She started to laugh, then instantly regretted it when it increased the pounding in her head. “You’re supposed to lecture me, steep me in shame.”
“Figured I could skip that part. You usually handle that just fine on your own.”
She closed her eyes and fell back against the pillows, wishing she could rewind the last week and start over. In addition to all her bad decisions, of which there were many, she’d gotten drunk on tequila and kissed a boy she had no business kissing. What a train wreck she’d become.
Did that mean she was just like her mom?
Was the propensity for betrayal genetic?
She sincerely hoped not.
“So what happened? You try to outdrink all your gets? Is this an occupational hazard of working in a nightclub?”
She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t have any gets.”
“So who’s Tommy then?”
Her eyes flew open. How did he know that name? But an instant later the memory bitch-slapped her smack in the brain.
She’d bolted to the bathroom right after that kiss, only to exit and find Tommy waiting to warn her Ira was there. Then he hauled her outside before Ira could see her.
“Tommy is—” She shook her head and shrugged, having no idea how to explain.
“Well, he got you home safely, so he can’t be all bad.”
He’d insisted on driving her bike, and for the first half of the ride she’d made fun of the way he handled it. The second half she asked him to pull over so she could hurl into the gutter. By the time they got to her door, she fumbled for her keys for so long Tommy took his chances on ringing the bell.
“Sorry we woke you,” she said. It was the least of a long list of things she felt sorry about.
“Who said you woke me?” Her dad sipped his coffee. “I was in the studio. Working.”
Layla brightened. At least one of them was taking positive steps in his life. “When can I see it?”
“Soon.” He nodded, took another sip.
“Really?”
He shrugged unconvincingly and gazed out the window. “When it’s ready. Meanwhile, I’ve got some interest from one of the bigger galleries. This could be the one that changes everything. Or at least it better be.”
His jaw tensed with worry, causing Layla to study him with concern. It’d been years since he’d last sold a piece. And while it had fetched a high price, surely the money was close to running out by now.
She was about to ask him about it, but before she could get to it, he grinned and ruffled her hair.
“Hey—watch the head!” She playfully batted his hand. “Feels like I’m hosting a heavy metal band in there.”
“Metallica or Iron Maiden?” His gaze narrowed as though he was trying to decide which would be worse.
“It’s a metalpalooza, featuring Metallica, Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath . . . who’d I leave out?”
He made an exaggerated grimace. “You know what you need?”
“A time machine?”
“Yes.” He nodded sagely, his blue eyes crinkling at the sides. “But until then, how ’bout I take you to breakfast. Something big, greasy, and loaded with trans fats.”
“See, now you’ve just gone from being too soft on me to enabling me. It’s a slippery slope, Dad.”
“We’ll discuss over breakfast. You can fill me in on the correct way to proceed when your daughter stumbles home drunk with a boy who’s not her boyfriend.” His gaze met hers. It was even sharper than his words.
“Looks like you got it down after all.” She smiled wanly. “But I’m sorry I can’t join you. I need to head out to a meeting so Ira can fire me.”
Layla pulled up to Night for Night, wondering why Ira didn’t just send the bad news via messenger. It would serve as a sort of poetic bookend to how the whole mess began. Well, at least they weren’t meeting at Jewel. In her mind, the entire club was one gigantic crime scene she hoped never to revisit.
By the time she walked into the Moroccan-themed club, most everyone was there. She was five minutes early—they were probably ten. Yet another example of how poorly suited she was for the job.
She risked a quick glance at Aster, as perfect and prissy as ever in her short white tennis dress and long, glossy ponytail, and purposely avoided meeting Tommy’s gaze. Though a quick head count told her Goth Boy was missing, and she couldn’t help but hope his failure to show would count as a forfeit, allow her one more week to make up for the last.
But who was she kidding? She’d already been pegged as the first to go. Probably why they all looked so smug and relaxed, texting on their cell phones, or in Tommy’s case, sprawling on one of the sofas, feet propped on an ottoman, taking a nap.
She needed to find another way to get to journalism school. Now more than ever a move out of state was imperative.
As luck would have it, Goth Boy slipped in seconds before Ira’s swarm of assistants took their place before the contestants.
Layla found a vacant chair and sank into the cushions, looking lazy, insubordinate, but she was beyond caring. She just hoped they’d hurry up and fire her so she could get back on her bike and go on a nice, long, head-clearing ride. Laguna might be nice. And she could invite Mateo to join her. He’d like the surf, and they needed to spend some time together. . . .
“. . . not surprisingly, Thursday night was our slowest night of the week.”
When had Ira started talking? Layla forced herself to sit up straighter.
“Though there’s no question the Night for Night team pulled in the most heads, mostly thanks to Aster Amirpour.”
Layla fought back a smirk. Of course, Queen Bitch Aster got all the credit. Why was life so stinkin’ unfair?
“Numbers at all three clubs steadily increased, culminating in last night, which saw the biggest draw yet. Each club managed to bring in decent crowds, but some more decent than others.” He took a moment to gaze leisurely among them. Stupid sadist was enjoying himself. He’d probably drag it out for as long as he could, like he was the host of some dumb reality TV show.
