Blacklist

by Alyson Noel

  “So why now?”

  Mateo squinted.

  Heather smiled gamely and tipped her glass so the wine swirled up and down the sides. “Surely it wasn’t the first time someone’s approached you about modeling?”

  He shrugged. He wasn’t in the mood to share his long list of family tragedies and missed opportunities.

  The way she regarded him left him convinced she’d gleaned more by what he didn’t say than by what he did. And just when he was sure he couldn’t feel any more uncomfortable, she smiled warmly and said, “Sorry if I come off as nosy. I don’t mean to pry. Or maybe I do. But anyway, good for you for having boundaries. My therapist is helping me work on mine.” She stopped and made a face. “And the fact that I just told you that shows just how far I have to go.” She laughed and shook her head. “So here’s the deal. Heidi has been hired to shoot an editorial for InStyle magazine. I managed to clinch the cover, which means I’ll get an interview as well. But for the shoot they want to capture a casual, romantic, beachy California vibe, which is where you come in. If you’re nervous, don’t be. They want you as is. Just be your usual hot surfer self and it’s all good. I hope you’re okay with all this? Heidi thinks you’ll lend an air of authenticity, and I happen to agree. But if you don’t like the sound of this, or you don’t like me, then you can always bail now and I’ll tell Heidi it just isn’t your thing.”

  Mateo rubbed his lips together, needing a moment to absorb what she’d said. Was it his thing? Not even close. But if all he had to do to collect a paycheck was hang on a beach with his board and a pretty girl—well, how bad could it be?

  “So, what do you think?”

  Mateo lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Tell Heidi I’m in,” he said.

  Heather grinned in a blur of bouncing curls, flashing brown eyes, and teeth that were whiter and straighter than the Hollywood sign. “You can tell her yourself,” she said, waving to someone just past his shoulder, and Mateo turned to find a pretty woman with long brown hair heading right toward them.

  “The light is perfect,” Heidi said. “And I’ve already settled the tab, so what do you say we head out now and get a few quick test shots before it gets dark?”

  Immediately, Heather reached into her purse and retrieved her lip gloss, but Heidi waved it away. “Not necessary. I want you as unadorned as possible. I’m thinking Kate Moss on the beach in those early Calvin Klein Obsession commercials.”

  “Um, except she was naked.” Heather frowned. “I’m pretty sure InStyle wants me fully clothed.”

  “So, we’ll put you in a slip dress or a bikini. I’m thinking retro, but fresh. Beautiful but in a natural way. But first—” Heidi turned to study Mateo in a way that left him feeling so self-conscious he struggled to hold her gaze. “I need to see how you two photograph together so I can check out your on-camera chemistry. Sound good?”

  “Perfect,” Heather said. “And I have some ideas. . . .”

  The next thing Mateo knew, Heidi and Heather were leaving the restaurant deep in conversation and fully expecting him to follow.

  He did.

  NINE

  ROCK AND ROLL, HOOCHIE KOO

  Tommy Phillips sat on the stool with his cherished electric twelve-string guitar strapped across his chest and adjusted the mic stand before him. He gazed out at the audience (a term he used loosely, considering how he was basically being paid to serenade a bunch of largely disinterested female shoppers) and mumbled the name of the next song from the approved list of soft hits he’d been hired to play.

  The venue was a small, high-end boutique on Robertson Boulevard, and while it certainly wasn’t the sort of life-changing gig he’d envisioned when he first arrived in LA, he was in no position to complain.

  Initially he assumed the fifteen minutes of fame he’d gained over Madison’s disappearance might really go the distance and help launch his career, only to find that while it did result in the sort of unprecedented attention he’d lacked before, it in no way resulted in good things for his music.

  The videos he’d posted on YouTube might’ve gone viral, but the comments section was so full of vitriol, he’d quickly taken them down and seriously contemplated changing his name. Not that it would’ve done any good. For better or worse, he’d played a part in the biggest celebrity scandal in years. Which gave him the rare distinction of having a face that was eminently recognizable, but not at all bankable.

