Someone handed him a water, someone else a shot of tequila, and the next thing Tommy knew, he was surrounded by the kind of gorgeous models and actresses that had once only populated his dreams. And yet, here they were in real life, telling him how amazing he was, while Malina was swarmed by execs wanting to set up meetings and talk about how working together could be of mutual benefit.
Tiki squeezed inside the circle of models and clutched his arm in a proprietary way—a move that worked to deter some of the models, but not all. Still, he had only himself to blame. Tiki was pretty and nice and eager to please. Problem was, she just wasn’t Layla and never would be.
Luckily, it wasn’t long before Malina saved him by introducing Tiki to an actor rumored to be newly single, before deftly pulling Tommy aside.
“You okay with losing the girl?” she asked.
Tommy shrugged. By the looks of it, Tiki had already moved on.
“Good. You need to be single. Your star will rise quicker if every girl in America thinks she has a shot at you.”
“Just America? Why are we limiting ourselves?”
Malina grinned. “Last I checked, every girl in America wanted to kill you, so we have a bit of a PR crisis on our hands. Nothing I can’t handle, though, as long as you do what I say.”
So far he was fully aligned with whatever she planned. “Have you talked to Ira?” he asked, trying to keep his voice from betraying his nerves. But in his mind, it was Ira’s response that mattered most.
“Not yet. Though my spies tell me he looked pleased.”
Tommy frowned. “Then they’re lying. Ira never looks pleased.”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself, then?”
Tommy turned to find Ira standing just behind him.
“I hate surprises.” Ira’s gaze was flat as he shifted between Malina and Tommy.
“Most people do.” Tommy fought to determine what was really going on behind the immaculate mask, but as usual Ira was impossible to read.
“It’s my night. Been planning it for weeks. And somehow you two manage to pull a fast one.”
Malina started to speak, but Tommy beat her to it. “I just seized an opportunity when it was offered to me. Isn’t that what you would’ve done?” He was tempted to end the sentence with Dad—Isn’t that what you would’ve done, Dad? But if Ira didn’t like the surprise of Tommy replacing his headlining musician, there was no telling how he’d react to that particular bombshell. Besides, Tommy wasn’t quite ready to make the reveal. His career was just starting. He had a long road ahead.
Ira clenched his jaw and stared at the glittering city skylights beyond. “How does it feel to have your dream come true?” he asked, returning his focus to Tommy.
Since he’d arrived in LA, Tommy’s dream had been to hear Ira praise him. Praise him in a way that proved he’d be proud to claim Tommy as his son. But if anything, Ira only seemed annoyed to have lost a small margin of control over his launch. And while Tommy considered it a small victory, it was hardly the stuff of his fantasies.
“I’ll let you know when it happens.” Tommy tossed back a shot of tequila and turned to leave. “Oh, and congrats on your party,” he called over his shoulder, leaving Ira to stare at his retreating form as he made his way across the lawn to where Layla stood, contemplating her own shot of tequila while looking sexy as hell in an off-the-shoulder red dress.
“I hear I have you to thank.” Tommy grinned, though his smile vanished as soon as he took in her blurry, unmistakably tear-stung gaze. “Uh, Malina told me about your meeting,” he added, watching Layla awkwardly dab at her face in an attempt to appear as though everything was fine. “Something tells me that’s not a celebratory drink.” He looked pointedly at the shot glass clutched in her hand.
“Either way, the effect is the same—it helps you forget.”
Tommy squinted and rubbed an uncertain hand over his chin, unsure how to respond. He knew he owed her an apology, but clearly, this was not the best time.
“Mateo and I broke up.” The words seemed to stumble forward in a rush, as though she was desperate to be rid of them, pass the burden to someone else. After a moment of silence, she said, “How come you don’t look even the slightest bit surprised?”
Tommy shrugged. He’d heard some vague rumor about Mateo being seen out and about with Heather Rollins, and while he’d felt bad for Layla, part of him hoped it was true. To her he just said, “You okay?”
