Reasons to keep him:
Now that he’s popular (thanks to me) everyone thinks he’s way cooler than he is, and that reflects well on me.
Dalton is cute and presentable and smart enough so that he doesn’t completely bore me or embarrass me.
Good kisser.
Easy to control = does whatever I tell him to do.
The parents approve.
Parental approval makes it easier to use Dalton as a cover for when I’m really hooking up with X, who they definitely wouldn’t approve of.
Being Dalton’s girlfriend is like playing a role, which is good practice for my future acting career.
Won’t be long before I get the hell out of here, so I may as well hang in there.
Reasons to dump him:
The whole thing is based on a lie.
Even though he’s a decent kisser, I’d rather be kissing X.
???
So, I guess it’s decided. Dalton stays.
At least for now anyway . . .
Layla set the note aside and clicked on her keyboard, unconsciously gnawing the inside of her cheek as she watched her Beautiful Idols landing page fill up the screen. Though her post about Aster’s arrest had been her last, a quick peek at the comments section revealed that people were still actively reading it, though their responses mostly bordered on deranged and illiterate.
She sighed, unsure what to do. Part of her was tempted to delete the site and walk away while she could. While another part, a less emotional, practical part saw an opportunity that was so far untapped.
Last time she’d checked, her number of subscribers had drastically fallen, so Layla was surprised to find the count spiking again. Then again, there was nothing like a little controversy to incite the trolls into action. She imagined an army of passive-aggressive, socially maladapted, vitamin D–deprived misfits hunched before their computer screens, just waiting for her to write something unpopular so they could all pounce—the comments section being their only source of power in an otherwise powerless life.
While writing about Aster was off-limits—she wouldn’t stoop to that level, nor would she risk harming her any more than she already had—she wondered if maybe she should take the bait and use her blog to share the diary entries she’d been sent.
Then again, if she attributed the posts to Madison and it turned out they were fake, then Madison’s team could go after her for libel. The last thing she needed was for Madison’s pasty-faced, Dockers-wearing attorney to track her down and nail her for defamation of character, in addition to the restraining order he’d already served her.
Her phone chimed with an incoming text, and when she glanced at the display, she was surprised to see Aster’s name.
I’m out & I need your help. Meet me 2nite?
Aster was out? It was the first Layla had heard of it, and she’d been keeping close tabs on the news for any and everything Aster related. How she had managed to elude the press when there was a crowd of paparazzi permanently camped outside the jail was anyone’s guess. Though she’d be willing to bet Ira had something to do with it. Aster’s family was rich and powerful in their own way, but only Ira had the kind of connections that could keep such a newsworthy piece under wraps.
If anyone was sleeping with Ira, it was Aster. And yet, while there was an undeniable, indefinable something between them, Layla still couldn’t imagine it. While Layla didn’t know Aster all that well, she just didn’t seem like the sugar-daddy-seeking type. For one thing, Aster was already rich. For another, the ick factor was just too high to contemplate.
Layla shook free of the thought and responded.
Welcome home. Tell me when/where & I’m there.
She stared at the screen, waiting for Aster’s reply.
Et tu, Tommy?
At seeing his name, Layla frowned. She hadn’t realized it was a group text until then, but she didn’t expect Tommy to respond anytime soon. He’d stated his feelings on the subject loud and clear.
After a few moments of silence, Aster wrote:
Tommy I’m counting on you for keys/Layla=DVD
Layla was pretty sure Aster couldn’t count on Tommy for much of anything, including a reply, so she typed:
Forget T—I’ll bring everything.
Layla stared at the three dots on the screen, until Aster’s reply appeared.
Fine. Whatever. Address to follow.
Layla pushed her phone aside, shoved the latest diary entry into her bag alongside the first one she’d received, and stowed it safely under her desk. Since anything she posted about Madison could end up backfiring on all of them, she figured she should probably consult Aster before she made a decision.
Aware of someone watching, Layla glanced over to find Emerson standing off to the side, chatting with a fellow coworker, while pretending to ignore her. Though she’d felt the weight of his gaze on her the whole time.
Was he somehow connected to the diary entries?
When he’d handed her the first one, he’d claimed it had been accidentally delivered to him—but was that even true? And hadn’t he just mentioned how he was the one who put all the goodie-bag boxes on her desk? Did that include the box containing the note?
While she couldn’t say for sure, there was definitely something off about him that set her on edge.
When her eye caught his, she flashed him the brightest grin she could manage, added a little wave for good measure, then turned back toward her desk and busied herself with opening boxes and judging the contents.
TWELVE
LOVE DROUGHT
Somewhere in the distance, a cell phone was chiming, the sound as annoying as it was insistent. One chime. Two. Hopefully the third would be the last. Tommy had been smack in the middle of a wonderful dream, and he didn’t appreciate the intrusion.
“Tommy? Tommy, you awake? I think that’s your phone buzzing.”
The girl’s voice lured Tommy away from his dreams as a long, cool arm slipped around his waist and dropped his phone onto the sheets before him.
