by Alyson Noel
Layla had no shortage of petty annoyances. Her list of pet peeves was so lengthy it often left her feeling more like some old curmudgeon than the eighteen-year-old girl that she was. Maybe she should lighten up, open her heart, and embrace the fact that the person before her was a very proud Ferrari owner, and rightfully so.
But when she read the plate again, she realized the best and only recourse for someone like her was to maneuver around it until she could no longer see it.
She weaved in and out of traffic, scanning her rearview and side mirrors for radar-gun-wielding cops. Last thing she needed was a ticket; she was already running late as it was. While the BMW was comfortable and drove like a dream, if she’d taken the Kawasaki she would’ve been there by now. Still, the use of an Unrivaled company car was a major job perk she’d be a fool to pass up, and yet the fact that she hadn’t left Layla uneasy. It was more than the fear that she was turning into yet another shallow, materialistic, mall-worshipping zombie like her mom. Now that Layla and her dad were both working for Unrivaled, the car was like another hook connecting her to Ira.
Having started the day getting reprimanded for deeming the organic, gluten-free, Paleo-approved pet food as not goodie-bag-worthy when, according to Emerson, there was no shortage of celebrities wanting their dogs to eat like cavemen, Layla desperately needed to end her first week on the job by accomplishing at least one assignment she could feel proud of.
Emerson had jumped all over her when he caught her ducking out early, convinced she was getting a jump on the weekend. The astonished look on his face when she informed him she was on her way to meet with Malina Li at Elixir Records made the humiliation almost worth it.
For whatever reason, Ira had specifically asked her to handle the music for the tequila launch, which seemed like a pretty important task—one that would definitely be better handled by someone with far more experience. She’d even gone so far as to question why the Vesper’s booking agent didn’t handle it instead. Because I’m asking you, had been Ira’s terse reply, and Layla had been smart enough to leave it at that.
After turning left on a red (the only way to turn left in LA, thanks to the constant flow of heavy traffic), she found a space in the parking structure and rode the elevator to the very top floor, all the while trying not to feel completely out of her league, which she undoubtedly was.
The office walls were covered with framed photos of Elixir’s numerous rock star clients, and Layla tried not to fidget as the receptionist gave her a thorough once-over before ushering her into a sleek, modern, yet decidedly feminine space decorated in brushed golds and rich creams, where a gorgeous woman with long dark hair and deep red lips sat frowning behind a large ebony desk.
Malina Li, the head of A and R, was exactly the kind of woman Layla dreamed of interviewing. Her rise to the top of a male-dominated industry was the sort of story Layla dreamed of writing. But at the moment, Malina was scowling, and because of it, Layla was cringing.
“You’re not Ira,” Malina snapped.
Layla stood awkwardly before her. “I’m here on Ira’s behalf.” She hoped it was the right thing to say. The way Malina shook her head and leaned back in her seat, silently regarding Layla through a thick fringe of lashes and a judgmental brow, told her it wasn’t. “I’m going to be honest,” Layla said, figuring it was better to be frank and not even try to bluff her way through the meeting. “I’m not entirely sure why I’m here. I don’t usually handle these things.”
Malina sighed and crossed her legs at the knee. “Leave it to Ira to send a newbie to punish me.” The sour expression that followed only served to punctuate the sentiment. “Okay. Fine,” she said as though resigned to her fate. “I don’t know how much Ira’s told you, but the short version is the artist he booked for the launch just canceled due to reasons I will not get into. Suffice it to say Ira is furious. And while I understand his predicament, I’ve recently signed someone new who’s destined to blow up really big. If Ira agrees to book him, it will only raise the cachet of his brand, as he’ll be able to lay claim to being the first to showcase him.”
“Sounds exciting,” Layla said, but the baleful look Malina shot her told her she would’ve been better off saying nothing at all.
“So, seeing as Ira saw fit to send you, that means the future of my bright and shining star, my great new hope, rests entirely in your inexperienced hands.”