She nodded confidently, but Tommy wasn’t buying the act. Layla hated to be pitied. Anyone could see that.
“Happily ever after is for movies and books.” She tilted her chin and forced her gaze to meet his. “In the real world, everything has a beginning, middle, and end. There’s no such thing as forever.”
Tommy regarded her with a skeptical look. “You saying you don’t believe in the big, splashy Hollywood ending?” When their eyes met, Tommy felt a stream of energy pulsating between them. But maybe that was just him. Layla seemed preoccupied and oblivious.
“Even as a kid I wanted Cinderella to pretend the shoe didn’t fit so she could do something more interesting with her life than marry a prince.”
A slow smile broke across Tommy’s face. All around them, the party raged on, but at that moment, he was immune to it all. All he could see was Layla’s lovely face hovering just inches from his.
“Anyway, cheers!” She hoisted her glass and drained the shot in a single gulp.
“Did it work?” He cocked his head and waited expectantly.
Layla shrugged. “Too soon to tell. So, where’s your date?” She glanced all around as though looking for the blonde he’d arrived with, but in that particular crowd, it was a needle meet haystack situation.
“Last I saw she’d latched onto someone way more famous than me.”
“In this crowd, that could be just about anybody.”
Tommy laughed. “According to Malina, in order to build my fan base, I need to stay single.”
“That sounds a little . . . controlling.”
“It’s as good an excuse as any. Not like Tiki was a contender.”
“Tiki?” Layla made an exaggerated gaping face.
“Don’t mock. It’s not like I named her.”
Layla burst out laughing, and Tommy began to relax. It felt good to be back on friendly terms. He’d missed her feistiness, her friendship, and the easy banter they shared.
A waiter passed and Tommy was quick to claim two glasses and hand one to her. “How many of these have you had?”
Layla took a moment to think, then wiggled two fingers before him.
“Good.” He handed her a glass. “From what I remember, things don’t get interesting until number four.” When his gaze met hers, to his delight, he found she was grinning. “To Ira,” he said, clinking his glass against hers. “For better or worse, we have him to thank for all this.”
“To Ira!” Layla pressed the glass to her lips at the same moment the power went out.
TWENTY-FIVE
THE KILLING MOON
Aster and Ryan were heading up the hill toward the infamous party house when she turned to him and said, “Be honest, how many times have you come here before?” She shot him a sideways glance.
“Who, me?” Ryan flashed a coy grin; then, remembering who he was talking to, he copped to the truth. “One or two lingerie parties a few months back, that’s all.”
Aster took a moment to process. “So you’re a cross-dresser, or do you consider that cosplay?”
Ryan laughed, which, admittedly was the reaction she was after when she’d made the joke, and yet his casual attitude set her on edge. Here he’d been sleeping with Madison Brooks, arguably the most beautiful girl in the world, and yet he still couldn’t resist attending a party filled with half-naked girls. While his honesty was admirable, the male species’ seemingly insatiable appetite for eye candy left her deflated.
“Some Russian tycoon was trying to transform the place into the new Playboy Mansion, and a frien
d, who shall remain nameless, scored me an invite.”
“So now you’re friends with Voldemort?” She rolled her eyes. “Seriously, what’s with all the mystery? What do you think I’m going to do with the guy’s name—hand it over to Layla to post on her blog?”
“I’d just rather not drag him into the story without his consent, that’s all.”
Aster sighed in frustration. While Ryan was uncommonly transparent when it came to his own stuff, he took a much stingier approach when it came to doling out gossip. You’ll have to ask them—it’s not my story to tell, was his go-to reply whenever she questioned him about anything outside of Madison’s disappearance. It was annoying as hell.
“So . . . what was it like? The lingerie parties, I mean.” She couldn’t help it; she was totally intrigued by the things men did when their girlfriends weren’t looking.
After a moment’s hesitation, Ryan said, “Let’s just say Hef’s still the king. At least for now, anyway . . .”
