by Alyson Noel
Her carefree days were over. Her entire future hung in the balance. And Aster, who had once been popular, loved, and surrounded by friends, had never felt so alone in the world.
Sure, Ira had assembled a great team of lawyers to defend her—but what if it wasn’t enough? What if despite their best efforts, a jury of twelve random people still decided they didn’t like what they saw and convicted her of first-degree murder? The thought of going to prison was horrible enough, but knowing she’d never get out—never breathe the ocean air, never ruffle her little brother’s hair—was devastating at best.
A trial date would soon be set, which meant she needed to make the most of every moment between now and then. While she still had no recollection of how she’d spent the missing hours between leaving Ryan in the Riad and waking up in the strange apartment, she was committed to using every spare second to conduct her own investigation.
Someone was setting her up—most likely Ryan Hawthorne. And while she had no idea why, she was sure that the key to proving her innocence and getting herself out of the mess depended on either finding a way to restore her memory, locating Madison, or finding a way to connect Ryan to the crime.
If it was a crime. Despite the blood evidence, Aster refused to believe Madison was dead. And yet, where could she possibly have gone?
Just the thought of all she was facing was enough to make Aster’s eyes sting with tears, but she refused to indulge in them. While bed was tempting, and undeniably safe, she needed to get up and out. She needed to reclaim her life.
She shoved her feet into her slippers and padded across the room. Her fingers were just circling the door handle, when she heard voices drifting from the living room.
Was it Ira? Or possibly even the maids?
She pressed her ear hard against the door and tried to make out the words, but they were too muffled to decipher.
With her heart frantically slamming against her chest, she scanned the room for some kind of weapon, something she could use to defend herself in case it turned out to be one of her most ardent haters bent on revenge.
Unfortunately, she’d left her phone along with her purse in the living room. And, of course, being the girliest of girly girls, the best her room had to offer was a spiked Christian Louboutin heel.
Wielding the shoe like a weapon, Aster turned the knob and crept quietly into the hall, where she paused, pressed flush against the wall, and listened incredulously as a male voice said, “Relax. We have the whole place to ourselves. I told you, my sister’s still in jail.”
Javen?
Aster shot around the corner just in time to catch her little brother, Javen, kissing a boy on her couch.
“What the hell?” she shouted, her words stifled by Javen’s surprised shrieks.
He leaped away from the boy and stared frantic and bug-eyed at Aster. “What are you doing here?” His hands fluttered wildly, raking through his dark hair and swiping at his lips as though erasing the evidence. “You scared the crap out of me!”
“What am I doing here? You seriously think you’re the one who gets to ask questions?” Aster loomed before him, shoe at the ready.
Javen balked. “Well, kind of, yeah. And could you please lower that shoe? You could seriously hurt someone with that thing.”
“Yeah, well, that’s pretty much the point.” Aster lowered the shoe to her side but refused to let go. Her heart was pounding, her pajamas were soaked with fear-induced sweat, and other than an initial bout of shock, her brother looked as cool, calm, and handsome as ever. “Why aren’t you at school? And who the heck are you?” She stared daggers at her brother’s friend, who was cowering on the couch, unsure what to do.
“I’m Dylan,” he mumbled. Then, shifting his focus to Javen, he added, “Whoa, dude. I thought you said she was cool?”
“I didn’t say she was cool, I said she was in jail.” Javen rolled his eyes at his sister and sank back onto the couch beside his friend.
But Aster could barely focus on that. She was too busy gaping at the open bottle of Veuve Clicquot and the two half-full glasses sitting on the table before them.
“Are you seriously drinking my champagne?” She glanced between them, wondering what upset her more—that her little brother was ditching school and drinking—or that he was taking full advantage of her incarceration. Or maybe it was far worse than that. Maybe she feared her parents were right, that she really was a bad influence, and it was her fault he was here.
“We were thirsty.” Javen shrugged, though he was clearly losing some of his bravado and finally starting to look as worried as Aster felt he should be.
Still, she forced herself into silence, forced herself to take a moment to calm down and catch her breath. Truth was, she hadn’t seen Javen in over a week, and she’d missed him far more than she was willing to admit. Besides, it wasn’t like she wouldn’t have done the same thing at his age. Difference was, she would’ve been more careful. She never would’ve gotten caught. But what was worse was the realization that she was reacting just like her parents, and nothing good ever came of that.
She dropped the shoe to the floor and claimed the chair just opposite them.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Javen glared. “Well, you should be.”
Aster held his gaze until he looked away. Her brother was scared. It was right there in his eyes. His tough-guy act was clearly an attempt to impress his friend. And while Aster wouldn’t embarrass him any more than she already had, there was nothing wrong with drawing a boundary around that kind of behavior.
“Don’t push it,” she said. “Sneaking in here to drink and make out, what were you thinking?” She shook her head, torn between loving him and wanting to protect him, and all-out throttling him. It was a toss-up, but in the end, loving him won.
“Would you rather me do this at home?”