He worked an eye open and squinted at the screen. Aster was out and she wanted help. Tommy wasn’t surprised to see that Layla had been quick to commit, but he had meant what he’d said—he was washing his hands of all of it.
He set the phone to silent, pushed it under the pillow, and focused on the pretty girl pressed up against him, the tips of her long nails gliding over his hip and working their way under his waistband with the sole intent of pleasing him.
It had started in the bar, where they’d shared a few drinks that ultimately led to a few hungry kisses. At the time, it had felt so good just to be with a girl again—to lose himself in the softness of that sweet-scented flesh. And while this girl could never compete with Layla, no girl could, he needed to accept the fact that Layla was no longer an option and it was time to move on with his life.
But now, thanks to the text, Layla had once again hijacked his brain. It was like she’d been living there, rent free, since the moment they met, and just when he thought he’d made a significant move toward getting over her, she was back. What would it finally take for him to be done with her?
He surveyed his surroundings—the building was nice, even boasted a doorman and an elevator, from what he could remember. The kind of upscale amenities Tommy’s shithole was lacking. Still, it was a hell of a mess. Every available surface was piled high with clothes, shoes, magazines, candy wrappers, hair dryers, perfume—there was even a purple bong on the dresser near the bed. Tommy hadn’t gotten high since high school. Not that he was opposed to it, but it was probably better avoided. He needed to stay focused, and pot made him lazy and paranoid.
He lowered his lids. God, she had talented hands, though what was her name again? Tanya? Tabitha? Teresa? Started with a T. Or at least he thought it did.
“Hey, Tommy—you’re not going to fall asleep again, are you?”
His eyes snapped open.
Again?
His mind reeled back to the n
ight before as he struggled to remember the chain of events. They’d staggered back to her apartment, kissing furiously as his hands roamed greedily over her dress, imagining the treasures that waited beneath.
She’d pulled away with a grin, moving in a way she probably considered seductive, but from Tommy’s vantage point looked wobbly and unsure. She’d teetered on her heels, threw her head back, and laughed, revealing a lovely expanse of white throat that yielded to the kind of abundant cleavage that always rendered him speechless. Then she’d flung off her heels, laughing even harder when they hit opposite walls, and pushed him back on her bed among a collection of incomprehensible stuffed animals (what was it with girls and cartoon plushies?), and threw herself right on top of him.
When his head hit the pillow, he’d closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. For such a messy room, her sheets were surprisingly soft and clean, smelling vaguely of vanilla and sweetness and girl, and then . . .
And then . . . nothing.
Tommy had fallen asleep.
With a swipe, he deleted the message and pushed his phone off the edge of the mattress. Satisfied when it landed with a muffled thud on the carpet, Tommy rolled over to face her, determined to make amends.
Aster was on her own.
Layla too.
Tommy was committed to doing whatever it took to move on, and this was the first positive step toward making that happen.
“I don’t even know what to say. . . .” He gazed at the beautiful girl before him.
“Don’t say anything,” she purred, pouting adorably as she pressed her body flush against his, her lips trailing the length of his neck and all along his collarbone. “It’s not too late to make it up to me, you know.”
Allowing his eyes to feast on the bounty before him, Tommy could hardly believe his own ears when he said, “What do you say I take you to breakfast instead?”
She pulled away, her features arranged in an expression of disbelief. “You’re joking, right?” Her voice was equal parts curious and offended.
He shook his head. “Not a joke,” he said, hating himself for it, but saying it anyway.
There was a time, not so long ago, when he wouldn’t have even considered turning down an offer like the one she presented. But if he wanted to get over Layla, then he needed to do it the right way—by opening his life to new possibilities with new people. He needed to stop living behind the wall he’d built around himself. Sleeping with a girl whose name he couldn’t remember wouldn’t make him forget about Layla, and at the moment, that felt like the most urgent item on his list of things to accomplish.
“Come on.” He rolled off the mattress before her hand could inch any lower and he’d be rendered powerless against her. “I’ll take you to République. If you haven’t been, then you’re in for a treat. If you have . . .” He yanked on his jeans and pulled his T-shirt over his head. “Then you already know what I mean.”
She remained right in place, her fingers picking at the sheets as she contemplated the offer. “You’re a really strange guy. You know that, right?” Sighing in surrender, she picked her clothes off the floor and began to get dressed.
THIRTEEN
CAN’T FEEL MY FACE
Mateo stood before the intimidating crew of makeup artists, hairstylists, fashion stylists, art directors, assistants, and assistants to the assistants, people wielding large white disks that reflected and deflected the light, and others running around with meters that . . . well, he had no idea what they did. Point was, they all looked so purposeful and busy. It was crazy how many people it took to shoot an editorial when all that was required of him was to flash smoldering looks at the camera.
The day before, when they’d run test shots on the beach, he’d been nervous. So when Heather suggested they grab dinner afterward, he readily agreed, thinking it might make him more comfortable when it came time for the real thing.
