THIRTY-SIX
BREAKING THE GIRL
Madison Brooks burst onto the sidewalk, aware of Tommy calling after her, his voice as perplexed as it was sincere. But Tommy had already helped more than he knew. Madison couldn’t remember when she’d last felt so at peace—so accepted for her authentic self—as opposed to the girl everyone believed her to be.
Funny how she’d given up on Paul and decided to take matters into her own hands, only to receive his text at the most unfortunate time. A few more hours of drinking beers and kissing Tommy would’ve been nice, but Madison didn’t fool herself about which held more importance.
She ducked her head low, arranged her scarf so it covered her head, and made a run for her car, only to grasp the handle and discover she’d left the keys in the jacket Tommy had loaned her.
She glanced back at the Vesper, gazed down Hollywood Boulevard toward Night for Night, and decided to run for it, or rather walk really fast. A girl sprinting down the street with a scarf tossed over her head would attract too much attention. A girl walking quickly with a back the hell off and stay out of my way thousand-yard stare would make people think twice about messing with her.
Thanks to an unconventional childhood, Madison had been defending herself for as long as she could remember. Despite her pampered Hollywood life, she’d never forgotten how to take care of herself. Surely Paul would drive her home, which meant she could settle the key situation in the morning. If nothing else, it would give her an excuse to see Tommy, not that she needed one. From the way he’d kissed her, she was pretty sure he’d jump at the chance. The thought brought a smile to her face.
Her eyes scanned the palm-tree-lined boulevard, as the heels of her Gucci stilettos stabbed a succession of pink-and-gold Walk of Fame stars. Jennifer Aniston, Elvis Presley, Gwyneth Paltrow, Michael Jackson—she stormed past them all, including her own. Though she barely paused long enough to notice. The goal was accomplished, relegated to the past. Once Madison achieved something, she was immediately on to the next new thing. She made it a point to never look back.
Not a lot of cars on the road at this hour, but the freaks were out in full force. Must be later than she’d thought—certainly late enough for Night for Night to be closed—late enough for Ryan and Aster to have already moved on. She wondered vaguely what had happened after she’d left.
Was he upset with her for going overboard?
Had they gone home together?
Or was Aster still intent on playing her prim-and-proper game?
Either way, she wished Ryan well; the rest she’d read about soon enough. Funny how she’d put all that in motion only to have Paul come through at the very last moment, rendering the drama completely unnecessary.
Still, she couldn’t think of a better ending. RyMad was dead, Ryan and Aster would get all the publicity they desired, and Madison was free to move on with her life without constantly looking over her shoulder, now that Paul had handled things for her.
She paused on the corner, checked both ways, then darted across the street, against the red light. The text had come in a good five minutes ago with instructions to hurry. Paul was a stickler for time. Madison would not disappoint.
From what she could tell, no one had managed to follow her and Tommy to the Vesper, which meant that no one was following her now as she returned to Night for Night. Though it wouldn’t be long before the vultures came out in full force. Considering the scene she’d caused, she could expect nothing less.
She imagined how she might’ve looked under the glow of the lights—her face wet with tears, voice hoarse with accusation. There wasn’t a girl in the crowd who wouldn’t be on her side, other than her most ardent haters and Aster of course.
Her agent would have a fit. Her PR people would be in a snit. But Madison felt good about the decision, and if they couldn’t get on board, she’d have to remind them exactly who they worked for. And if they still couldn’t get on board, well, there were plenty more where they came from. Hollywood agents were like plastic surgeons and Starbucks—one on every corner.
She crept to the side door, punched the code James had given her into the keypad, and slipped inside the large darkened space. Her spiked heels echoing loudly through the empty club, she made her way up the stairs to the terrace, anxious to hear exactly how Paul had handled the threat.
THIRTY-SEVEN
BIGMOUTH STRIKES AGAIN
Layla carried her double espresso from the Nespresso maker in the kitchen to the cluttered desk in her bedroom. The pricey coffeemaker had been a little outside their usual household budget, but they regarded it as less of a splurge and more a necessity. Her father was known to spend a lot of caffeine-fueled nights holed up in his studio working on projects, and while Layla also wrote some of her best pieces at night, mostly she just liked really good coffee.
She’d always been a night owl, a trait she assumed she’d inherited from her dad, but it was nearly dawn and she refused to so much as look at her pillow until her story was written, polished, and ushered into the world.
Her fingers flew over the keyboard, fueled on the strongest beans Colombia offered and the insatiable rush of a shot at revenge. Queen Bitch Aster and Madison were going down, and they deserved nothing less. If Tommy got caught in the cross fire, oh well. He was the one who chose to rescue Madison.
She’d always figured Aster would go after Ira to secure the win. Maybe swing by his office after hours and flash a little thigh. And who was to say that she hadn’t? Who was to say they hadn’t hooked up—maybe, in fact, still were hooking up on a regular basis?
Either way, it was a wild card Layla wasn’t willing to play.
The last person she wanted to make an enemy of was Ira Redman.
But Queen Bitch Aster Amirpour?
Bring it.
As for Madison . . .