She closed her eyes and rubbed her hands over her face. That was the last thing she wanted. Her parents loved Javen, but they weren’t the most modern of thinkers, and she shuddered at what they might do if they ever learned he was gay. Of course there always existed the slim possibility that they’d do little more than love him and support him and wish him the best. Though the odds of that happening were so slim, she wasn’t willing to take the chance.
“How long have you been coming here?” she asked. “And don’t lie and say today was the first time, because we both know it wasn’t.”
“Would you believe it was only the second time?”
Her eyes met his. “No, I wouldn’t. And what about school?”
“We sneak off campus for lunch.” He shrugged.
“You haven’t been caught?”
He made a face, while Dylan remained frozen beside him. “Attendance is all computerized now, so . . .”
The shrug that followed conveyed the words he’d failed to say. Her brother was a computer whiz, which meant he’d probably hacked into the system. Looked like there were now two criminals in the family. She figured the less she knew about his illicit activities the better.
“Do Mom and Dad know you’re out?” he asked, his entire tone changing as he looked at her with concern.
“Nobody knows,” she finally admitted, figuring she might as well lead with the truth. “And I’m hoping you’ll keep it that way.” She shot her brother and Dylan each a stern look.
“I’m willing to keep the secret if you are.”
She grinned. She wanted so badly to hug him, but not wanting to embarrass him, she said, “I’m guessing you two haven’t eaten?”
Dylan shook his head, seeming to finally relax.
“Because the thing you should know about drinking is that it’s never a good idea on an empty stomach.” Aster reached for the room service menu and quickly looked it over. “And while I didn’t give you a key card so you could sneak in here for a school-break sexcapade, that doesn’t mean I can’t buy you both lunch.” She shoved the menu at them. “What’ll it be?”
Javen glanced bet
ween the menu and Aster, his face flushing when he said, “Um, Aster?”
She quirked a brow and waited.
“Could you bury the phrase ‘school-break sexcapade’?”
Aster grinned and headed back to her room. She had a big day ahead, an important interview with Trena Moretti to prepare for. While she wasn’t sure she was ready, it was important to move quickly. It was just a matter of time before the press learned she was out on bail, and once that happened she’d be hounded worse than any A-list celebrity.
“Order me a kale salad,” she called over her shoulder, desperate to eat something healthy after all the starchy food she’d choked down in jail. Then, thinking if there ever was a time to indulge in a treat it was now, she added, “Oh, and make sure to get some truffle fries on the side. I’m going to take a quick shower, a very quick shower. So don’t get too comfortable while I’m away.”
ELEVEN
RUDE BOY
“Oh, Layla, you’re back. Tell me, did you enjoy your day off?”
Layla stared at the coffeepot, waiting for it to finish brewing so she could get away from Emerson and back to her cubicle. She should’ve stopped by Intelligentsia to secure her caffeine fix on the way over like she usually did, but she’d woken up late and this was the price for hitting the snooze button multiple times. As if bitter break-room coffee wasn’t punishment enough, she was now forced to deal with Emerson and whatever patronizing point he insisted on making.
“You do realize we work full days around here?”
She pressed her lips together, grasped the mug by its handle, and turned to leave.
“Since you didn’t return yesterday, I thought maybe you were in need of some guidance, someone to explain all the rules.”
He stood just before her, blocking the doorway. Short of plowing through him and knocking him flat to the ground, there was no way out. And his formidable six-foot-four-inch frame with its considerable muscle mass pretty much rendered that impossible. With looks like his, she was surprised he’d settled for a job in marketing when he could’ve just as easily been starring in some cheesy prime-time soap that required him to film most of his scenes shirtless with his pants unbuttoned just so . . .
The thought was enough to make a flush rise to her cheeks, and she fought to recover by narrowing her gaze on his and speaking through gritted teeth. “Unless you plan on reciting the Unrivaled Employee Handbook, I really need to get back to my desk. We have a party to plan, in case you’ve forgotten.”
He leaned against the door frame, regarding her with his deep-topaz stare. “Do you have the final list of confirmed vendors?”
The urge to roll her eyes was strong, but she somehow resisted. Of course she had the list. She’d stayed up half the night working on the event to make up for blowing off the better part of the workday to hang with Tommy. She nodded curtly, sipped from her coffee, and waited for him to move out of her way.
“Good. Then that means you can sort through the boxes of gift suite contenders I placed on your desk.”
Layla fought to keep her face neutral. She hadn’t bothered to stop by her desk, since her first priority was to secure a large mug of coffee. She could only imagine the mess she’d find once she got there.
“It should take you the better part of the day, so no cutting out early, I’m afraid.” Emerson grinned in a way that highlighted just how good-looking he was, which only served to annoy Layla more. Before Mateo, Layla had made it a point to avoid the overly pretty types, determining that they were too vain, too narcissistic, and took themselves far too seriously to be any fun. But Mateo was different. Even though he was stop-and-stare gorgeous, most of the time he seemed entirely unaware of the fuss that surrounded him.