Layla swallowed. That sounded ridiculously overdramatic, but she knew better than to respond.
“What do you know about music?” Malina demanded.
Layla gnawed the inside of her cheek. In her panic, her mind had gone blank and she couldn’t recall a single song that she liked. Thanks to her dad’s creative influence, Layla had grown up listening to some pretty cool bands. Much of her childhood had been spent touring art galleries, museums, and going to concerts. Because of that, she had no embarrassing boy band crushes that could ever come back to haunt her. And yet, with Malina warily eyeing her, the best Layla could do was mumble, “Um, I mostly like rock. I listen to a lot of classic rock, actually.”
“How classic?” Malina uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. Her chair squeaked in protest as Layla gulped. This was a test she would either pass or fail. There was no gray zone with Malina.
“Classic like . . . Zeppelin, Hendrix, Bowie, Nirvana . . . oh, and the Cure,” she said, remembering how Mateo had introduced her to them, and while she could no longer remember if she’d liked them, it was out there now and there was no retrieving the words.
“Nirvana is classic rock?” Malina quirked an amused brow.
“They were playing ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ when I bought guacamole at Gelson’s the other day.” Layla met her gaze and held it.
“Touché.” Malina grinned, well, barely, but still, Layla would take what she could get. “So reassuring to know my high school soundtrack has survived the test of time only to end up in the local produce aisles.” She tapped her fingers against her desk, then pulled a demo CD from a folder and pushed it halfway between them. “It’s not a proper studio recording, which means it’s a little rough. Also, we haven’t had time to schedule a professional photo shoot, but trust me when I say this guy is hot, hot, hot and has the talent to match.”
Layla nodded and waited for more, waited for Malina to remove her perfectly manicured index finger from the CD so she could stuff it into her bag and get the hell out of there.
“Originally, I was positioning him to debut at the Vesper. But now that this opportunity’s opened up, I think the Unrivaled tequila launch would work just as well. He’s new, but he’s ready. I’ve no doubt he can handle the crowd. Now it’s all up to you . . .” Malina’s eyes narrowed, her voice faded; clearly she’d already forgotten who she was talking to. Could this meeting get any worse?
“Layla,” she supplied, her voice as tight as the expression she wore on her face.
“Yes, so my hope is you’ll give him a chance, Layla.”
Malina emphasized the name as though committing it to memory, and suddenly Layla wished that she wouldn’t—wished that the moment she left, Malina would forget she existed.
“I’m sure you know how hard it is to make it in this town. The industry is very competitive, and . . .” Her phone buzzed then, and she glanced at the screen and pressed her lips into a frown. “Just—give it a listen.” She rushed to stand and pressed the demo into Layla’s hands as she promptly stood too.
“I expect to hear from you soon. We’re only days away from the event, so we need to move quickly.” She was already at the door. Layla was just a few steps behind her.
“And the artist’s name?” Layla asked. She knew nothing about the music biz, but it seemed weird that during the entire time Malina had been singing this unknown rock god’s praises, she’d yet to mention his name.
“Don’t worry about that. Just give it a chance.”
Layla left the office and made her way to her car. It felt so good to be out of that corporate env
ironment—away from Malina, free of Emerson. She thought she might even open her sunroof—something the sun-phobic LA native rarely did.
She plucked a flyer from under the windshield wiper, about to toss it when she realized it wasn’t a flyer at all.
It was another card. Her name was carefully scripted on the front of the envelope in that all-too-familiar curlicue scrawl, while the card itself bore a picture of the same cartoon cat from the first one. Only now, in addition to the noose around its neck and the bloody gunshot wound to its head, its front teeth were knocked out, making for an even more sinister grin.
Inside, someone had written:
Your reluctance to play is making me sad
Better move quickly before sad turns to mad
It would be a real shame
If you mistook this for a game
If you continue to delay
There will be a hefty price to pay.
Layla’s gaze darted frantically around the parking garage as she tried to catch a glimpse of whoever might’ve delivered it. Were they hidden away somewhere, watching her every move? She shook away the thought, buried the paper deep in her bag, and slid inside her car.