Layla reviewed the video footage. Her stomach grew queasy as she watched the part where Tommy whisked her to safety like some gallant white knight in a pair of faded jeans, a black leather jacket, and trashed motorcycle boots.
Tommy was a fool. And Madison was an entitled brat who actively promoted her shallow, overindulged existence, inspiring legions of kids to emulate her, some who ended up dead like Carlos.
She read through the piece again, not entirely sure she should post it.
BEAUTIFUL IDOLS
RIP RyMad
Dearly Beloved,
We gather here today to mourn the untimely demise of one of Hollywood’s greatest love stories—the not-so-conscious uncoupling of Madison Brooks and Ryan Hawthorne.
Yes, readers, you read it here first:
RyMad is dead.
I know what you’re thinking.
How?
And maybe even, Why?
And certainly, Nooooo!
Sadly, it’s true. And as the Gods of Hollywood would have it, yours truly was right there when it happened, and I captured every wretched wrenching moment on video.
Though a word of warning before you hit Play:
Once you’ve seen this, you can never unsee it. The images will be tattooed on your retinas for life eternal.
In lieu of flowers, feel free to pay your respects in the comments.
The best journalists were fearless. Told the stories that needed to be told. While it was debatable the Ryan-Madison-Aster love triangle counted as a story that needed to be told, maybe that wasn’t for Layla to decide.
Whether it mattered in the big scheme of things wasn’t the point. People would clamor to read every word. There was no greater pleasure than watching a celebrity’s life go off the rails. It gave people a chance to choose sides, declare their loyalty (or lack of), and collectively shake their heads, smirk, and scoff at the idiocy of the rich and famous.
How could he?
She should’ve known.
She looks like a gold-digging fame whore. . . .
And if there were videos and stills to illustrate, even better.
Besides, it wasn’t like Layla was
blogging for some lofty intellectual news outlet. She had her own insatiable reader base and advertisers, and it was her responsibility to see they were properly fed in the way they’d come to expect.
For maximum impact (and maximum credit), she needed to publish the piece ASAP. Ensure hers was the story people read the moment they woke up and reached for their green juice.
She gnawed her bottom lip, crossed her fingers, took one last look at the stills with the snarky captions she’d added, and pressed Post. For better or worse, it was out there now, and there was no looking back.
THIRTY-EIGHT
ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?
Aster Amirpour rolled onto her side, bent her knees to her chest, and clutched her hands to the sides of a head that felt like a herd of elephants were stomping directly on top of it.
She didn’t know which was worse, her parched and aching throat, or her killer headache. Until she forced herself into a sitting position, untangled her legs from the black satin sheets, pushed her soles against the white flokati rug, and tried to stand, only to fall back onto the bed. It was definitely the dizziness, followed by the nausea, with the headache and parched throat placing third and fourth respectively.
“Ryan,” she groaned, in desperate need of some aspirin and a bottle of water that might hopefully kick-start the recuperative process. Unable to speak above a whisper, she rolled to his side of the bed and cracked an eye open, only to find it abandoned.
She thrust her arm out before her, ran her hand across the sheets. They were cold to the touch. As though he’d left a long time ago and hadn’t bothered to return. But that wasn’t possible, was it?
She bolted upright. Wincing against a surge of queasiness, she squinted through burning eyes at a bold and masculine space filled with modern, slightly oversize furniture. An enormous leather chaise, mirrored tables, and a king-size bed.
She dropped her head to her hands, unable to recall any details after leaving the club. The only thing she knew for sure was she was naked, alone, and she had no idea where she was.
Did the room belong to Ryan?
Was she in his apartment—or was it a fancy hotel suite?
She checked the bathroom and explored the adjoining den, finding more modern furnishings, more hard angles, sharp corners, and mirrored surfaces, but no Ryan. After a thorough check of each room, including the closets, it was clear he was gone, so she sent him a text that read: Where R U? When he failed to reply, she called, but it went straight into voice mail.
With the sun already peeking through the drapes, sneaking home unseen would prove an impossible feat. Her car was still parked at Night for Night, and that stupid jerk who claimed to adore her enough to steal her virginity apparently couldn’t be bothered to stick around long enough to drive her back to the club to retrieve it. There was no other way to read it. He hadn’t even bothered to leave a note.
She dropped to her knees, dragged her purse from under the chaise, and went about collecting her belongings. Her bra and underwear were on opposite sides of the room, but they were torn, sticky, and so totally disgusting she couldn’t bear to look at them, much less wear them. Her dress had been flung on the floor next to the couch in the den, and despite having once loved it more than any other dress she’d ever owned, now it seemed as trashy and contaminated as she currently felt. She wadded it into a ball with the undergarments and dumped the mess into the trash.
Though she drew a line at abandoning the Valentino stilettos. Ryan had taken enough. No way would she lose the shoes too.
In the bathroom, she ran some cool water over her face, but no matter how much she splashed and rubbed with the washcloth, she still looked like hell. Her eyes were bloodshot, her makeup smeared, and she bore the wild, abandoned look of someone staggering beneath a burdensome load of regret. Scraping her hair into a messy topknot, she rifled through the few pieces of clothing hanging in his closet and wondered if Ryan actually lived there. Still, there were jeans and a soft blue button-down shirt, and she didn’t think twice about claiming them.