Just thinking about Mateo left Layla glum. Mateo was practically perfect, and yet he still hadn’t been enough for her. Maybe Layla didn’t know how to be happy. Maybe she was one of those people, like her mom, living a bottomless life—always seeking, always consuming, but never filling up or seeing the value in what they’d left behind. Not that she was currently speaking to her mom, but the description certainly fit, and from what she’d heard, there was trouble in paradise. Husband number two was still wealthy as ever (which was what attracted her mom in the first place), but apparently he had a wandering eye. Which came as no surprise, seeing as how he was married when the two of them met. If they’ll do it with you, they’ll do it to you was the thought that first sprang to mind. But when Layla applied it to her own life, she was no longer feeling so smug.
“Anything else?” She forced her face into an expression she hoped could be read as both amenable and dismissive.
“Just so we’re clear, you’re accountable here. There’s a hundred other people—people who are far more qualified than you—who would kill to have your job, and who also, I’m not gonna lie, are far more deserving of the position.”
Layla blinked and sipped, sipped and blinked. She wouldn’t give him the benefit of a reply.
“What I’m wondering is how exactly you ended up here when you’re so clearly out of your league.”
“I slept with Ira,” she said without irony.
When Emerson rolled his eyes, Layla didn’t know whether to be relieved or offended by how easily he’d dismissed the idea. “Just know that I’m watching you,” he snapped.
“Then I’ll try to be at my most entertaining.” Layla smirked.
Though he let her have the last word, his gaze held hers for so long Layla struggled not to fidget or be the first to look away. It was a play for dominance if she’d ever seen one. Emerson was determined to prove himself as the office alpha. As far as she was concerned, he could have it. Layla wasn’t looking to climb the Unrivaled corporate ladder. It was her first week on the job, and she could honestly say she pretty much hated marketing and all it entailed.
Emerson was right: she was unqualified, inexperienced, and she probably didn’t deserve to be taking up space and collecting a paycheck. But for whatever reason, Ira had hired her and she had accepted, and now that she was there, her goal was the same as it ever was—to save enough money to move to New York and enroll in journalism school. She was one year away from her dream, and with the way things were going, that day would not come soon enough.
She returned to a desk that was practically sagging under the weight of so many boxes of gift suite hopefuls she stared in dismay, wondering how she could possibly get through it all in the course of a single workday. Like any good capitalist, Ira had decided to exploit all the drama and attention surrounding Madison’s disappearance and the connection to his clubs to promote his latest venture into top-shelf tequila by moving the launch date up several months. Which essentially meant that Layla had arrived in the marketing department at the very worst, most frenzied time.
It also went a long way toward explaining how Ira had come to hire her in the first place. Ira was always working an angle. There were no accidents where he was concerned. Not only did he need all the help he could get to make the party a success, but Layla also had to admit, however reluctantly, that Tommy had been right all along—the popularity of her blog played a big part in Ira’s decision to keep her around long after he should’ve fired her.
Resigned, she sank onto her chair, grabbed a pair of scissors, and started opening boxes stuffed with generous offerings of expensive designer fragrances, scented candles, wireless headphones, gift certificates offering sessions with personal trainers and house calls from nutritionists. It was her job to determine if the celebrity guests who were allowed access to the gift suite would be more excited over the offer for free laser skin resurfacing or the exclusive, all-expenses-paid Mexican Riviera getaway. It was ridiculous how much free stuff was showered on the very people who could most afford it, while their legions of fans went into crippling credit card debt in an effort to emulate them.
She opened another box and stared in dismay at a package of gluten-free, paleo-diet-approved, organic pet food, wondering if it was cool enough,
chic enough, and covetable enough to excite the spoiled VIPs the gift bags were destined for. Probably not, she decided, tossing it onto the pile of things that would end up in the break room for all the marketing department employees to fight over. As far as Layla was concerned, they could have them. She’d yet to see a single thing she actually wanted.
Already bored, she sliced into the next box, dove through several inches of packing popcorn, and gaped at the sight of the envelope with her name written in curlicue script with another card featuring a picture of a cartoon cat. Only this time in addition to the noose around its neck, it had suffered a gruesome shotgun blast to the head.
This is round two
I’m still waiting on you
So much is at stake
And this is no fake
I’m hoping my gift might make your day
And hopefully even convince you to play.
Layla frowned and studied the sheet of paper folded inside. One glance at the flowering vines and hearts trailing the margins, along with the large loopy scrawl, told her it was another of Madison’s photocopied diary entries.
She glanced all around, ensured no one was looking, and examined the box. Like the last time, it was addressed to her, though there was no sign of where it had come from.
After another look over her shoulder, she smoothed the paper flat on her lap and began to read.
March 19, 2012
So, I’m seriously considering keeping Dalton around even though the original plan was to dump him after a week. But the more I think about it, the more I’m starting to believe I should maybe hang in for a while longer and not be in such a big hurry to break up with him.