The only one who knew about her meeting was Emerson. Even Malina had expected to meet with Ira, not her. Had he really driven all the way out here just to slip the message under her windshield? She supposed it was possible, and yet, something about it didn’t make sense.
Eager to rule it either way, Layla phoned the office and asked to speak to him. If Emerson was there, then she’d know he didn’t do it. She hadn’t been in Malina’s office long enough for him to make the round trip.
But if he wasn’t there . . .
The call connected and Layla was immediately put on hold.
“I’m afraid you’ve just missed him,” the receptionist said, her voice terse and hurried. “Can I take a message?”
Layla sat behind the wheel of her car, her gaze shifting between her side and rearview mirrors. “How long ago did he leave?”
The receptionist heaved an annoyed sigh. “I don’t know. Not long. Look, do you want to try his cell? We’re really busy here what with the launch and all.”
Layla ended the call and started the car. Someone was playing her—using her as a pawn in hopes of exposing Madison’s lies. And the worst part was, Layla had no clue as to who was behind it. Though the threatening tone had given her pause, to fold now would be to surrender what little power she had, and that she would not do. If they wanted her to post the journal entries, then they’d have to send something a lot juicier than the adolescent angst she’d received so far.
With the sun blaring overhead, Layla fed the CD into the stereo, cranked up the volume, and merged onto the street. Maybe she didn’t plan on making a career out of marketing, maybe she loathed the corporate hierarchy, which bore an eerie resemblance to her junior high cafeteria, but there was something to be said for getting paid to drive around the city listening to a demo CD.
The sound of an electric guitar burst through the speakers, and like Malina had warned, the sound quality really was rough. But the opening refrain was catchy enough to convince Layla to turn up the speakers.
A few chords in, a male voice began to sing. The lyrics were so wistful, Layla unwittingly slowed at a yellow, causing a flurry of horns to honk all around her. But she was too captured by the singing to focus on the driver behind her flipping the bird with both fingers. The voice coming through her speakers was strangely and hauntingly familiar.
She listened closer . . . something about kissing a girl in a bar . . . a girl with deep violet eyes . . .
The light turned green. The car behind her slammed the horn hard. But Layla remained right where she was. Listening to Tommy Phillips sing about the night he hooked up with Madison Brooks, knowing she now held the power to either make or break his debut.
SEVENTEEN
’TIS A PITY SHE WAS A WHORE
Transcript
Trena Moretti Exclusive Prime-Time Interview
Episode Title: “What Happened to Madison Brooks?”
Air Date: August 19, 2016
Topic: Did Aster Amirpour Murder Madison Brooks?
Trena Moretti: Aster, I’d like to thank you for agreeing to talk with me today. After nearly a week in jail, you were just released on bail. What was it like for you living behind bars?
Aster Amirpour: A complete and total living hell.
TM: I can’t help but notice your injuries. Can you tell us about how you sustained those?
AA: I was jumped.
TM: You were jumped by . . .
AA: Another inmate. I’d just been put into the holding cell and the next thing I knew, I was being attacked.
TM: Was there any indication as to why?
AA: (sighs) Listen, jail is a sad, depressing, and desperate environment that doesn’t operate according to the usual social niceties. People are locked up in cages, locked up like animals, and so they begin thinking and acting that way. I have no idea what motivated the attack; maybe she was a Madison fan.
TM: A Madison fan. According to our records, you were once a Madison fan too.
AA: (looks directly at the camera) I still am. Listen, what people don’t understand and what I’d like to make clear is that I’m one of Madison’s biggest fans. I love her, and admire her, and I’d never, ever do anything to harm her—
TM: (interrupts) And yet you had no problem having an affair with Madison’s boyfriend at the time, TV star Ryan Hawthorne. Or are you denying your involvement with Ryan?
AA: I’m not denying anything, though I’m not sure that what I had with Ryan constitutes an affair.