“As you may know, the Vesper is the smallest of the three clubs, while Jewel is the largest.”
Well, there you have it. I never stood a chance. I was destined to lose from day one.
“So the winners are decided on a percentage basis—which is to say we calculate the percentage based on club capacity versus absolute numbers. With that in mind, the winner for Saturday night is . . .”
There it was, the long pause Layla had been waiting for. She was surprised there wasn’t a drumroll. Ira was so freaking dramatic.
“The Vesper.”
Layla tried not to scowl as the Vesper crowd all virtually high-fived from their various corners.
“You guys have a bit of an underdog vibe, as the size of your crowd bears a direct correlation to the popularity of the bands that come through. That said, we’ve managed to book some solid summer acts, so I expect to see bigger and better numbers from here. Night for Night, you’re second. You were close, but close isn’t first.”
There were eight people in the room all breathing easier. Layla wasn’t among them. Still, maybe she should just close her eyes and take a little catnap like Tommy had. Surely they’d wake her in time to get sacked.
“Jewel was last.” Layla popped an eye open long enough to see Ira addressing the Jewel team with a stern face. “If you don’t pick it up, you won’t stand a chance in hell of winning this competition.”
Layla cringed. She couldn’t help it. She made up one-fourth of their group, but she took 100 percent responsibility for the failure.
“I don’t know what happened, but I suggest you figure it out.”
So there it was, they’d been properly chastised. Now on with the public beheading!
“The club with the highest totals this week is the Vesper.”
“But—” Aster nearly leaped from her chair.
Ira quirked a brow.
“But I brought in Ryan Hawthorne!”
&n
bsp; “Ryan’s not Madison. The get wasn’t enough to overcome the Vesper’s numbers.”
Aster frowned. “Next time I’ll get Madison,” she mumbled, sinking back to her seat.
“My advice to you”—he stole a quick look at Aster—“to all of you, is not to get too comfortable. Rules can change on a whim. You need to be ready for whatever I throw at you. Now, on to the cut—”
Layla uncrossed her legs and ran her hands down the front of her dark skinny jeans. She should’ve made more of an effort on her appearance so she wouldn’t so closely resemble the loser she was.
“Layla Harrison?”
The moment had arrived. She’d soon be the dead girl walking. Ira would do his best to embarrass her, of that she was sure. But it couldn’t be any worse than the numerous ways she’d embarrassed herself last night alone. As soon as it was over, she’d be on her way, never have to see these people again.
“How you feeling?”
She shrugged, painfully aware of everyone openly staring.
“You helped yourself to a sizable amount of top-shelf tequila last night.”
Layla rubbed her lips together, refusing to confirm or deny.
“Nothing wrong with knocking back a few, but not in the club when you’re under twenty-one.”
She grabbed her bag, ready to bail, when Tommy rose from the couch and said, “That was me, not Layla.”
Ira shot him a shrewd look, while Layla stared incredulously.
“I was checking out the competition, not that there was any.” He stole a glance at Layla, before returning to Ira. “Guess I got carried away.”
The way Tommy stood before Ira, Layla couldn’t help but notice there was something markedly different about him. He wasn’t doing this for her. This was about challenging Ira, daring the boss to fire him, all the while sure that he wouldn’t. The silent standoff lingering for so long, everyone started fidgeting and shifting—everyone except Tommy, who stood his ground, making whatever incomprehensible point he was determined to make.
“Don’t let it happen again,” Ira finally said, his voice sharp, gaze unwavering. But Tommy just nodded and returned to his seat, as Ira turned his focus to Ash.
“The impressive numbers at Night for Night were no thanks to you. You pulled in maybe ten people max. We won’t stand for that.”
With the heavy eye makeup he wore, it was impossible to tell what Goth Boy might be thinking.
“You have anything to say for yourself?”
“No, man, just—thanks for the opportunity.” He leaped from his seat and made for the door as Layla stared in confusion. Not understanding how she’d managed to survive another week. If Ira knew about the tequila, then clearly he knew her numbers were even worse than Ash’s.
Whatever. She’d accept the reprieve for the gift that it was. Last night had marked her very last screwup.
A few minutes later, Tommy headed for the door as Layla rushed to catch up. “What was that about?” she asked.
He swung the door open, forcing her to shield her eyes from the glare. Sometimes the incessant brightness felt like an assault. The forced cheeriness of three hundred and thirty days of sun was downright annoying. She’d give anything for just one rainy day.
“That was about me saving you. Again.”
Layla shrank under his piercing blue gaze. As much as she dreaded bringing it up, she needed him to know she considered their kiss a mistake she would never repeat.
“Tommy, about—” she started to explain, but he spoke right over her.
“Forget it. It’ll be our little secret.”
She stood awkwardly before him, wanting to believe it, not sure that she could.
“As for what happened in there—” He hooked a thumb toward the club. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to collect on the favor.”
“Excuse me?” She ran after him. “I don’t remember asking you to do that. I was ready to pay the price.”
“Clearly.” He shook his head. “You didn’t even put up a fight. So I took a swing for you.”