“It’s like acting,” she’d told him, while they were waiting for their food to arrive. “It’s like we’re telling a story. In this particular tale, we’re playing the parts of two young lovers enjoying a sultry, romantic day on the beach. I’m sure you’ve had your share of those, so if you feel stuck, just channel that.” She’d hooked him with a gaze so direct he found himself flushing and fidgeting and looking away. “The idea is to lose yourself in the role until you become the character and it starts to feel real,” she’d concluded, as though it were really that easy.
By the time their food arrived, Mateo stared at his in despair, which made Heather laugh.
“You wanted pizza, I know. But we both have too much riding on this to show up looking bloated and puffy. You’ll thank me tomorrow.”
Mateo had grudgingly dug into a bowl of what Heather convinced him was mostly protein, and while he thought for sure he’d hate it, he had to admit it wasn’t half-bad. Besides, it was good just to be out of his element for a change, to escape his usual routine. Lately most of his meals were eaten in the hospital cafeteria or in a hurry at home while leaning over the kitchen sink.
After spending the last two years with Layla, who mostly survived on copious amounts of coffee, it was amusing to watch Heather break down the nutritional content of a meal like some kind of calorie-counting savant. Still, despite his foray into the modeling world, he loved pizza and burritos far too much to ever adopt the weird food obsessions that were part and parcel of the Hollywood set. And he certainly wouldn’t be joining the three-month waiting list to secure a table at the newest it restaurant, which reportedly offered a full menu of raw foods, followed by a variety of colonics in place of dessert.
The dinner really had helped put him at ease, until he’d arrived on set and he became the focus of so much unadulterated scrutiny, forced to listen in as the crew discussed his various attributes as though he wasn’t actually standing right there before them.
He wanted to bolt. Wanted to get the hell out of there and never return. Problem was, he had an awful lot riding on this, and no plan B to fall back on.
“You two look great. Really, really great!” Heidi circled them with her camera.
She seemed sincere, but Mateo was still tense. The moment was his to either make or break.
“Just . . .”
Uh-oh. Mateo stole a quick peek at Heather, whose expression remained open yet serene, giving nothing away.
“I need to see a little more intimacy.”
Mateo froze. It wasn’t like he didn’t understand the word, it was that he didn’t understand it in relation to him, and Heather, and the shoot they were currently immersed in.
Heidi motioned for them to inch closer, and the next thing he knew Heather had centered herself before him. Her lips parted and pressing toward his, she cupped a soft hand to his cheek and whispered, “Shhh . . . just follow my lead and don’t stop until they tell us to.”
He nodded imperceptibly, and when her mouth found his he did as instructed: he followed her lead.
Her arms circled his neck as he gripped her at the waist and dragged her up against him.
At first, he felt self-conscious, all too aware of his kissing prowess being scrutinized by a group of people he desperately needed to impress. But as Heather entwined her leg with his and a soft groan sounded from deep in her throat, the crew seemed to blur until it was just the two of them, exploring, playing, inciting the kind of sensations he hadn’t experienced since Layla.
He kissed Heather harder, deeper, and with an urgency that surprised him. Why did this feel so easy, so good? Why wasn’t he racked with the kind of guilt he expected to feel? He’d loved Layla. Loved her with his whole body and soul. So the realization that he could move on so quickly came with a jolt. Still, he was human, and the body had a mind of its own. And at the moment, his body was reacting in the usual way when a pretty girl was pressed up against him. While he didn’t pretend to love Heather Rollins, he definitely was enjoying the moment. The feel of her lips on his as she crushed her breasts hard against his chest left him wishing it would ne
ver end.
With his hands buried in her soft tangle of hair, it took him a moment to realize Heidi had called “Cut!” a while ago.
“There’s no denying you two have chemistry,” Heidi said, squinting at the viewfinder and scrolling through the shots she’d just taken.
Mateo stood beside Heather, feeling breathless, embarrassed, and totally surprised by how much he’d enjoyed that.
“Mateo, you were perfect. A little stiff in the beginning, but you found your groove eventually.”
Heather grabbed his hand and gave his fingers a squeeze.
“I’ll go over these in the studio before I send them on to the magazine, but Mateo, I’d love to work with you again. I think you have a future in this, if you’re interested. You’ll need a portfolio, of course, but I’m more than willing to help you with that.”
“He should probably get an agent too, then,” Heather said, shooting a shrewd look between Heidi and him that left him feeling more like a spectator than a player.
Heidi nodded distractedly, already turning away and instructing the crew to clean up the set, they were done for the day.
An assistant tossed Mateo his T-shirt, and he yanked it over his head as Heather ducked behind a screen to swap the bikini she’d worn for the dress she’d arrived in.
“Well done.” She grinned, and placing a hand on either of his shoulders she kissed him once on each check but purposely avoided his lips, which left him feeling simultaneously disappointed and relieved. “I can help you find an agent, if you want. Because trust me, you definitely want someone looking after your interests.”
Mateo had no more than shrugged when Heather was retrieving her phone from her oversize bag. After a few taps on the keypad, she held it to her ear and walked away for a bit. A few minutes later, she returned and said, “You have a meeting first thing tomorrow at my agency. And while there’s absolutely no pressure to sign, it wouldn’t hurt to see what it’s all about.”