After rolling the jeans at the hem, she tucked the shirt halfway in, secured one of his belts at her waist, shoved her feet into the stilettos, swiped his dark sunglasses from the dresser on her way out the door, and began the long walk of shame home.
THIRTY-NINE
BULLET WITH BUTTERFLY WINGS
Tommy Phillips grasped the pillow next to his head and propped it over his cheek, reluctant to let in the light of a new day if it meant leaving the contented cocoon of his dreams.
His dream life—his waking life—they’d merged together so seamlessly there was no longer any boundary between them. It was like he’d spent the entire night kissing Madison Brooks—first in the Vesper, where she’d gazed at him through those exquisite violet eyes—only to carry the memory of her into his dreams, where she welcomed him into her arms once again.
Kissing her was insane! The kind of thing he never imagined would happen to him.
What was even more insane was the undeniable connection they’d shared. Tommy was sure he wasn’t just a rebound, a convenient way for her to feel good about herself after discovering her boyfriend’s betrayal. She was genuinely drawn to him. There was no disputing the evidence.
She’d trusted him to look after her, protect her, whisk her away from the gawkers and see her to safety.
Trusted him enough to see her as she really was, minus the veil of celebrity, just a real girl, drinking a beer, and kissing a boy she clearly had a crush on.
He sank deeper into the sheets, remembering the look in her eyes . . . the sweet wistfulness of her sigh . . . the play of her fingers at the nape of his neck . . . the intoxicating feel of her lips pressed against his . . . the regretful tinge in her voice when she’d left.
It was all the proof he needed to know she was as into him as he was into her.
And the best part was, Tommy had the pics to prove it.
He tossed the pillow, rolled onto his side, and reached for the phone he’d abandoned on the floor. He was about to check his camera roll when a long chain of texts popped onto the screen.
How the hell—?
He quickly scrolled through them, staring in disbelief at the numerous pics of the Ryan, Madison, and Aster drama. Including pictures of him with his arm secured around Madison as he led her through the Vesper’s back door, shooting a cautious look over her shoulder as the door closed behind them, his expression promising serious consequences to anyone who dared follow.
But clearly someone had followed. And they’d made sure his hookup with Madison had gone viral.
He raced toward his grime-covered window, only to discover a swarm of photogs camped right outside. Most likely waiting for him to leave so they could shout their questions and insults and record his reactions.
He raked his fingers through his hair, unsure what to do. It wasn’t exactly the way Tommy had hoped to make a name for himself, and yet he couldn’t hide out in his apartment and wait for the vultures to move on to some other scandal.
Fact was, his fridge was empty, his cupboards were bare, and he had a serious need for coffee.
He shook his head, moved away from the window, and made for the shower. If he was going to make his tabloid debut, he might as well look his best.
FORTY
WAKE ME UP WHEN SEPTEMBER ENDS
The driver pulled away with a loud crunch of gravel and a judgmental look (though she might have imagined that last part), as Aster punched the code for the electronic gate on the keypad and began the long walk up the driveway.
Her house loomed large in the distance. Probably because it was large, one of the largest on the block, which was really saying something, considering the high level of affluence in the neighborhood. But on that particular morning the Mediterranean manse seemed almost too large, sort of ominous and foreboding. Like the red-clay-tiled roof and sloping archways might turn on her at any second, become less of a luxurious sanctuary and more of a prison.
She wob
bled uncertainly, her heels skidding against the uneven stones, until she slipped off her shoes and walked the rest of the way in bare feet. Her eyes darted wildly, looking for signs of Nanny Mitra, the maids and gardeners who came every day, anyone who might spot her lurking in her own front yard, looking as guilty as she’d surely be charged.
Normally she’d sneak into her house via the door in the garage that led straight to the back hall, but the remote to open the garage was in her car, and her car was no longer in the Night for Night parking lot. It’d either been stolen or towed. Either way she was screwed.
Sometimes, though, Javen left the French doors that led from the backyard into the den unlocked, mostly on the nights he snuck out. She could only hope he’d thought to do so again. Funny how their campaign to fool Nanny Mitra had made them closer than ever.
She crept around back, twisted the knob, and exhaled in relief when the door eased open and she stepped into a darkened den with the drapes still drawn. A good sign the maids had yet to arrive, which meant Nanny was probably still in her room, maybe even asleep. Aster slipped up the stairs, unable to so much as breathe until she’d made it safely to her room with the door closed behind her.
Tossing her shoes and bag toward the overstuffed chair in the corner, she sagged against her bed and stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. She felt like crap. She looked even worse. And with the Sunday meeting scheduled for early afternoon, she doubted she’d make it, doubted she could pull it together by then, and had no plans to try. Despite what had happened—or maybe even because of it—she was still well in the lead, and there was no way Ira would take that away just because she failed to show at an obligatory event with a predetermined outcome.
What she wanted—no, actually needed—more than anything was a long, hot shower, if for no other reason than to scrub every remaining trace of Ryan Hawthorne from her flesh.
Scrubbing him from her memory was a whole other problem that wouldn’t be remedied anytime soon.