforting.
“No trainer. Mostly just . . . surfing.”
Heather cocked her head, causing her long blond curls to cascade across her cheek as she mercifully settled her hand back on the stem of her wineglass where it belonged.
“You seem really nervous.” She looked pleased when she said it.
He ran a hand through his hair again—he really needed to stop that. “I’m—I think there’s been a mistake. I’m supposed to be meeting with—”
“With Heidi Berenkuil. I know.” Heather shot him a long, considering look. “She’s outside on a call. You didn’t see her?”
Mateo shifted uncomfortably and looked to the untouched place setting beside her. He definitely hadn’t seen her, and he was beginning to wonder if he was being punked.
“She wants to get some test shots. Of us. Together.” She flashed him an amused look. “What did you think this was?”
“I’m not sure.” His voice betrayed his confusion. He felt way out of his league. “I met Heidi a while back. She shoots for some of the surf magazines and does the ads for the surf brand that sponsors me. She told me to let her know if I ever wanted to get into modeling.”