  In the upside-down, tabloid-driven world he now lived in, Tommy was a bona-fide celebrity of sorts. Only difference between him and a true celebrity was a lack of fat, steady paychecks and revenue-producing endorsement deals.

  Though there had been an offer by a start-up sneakers brand, Tommy had refused to be the face behind the brand of kicks that claimed to help you outrun whatever kind of trouble you found yourself in (which was how it’d been pitched to him). Some things you could never live down. And while the job working for Ira held promise, he didn’t want to work for him for any longer than necessary.

  Truth was, Tommy was coasting—had been ever since he’d arrived in LA and taken a dead-end job hawking guitars at Farrington’s. Sure, it was the job that had put him in Ira’s path and resulted in everything that had happened since, and while Tommy was glad for the rush of opportunities where he’d once had none, he was also just impatient enough and just ambitious enough to begin to feel restless.

  He wanted more. He just needed someone to take him seriously for a change.

  The irony of it all was that Tommy’s dad had the ability to change his luck in an instant. In a way, he already had. But the opportunities Ira offered were more focused on building Ira’s business. And though he’d given Tommy his dream guitar, he’d never expressed any interest in promoting his music.

  If Ira was waiting for Tommy to ask, well, that day would never come. Tommy was no good at begging. His dad might own a string of nightclubs—one of them, the Vesper, was known as the city’s hottest music venue—but there was no way he would ask for a handout. Tommy’s goal had always been to earn Ira’s respect by making it big on his own. Working for him as a promoter was merely a means to that end. He had big plans to make a name for himself well before he made the reveal. It was imperative that when Tommy disclosed his true connection to Ira, he did so as his father’s equal.

  His fingers expertly picked at the strings, strumming all the right chords, and he dutifully sang the lyrics he’d memorized just a few hours before. His gaze roamed the space, idly watching the small crowd of beautiful women juggle purses, half-full glasses of champagne, and body-skimming dresses they pressed against themselves as they swiveled before full-length mirrors and assessed their reflections.

  There was one in particular who’d caught Tommy’s eye. With her deep-red lips, dark waist-length hair, and thatch of heavy bangs that fell just short of her brown almond-shaped eyes, she had the sort of exotic good looks Tommy might fantasize about but would never try to approach in real life. For one thing, she was older. For another, with her body-hugging dress, designer bag, and skyscraper stilettos, she bore the sort of high-maintenance vibe he usually worked to avoid.

  Still, there was no harm in looking, and Tommy watched as she posed before a mirror with a black dress clutched at her hip. A few moments later, when a pretty blonde sidled up and slipped a hand around the brunette’s waist, whispering something into her ear that made them both grin, Tommy was completely transfixed.

  When the brunette caught Tommy staring, she met his gaze with a look so smoldering, Tommy flubbed the lyrics and momentarily lost his place in the song.

  She nudged her blond friend and the two of them came to stand directly before him as Tommy fought to regain control of his performance. But his mind was a blur of their bare shoulders pressing together, their lips just inches apart, as they whispered to each other without ever once shifting their focus from him.

  It was the stuff of rock-and-roll fantasy, only it was really happening, and it took every ounce of Tommy’s will to fini
sh the song and segue into the next with even a smidge of competence.

  They were flirting with him. There was no getting around it, the signals were clear. They wanted him—wanted to share him—and while he was immensely flattered, he also felt woefully out of his league.

  Were they slumming?

  Or worse, did they recognize him from the interviews he’d given? While they seemed more sophisticated than the usual tabloid-reading type, they probably weren’t the only classy babes in LA with a secret stash of In Touch, OK!, Life & Style, and Star hidden under the mattress.

  When the song ended, Tommy paused to sip from the bottle of water he’d set beside his playlist. He desperately needed a moment to get a grip on himself.

  “You’re Tommy Phillips.”

  He looked up to find the brunette had separated from the blonde and was now just inches away. He forced himself to swallow, wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, and nod politely, all the while trying not to focus on her long, toned legs, slim hips, and generous round breasts, but it was no use. She was 100 percent onto him.

  Even better, he knew she was 100 percent into him too.