TM: Well, it’s no secret you accepted the presents he gave you, and there were pictures of the two of you kissing. . . .
AA: Yes, and while all of that is true, it still wasn’t quite as . . . intense . . . as people like to assume.
TM: Meaning?
AA: Meaning, Ryan and I never slept together. I was a virgin the entire time I was with him.
Ryan gripped the transcript so tightly Aster could hear the paper crumple in protest. “Is this true?” He stared at her bug-eyed.
Aster focused hard on the road before her. She was working from memory—a memory that was foggy at best. While she couldn’t remember anything about arriving at the apartment, she remembered leaving it all too well. And yet, the sting of shame had been so strong, she’d grabbed a cab and gotten the hell out of there as quickly as possible without once looking back.
If only she had the luxury of not looking back now.
How was she to know that the one night she couldn’t recall would end up being the basis for her entire defense?
Between the diary entries Layla had received, Madison’s numerous lies about her past, and the odd mix of people she’d kept on her payroll, there were a lot of moving parts, none of which seemed to connect. Though Aster was determined to prove they fit nicely together, at the moment it was like having all the corners and edges of a puzzle but not a single piece to fill in the center.
Her first task was to retrace her steps that fateful night, beginning with locating the mystery apartment. Though Ryan had insisted on joining her, she drew the line at letting him drive. She needed the time behind the wheel, needed to feel in control of when and where she was going. She’d given Ryan the transcript in a bid to keep him occupied. At the time, she hadn’t given much thought to its contents and how it might affect him. Now that he had, she realized she would’ve been better off waiting for it to air later that night.
“I guess I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think it mattered.” Defiantly, Aster lifted her chin and focused on Ryan. His expression was grim.
“C’mon, Aster, at least give me the benefit of the truth. A girl as beautiful as you doesn’t lack for opportunity—if you chose to remain a virgin this long, then clearly, it was important to you.”
She exhaled deeply, wishing she could shut her eyes and block him out completel
y, but the bumper-to-bumper LA traffic wouldn’t allow it. “Most of my friends couldn’t wait to get on with it, like it was some kind of burden they were desperate to be rid of. But I didn’t see it that way. I wanted it to matter—to mean something more than just some crazy night with a boy I felt nothing for.” She stole a glance at him. “That night at Night for Night, I was ready to go through with it. I’d convinced myself you were the one. Turns out I was wrong.” When she dared to look at him, she found his expression so bereft it made her heart squeeze in spite of herself.
Her spine straightened, her shoulders stiffened. She needed to do whatever it took to defend against the conflicting emotions his mere presence incited. Ryan is an actor—he’s not to be trusted. The phrase had become like a mantra she continuously repeated.
Ryan studied the transcript. “You say here that the entire time you were with me you were a virgin—does that mean you’re not anymore?”
“What the hell does it matter?” She punched the brake at a red light and silently fumed as the car pitched forward and her gaze caught on yet another billboard featuring Madison’s face.
“If it was your choice—your conscious choice and your conscious consent—then it’s absolutely none of my business, you’re right. But Aster, if someone assaulted you, then that’s a very different scenario.”
“You already know about the video,” she snapped. “So draw your own conclusions.” The second the light turned green, she pressed hard on the gas and shot out of the intersection. There was nothing like driving for blowing off steam.
“You said you were alone in the video.”
“Well, clearly someone was holding the camera.” She rolled her eyes and turned up the radio to drown out his voice. Ryan was seriously starting to get on her nerves.
“You need to tell someone.”
She shrugged, in no mood to discuss it.
“I mean like your attorneys, or the police, or even your parents.”
“No!” The word came out more forceful than she intended, but she was seriously regretting her decision to tell him. More than anyone, her parents could never know. And if she told the police or her attorney, then they’d confiscate the DVD so they could introduce it at trial, and no good would come of that. When it came to sexual assault, people loved to blame the victim, and unfortunately, slut shaming was all too real. If her parents found out, it would destroy them in a way from which they’d never recover. She’d caused them enough pain already—she refused to add any more.