She was afraid of the answer, but forced herself to ask the question anyway. “Why?”
His gaze roamed hers, studying her for an uncomfortable moment before he finally conceded, “I have my reasons. And now, because of it, you have a second chance to decide what you really want out of life.”
She watched him slide behind the wheel of his car, wanting to shout some nasty retort, knowing she should thank him instead, and settling on neither.
And now, she owed him. Great. She could only imagine what he’d ask in return.
TWENTY-TWO
GHOST IN THE MACHINE
“How did this happen?”
Madison sat in the passenger seat of a dark-green SUV, tugging at the brim of her worn baseball cap and staring out the windshield at a landscape marred by cargo ships, brightly colored rectangular containers, and tall working cranes. Everything about the meet was designed to go unnoticed. The car was ordinary. The San Pedro port was too busy for anyone to question them, and if they did, Paul had the credentials to make them go away. Then there was Paul himself and his utterly forgettable face. It was one of the things that made him so good at his job: no one ever remembered seeing him, and it was nearly impossible to describe him.
“You told me—no, correction, you assured me—that everything from my past was sealed, locked up tight, and safely stored in a deeply buried vault with no key.”
He nodded, his pale eyes scanning the harbor. “I’ve recently come to think otherwise.”
She sighed. Sank so low in her seat she could barely see past the dashboard. She had obligations, loads of press, a movie to promote, an impending breakup with Ryan that would inevitably become very public no matter how hard she tried to keep it under wraps. She didn’t have time for problems. Not of this magnitude.
“How do you know it’s not just another bogus attempt to extort me? You know how fame attracts opportunists.” She studied him closely. The face that had once rescued her, changed her life in ways she could never repay, was now delivering the worst news he possibly could.
“This is different.” He pressed his lips together until they practically disappeared, making her wonder who this moment was harder for, him or her. Paul prided himself on meticulous attention to detail. But if he really did slip, the life Madison had worked so hard to create would burn as quickly as her previous life had.
“How different?” She shifted in her seat, taking in his beige hair, beige skin, thin pale lips, unobtrusive nose, and a small set of milky brown eyes. He certainly lived up to his nickname, the Ghost. Though she mostly called him Paul.
Without a word he handed her a photo of herself as a very young girl.
Madison gripped it by its edges, making a careful study of the tangled hair, the dirt-smudged face, the blaze of defiance burning in those bright, determined eyes. A long-lost before picture in a life meticulously cultivated to consist entirely of afters.
Until now.
Her hands trembled, as she tried to remember who’d taken it—how old she might’ve been. Talk about a ghost. It’d been years since she’d seen that version of herself.
“I thought everything was burned in the fire.” She turned to him.
It was the tragic explanation used to defend Madison’s lack of baby pictures, or any other remnant of a life before her parents’ death. The story had been fed to the press so many times it’d become almost mythical. An eight-year-old girl who managed to escape a terrible fire with barely a scar, only to rise from the ashes like a phoenix, reborn, wiped clean, delivered into the next glorious phase of her life.
She absently ran the edge of the photo against the scar on her forearm, remembering that day when she’d grabbed a piece of smoldering wood and held it to her own flesh while Paul looked on in astonishment. “It’s to make it more believable,” she’d said, knowing even back then she’d be playing a part from that moment on.
“Everything was burned.” His tone was grim. It
was probably the worst thing he could’ve said.
If someone had pictures of her, there was no telling what else they might have.
“There’s no mistaking it’s me.” She looked at Paul. For the first time in a long time, she feared for her life.
He sighed, gripped the wheel tighter. “Here’s what you’re going to do.”
She waited for the formula that would make it go away, willing to do anything to put an end to the nightmare.
“You’re going to go about your life, and alert me to the first sign of anything unusual.”
She turned on him. So incensed she thought she might spontaneously combust in her seat. “Nothing about my life is usual. I wouldn’t even know how to recognize unusual.”
“You know what I mean.”
She frowned. Up to this point, she’d trusted him implicitly, but even the Ghost had his limits. “What I know is I’m not going to sit around and wait for this to destroy me.”
She shook the picture in his face, and he plucked it from her fingertips. “Have I ever failed you?”
She studied him a good long time. “You just did.”
He squinted, stared at the quilt of scars covering his knuckles. “If you’re worried about people letting you down, you should take another look at your boyfriend.”
She gazed out the window, watching a crane load a container onto a ship. Maybe she should crawl inside one of those large metal boxes, sail away to some exotic port, start a new life under a new identity, and Madison Brooks would disappear off the face of the earth. She’d already played that card once, and it’d worked out far better than expected. But now, it was just another fantasy that would never be realized. There was nowhere to hide for someone as famous as her.
Or was there?
“Ryan’s stepping out with a girl named Aster Amirpour.” He reached into the backseat and handed over a fat dossier, detailing nearly everything about the poor dumb girl’s life.
“I know all about it.” Madison shrugged. Suddenly feeling sorry there wasn’t a single person she could trust. “You’re not the only one on my payroll,” she said, reading the surprised look on his face.
She opened the door and started to head back to her car, when Paul called her by the name her parents had given her.