  “I thought I recognized you.” Her gaze was as direct as her voice. Strong, sure, she was undoubtedly a woman who got what she wanted.

  Tommy shot a nervous glance toward the boutique owner, who was eyeballing him from her place near the register. Wouldn’t do any good to piss her off by flirting with the clientele. Then again, the customer had approached him, and how rude would it be for him to ignore her?

  Unsure how to proceed, he closed his eyes and started strumming the next tune. Getting lost in the music was the best default he knew. Besides, he was getting paid to play music, not set up a threesome.

  He was halfway to the chorus when he realized he’d abandoned the Coldplay song he’d originally started and drifted into the one he’d written about the night he’d kissed Madison. “Violet Eyes,” he called it—a dead giveaway if there ever was one. And while he’d fully intended to change the name along with the more identifiable lyrics, he hadn’t quite gotten around to it, and now he was so far in, there was nothing to do but continue.

  Maybe no one would notice.

  Maybe they were too busy shopping and drinking to make the connection.

  But when he opened his eyes again, he found the blonde and brunette standing right where he’d left them, having forfeited a fun night of shopping and champagne swilling to focus on him.

  “Everything okay?” The boutique owner fussed over the women.

  The blonde ignored her and maintained her focus on Tommy, while the brunette surrendered her glass of champagne and handed over the black dress she’d been carrying. “I’d like it in red as well,” she said. “You can send them both to my house. You know the address.”

  The boutique owner was all fawning gratitude, but the woman had already moved on. As he neared the end of the song, he watched in amazement as she reached into her bag, slid a card from an engraved gold case, and flashed a sexy grin as she slipped the card into his pocket, then promptly left the boutique with her friend.

  He watched them go, knowing he should be thrilled. And admittedly, part of him, most of him, was. It wasn’t the first time he’d been hit on by an older woman. Solo gigs were pretty much a magnet for that sort of thing. Though it was the first time he’d been hit on by two at one time.

  Still, now that they’d gone, he wasn’t sure he was willing to follow through. Undoubtedly, it would result in the kind of wild night he’d brag about for the rest of his life, but Tommy was looking for something more than just a good time. As ridiculous as it was, he’d been holding out for Layla, waiting for her to come around and admit there’d been magic in the kiss that they’d shared—a waste of time that had gotten him nowhere. Layla had been drunk when it happened, and once sober, she’d given no indication of ever wanting to repeat it.

  He slipped his guitar into its case and forced himself to deal with his own harsh reality. Fact was, he hadn’t had a single date since he’d arrived in LA. He’d basically turned down every woman who expressed the slightest bit of interest in him, and for what? So he could win the world record for unintended celibacy?

  LA had no shortage of hot females. Hell, gorgeous women were so abundant he often wondered where they hid all the plain or merely normal-looking ones. And yet, despite the nonstop beauty parade, he hadn’t gotten laid since he’d left high school.

  The whole thing was ridiculous. Fact was, Tommy had a life to live, and waiting for Layla to show him some interest without the aid of tequila was no way to live it. Maybe an older woman, make that two older women, were just what he needed to finally get over her.

  He was young in a city where youth was the most valued currency. And yet, so far he’d chosen to live like a monk.

  So what if those two women had a good twelve years on his eighteen? A brunette and a blonde was every guy’s dream—and that dream was just a simple phone call away.

  The boutique owner handed over his check, and Tommy slipped it into his wallet and headed into the balmy LA night, feeling so fired up there was no way he could face his empty apartment alone.

  He wondered where the women had gone. Probably back to some swanky house high in the Hollywood Hills with great city views, expensive sheets, maybe even an infinity pool.

  The more Tommy thought about it, the more he grew convinced he could really use a night with those two.

  Hell, you could even say he deserved it.

  He retrieved the card the brunette had given him, all the while telling himself he had nothing to lose, that you only live once, and a bunch of other pep-rally platitudes he hoped would spike some much-needed courage to see this thing through.

  He squinted at the card and pressed the digits onto his keypad.