“Viva King Hef.” Aster frowned, feeling suddenly grumpy.
“You asked.” Ryan playfully bumped shoulders with her, reminding her of the pact they’d made that night at Madison’s when they agreed to be totally honest with each other, no matter what. It was the only way they could successfully work together, they reasoned. And while Aster mostly liked their new open way of communicating, she realized she’d become so used to (and so good at) playing the usual games between guys and girls that the honesty didn’t come quite as easily as she’d thought it would. Or maybe that was just her. In the short time they’d been working together, Ryan had divulged all sorts of secrets that, in retrospect, Aster wasn’t sure she actually wanted to know. Even for an actor—which she constantly reminded herself Ryan was—it was impossible to believe he was faking.
Where sex was concerned, Ryan was quick to put it all out there. Lingerie parties, naked FaceTime dates with Madison—nothing was off-limits. His easy, open attitude both amazed and frightened her. It also made her realize she hadn’t been as ready to sleep with him as she’d thought. At least she’d managed to dodge that particular bullet, though under the circumstances, it wasn’t by choice.
“On a scale of one to ten, how mad will Ira be that we’re arriving so late?” She was eager to change the subject. Only before Ryan could answer, the lights blew and the entire neighborhood was plunged into blackness.
“What the hell?” Aster stumbled and fought to grab hold of Ryan in an effort to steady herself as she blinked into a blanket of darkness. She’d been born and raised in the city and she’d never seen it like that. And with the Santa Ana winds stirring, combined with the chorus of startled shrieks echoing from the house, the eerie factor was at an all-time high. “No way am I going in there.” Aster stopped dead in her tracks, refusing to budge another inch.
“You got your cell phone handy?” Ryan set his to flashlight mode, and Aster did the same. A moment later, he was leading her back down the hill.
“Ira must be furious.” She glanced back toward the house.
“Because we’re so late, or because of the blackout?”
“Both.”
In the not-so-far distance, a coyote howled, causing Aster to shiver and Ryan to loop a protective arm around her. Normally, she’d waste no time pushing him away, but between the pitch-black night and the razor-fanged predators, she was glad she didn’t have to face it alone.
And yet, there was something about being plunged into darkness that left her feeling oddly safe and unseen. For the first time in a long time she felt freed from the burden of constantly needing to hide her identity. She’d been so overexposed for so long, it was nice to know that the only ones aware of her immediate presence were Ryan Hawthorne and a pack of coyotes. Okay, maybe not the coyotes.
“What now?” she asked. “We told the driver to go.”
Ryan’s features lit up like a Halloween mask as he stared down at his phone. “And unfortunately, the next Uber is forty-two minutes away.”
“Which may as well be an eternity,” Aster groaned.
“Maybe we should stop and sit and wait it out? Surely the lights will come back on eventually. These brownouts never last very long.”
It sounded reasonable on the surface, until the coyotes started yipping like they did when they were surrounding their kill, and Aster started moving tentatively down the hill.
“You’re going to break your neck trying to navigate in those things.” Ryan shined his phone on her four-inch Aquazzura sandals.
“I know.” She sighed. “I should probably get over the ick factor and go barefoot instead.”
She stopped and grabbed hold of his shoulder, about to slip off her shoes, when Ryan said, “Or I could carry you.”
Aster laughed, until she realized he was serious, and next thing she knew, her arms were wrapped around Ryan’s shoulders as her legs straddled his back. “I’m not sure this is the best idea,” she said, feeling suddenly self-conscious, both at being a burden to him and how good it felt to embrace him.
“You got a better one?”
At the sight of people fleeing the party and barking at the valets to bring them their cars, Ryan and Aster moved toward the edge of the street. Funny to think how rich and famous most of them were, and yet, in a power outage everyone was rendered equally helpless, left to rely on someone else to fix the problem and return their world to normal.
Ryan maneuvered around the long line of cars the valets were busy positioning, when, without warning, he darted toward one in particular with its lights on and doors open.
“Quick, get in!” Before she could stop him, he’d deposited her onto the passenger seat, shut her door, and raced around to his side.
“What are you doing?” Aster cried in horror as Ryan slipped behind the wheel, shifted into drive, and raced down the pitch-black street.
She pressed a hand hard against the dashboard as though that would somehow stop the nightmare from happening.
Had she misjudged him?
Had he been plotting against her this whole time?
Was he really stealing a car and making her an accomplice?
Whatever it was, she wanted no part of it.
She was just about to tell him as much, when the GPS spoke, instructing him to make a right at the end of the street.
Aster fumbled for the door handle, ready to bail the second he slowed. “What the hell is going on here—where are we going?” she yelled.
Ryan looked at her, eyes wide, voice filled with disbelief when he said, “Wherever she takes us.” He nodded at the screen. “This is Madison’s car.”
TWENTY-SIX
DEAR FUTURE HUSBAND
Rather than ending the party, the blackout only served to kick it up to a whole other level as the juiced-up, uninhibited revelers found themselves in a well-stocked, paparazzi-free paradise where anything went.
Candles and lanterns were swiftly procured, and the generator, once discovered, was promptly put to work. While everyone around them seemed to be coupling up and drifting off to the manse’s numerous bedrooms, Tommy and Layla used the blackout as an excuse to slip out unnoticed.
Just outside the gates, a swarm of paparazzi had gathered, and unfortunately, Layla and Tommy were instantly recognized. Layla shielded her face with her hands and rushed past them. “Vultures,” she mumbled under her breath, realizing just after she’d said it that the same could be said of her.
As a chronicler of the very culture she loathed, she resented finding herself at its center. She had never been in it for the fame. Or, maybe she had, but not the sort of fame that she’d found. She longed to be known for her work, not her dubious connection to a star’s disappearance. And though she wasn’t entirely sure she was in line with the idea of karma, even she had to admit her recent turn as tabloid prey built a pretty solid case for its existence.
Tommy slid a protective arm around her and told the photogs in no uncertain terms to back the hell off. For a moment, Layla allowed herself to relax
into Tommy’s embrace, enjoying the brush of his skin—the way his body felt so solid and sure pressed tightly to hers. But just as quickly she reminded herself how the sight of Mateo and Heather together had left her feeling lonely and sad, and she ducked out of his reach.
Loneliness—that was all it was.
It had absolutely nothing to do with the way Tommy’s tousled brown hair fell across his forehead in a way that perfectly framed his intense navy-blue eyes.
And it certainly had nothing to do with the way his dark denim jeans dipped enticingly low on his hips.
Or how his soft gray tee stretched taut across his shoulders and chest before perfectly skimming his abs.
“C’mon.” Tommy ushered her toward a limo waiting just outside the gate.
“This is yours?” Layla wasn’t sure what to think. After just a single performance, Tommy was already living like a rock star.
“For tonight anyway.”
She slid across the long bench seat and started to direct the driver to her car until Tommy stopped her.
“Not happening,” he said. “I’m not letting you drive after four shots of tequila. You can come back and claim it tomorrow.”
“Three—only three shots,” she corrected, watching as Tommy unearthed a bottle from the limo’s well-stocked bar.
“So why stop there?” He uncapped the bottle and offered her the first sip.
Layla sighed. She knew from experience that Tommy and tequila were a dangerous mix, but maybe that was her problem. Maybe she’d been living too cautiously. Maybe she should just turn off that annoying, insistent, fun-hating voice of her conscience and see where things led.
She closed her eyes and tipped the bottle to her lips. The memory of their kiss bloomed large in her head . . . the feel of Tommy’s hands at her waist . . . his lips meeting hers . . . She’d been trying to forget the kiss since the moment it’d happened. And though she’d briefly convinced herself that she had, there was no denying she’d give just about anything to kiss him again.