  “Hi . . . Malina . . .” Tommy’s gaze landed on her name just as she answered. “This is Tommy. Tommy Phillips. We met at the boutique. . . .”

  “Tommy.” She laughed, in a way he hadn’t expected. Was she flirting, making fun of him? Was he paranoid and reading too much into what was probably nothing? “That was fast.” Her voice was light and teasing.

  Tommy cleared his throat, then immediately wished that he hadn’t. It made him sound shaky and nervous, which he was, but it wouldn’t do any good to reveal that. “Yeah, well, I just, uh, I just finished my set, and I was wondering if you two might want to meet. You know, for a drink, or . . . something . . .” He leaned against his car door and waited for her reply. The silence mounted, seeming to drag on for an intolerable amount of time.

  “I’m very interested in meeting with you, Tommy.”

  He closed his eyes. He was minutes away from the best night of his life.

  “Only not tonight.” Her words flowed easily, though that didn’t mean they were easy for Tommy to hear.

  Had he misread the signals?

  He pictured them standing before him, arms slung around each other’s waists, whispering back and forth and never once taking their eyes off him. . . .

  No, it was impossible, out of the question. He might be only eighteen, but he’d been hit on by enough females to recognize the signs.

  Tommy frowned at the phone. She was waiting for him to respond, but he had no idea what to say. Had he fallen for some kind of joke?

  He tossed his guitar onto the backseat, feeling like an idiot for making the call and allowing himself to get so riled up only to be rejected by some ridiculously hot, yet clearly sadistic women.

  “Tommy?” The sound of her voice dragged him away from his thoughts and back to the very confused present he resided in. “Did you even look at my card?” Her voice was amused in a way that left him both annoyed and ashamed.

  His jaw clenched, he retrieved her card again, and when he read the small print just under her name, he couldn’t help but grin.

  Apparently Malina Li was head of A and R for a major record label he’d actually heard of.

  So it was his music she was int
erested in, not him.

  A bigger win than he could ever imagine.

  “I’m an asshole.” He slid behind the wheel of his car and started the engine.

  “And I’m flattered.” She laughed. “Listen, why don’t you stop by my office tomorrow around one? I’ll have lunch brought in.”

  “I’ll be there,” he said, but she was already gone.

  He merged into traffic and drove with no particular destination in mind. His luck was about to turn—he could feel it—which left him in no mood to go home. He needed to celebrate, blow off some steam, and if Malina Li and her hot blond girlfriend weren’t into him, he’d find someone who was.

  The air might be dry and warm with zero chance of precipitation, but Tommy Phillips was determined to make it rain once and for all.

  TEN

  BEEN CAUGHT STEALING

  Aster Amirpour stirred in her bed, musing that she just might never leave. Her sheets were clean and of the absolute highest thread count; her pillow was lush and filled with pure, hypoallergenic goose down; her pajamas were woven from the finest Chinese silk; the temperature in her room was set exactly where she liked it, neither too hot nor too cold, but just right; and thanks to Ira and the maid service he’d hired, there were few visible signs of the police having ransacked the place in search of incriminating evidence while she’d been gone.

  She flopped onto her belly, buried her face in her pillow, and nearly wept from the sheer joy of having an entire day rolled out before her to spend however she wanted. Maybe she’d go to the beach and take a long walk. Only this time, she’d pause long enough to appreciate all the small details she once used to ignore—the way the seagulls soared overhead, the way the sand rose and fell beneath her feet. After a week in the rage-filled environment of lockup, stripped of her freedom, her privacy, and everything else, she couldn’t imagine ever taking the small things for granted again.

  The thought of jail was enough to send her mood plummeting. It was crazy how easily her emotions could shift. While she mostly fought hard to stay optimistic and upbeat, there was no avoiding the reality that the frivolous life she’d once enjoyed was now forever off-limits. Even if she were cleared of all charges, the small part she’d played in the Madison drama would forever live on as a piece of grisly Hollywood lore. She’d reached for fame and wound up with infamy. She’d wanted to be an actress, and now it was just a matter of time before some casting director went looking for someone to play her in the cheesy, movie-of-the-week crime drama that was probably already in development.