Blacklist
Page 16
She paused in her seat and gripped the wheel hard, her breath coming hectic, too fast, as she willed herself to relax and get a grip on herself.
She could do this.
She had to do this.
Inside, her parents were waiting, and she’d put them through enough hell already. Last thing she needed was to bail on their agreement to meet.
Sliding out of the car, she hurried across the stone drive and made her way to the door, wondering who she’d find waiting on its other side—the maid or Nanny Mitra. She was hoping for Javen, thinking a friendly face might set her at ease, when the door swung open, she took one look at her father, and instinctively barreled into his arms.
He nudged the door closed with his foot and returned the embrace. But it wasn’t his usual hug. His demeanor was perfunctory, stiff, and not nearly as warm and welcoming as Aster once remembered him being.
A moment later, she pulled away, swiped a hand over her face, and said, “Hi, Dad.”
He returned her greeting with the saddest gaze she’d ever seen.
She looked past his shoulder to find her mother standing just behind him, though Aster settled for nodding, knowing better than to try to hug her. Nanny Mitra stood by the grand staircase, but Aster, still feeling the sting of her betrayal, chose to focus on her brother instead.
Remembering their agreement to pretend they hadn’t seen each other until now, she hugged him fiercely and ruffled his hair, until he finally whispered, “Jeez, Aster, don’t overdo it.” And she quickly released him and stood awkwardly before them, unsure what came next.
She’d gone over the moment so many times in her head, but now that it was happening in real time, she could no longer remember the speech she’d prepared. While an apology seemed an appropriate place to start, there was a part of her that doubted it would do any good. It seemed they’d moved way beyond that.
“We’ll talk in the living room.” Her mother’s voice was stern and commanding, bordering on harsh. To Javen, she said, “Now that you’ve seen your sister, it’s time for you to go back to your room.”
“But Mom—” he started to protest, but Aster shook her head in warning. Last thing she needed was for him to agitate her mother any more than she already was.
She watched as Javen pounded up the stairs with Nanny Mitra close on his heels; then she followed her mother’s rigid, Chanel-clad back to the sofa, where she was ordered to sit.
Aster sank onto the French silk cushions, which weren’t nearly as welcoming as they appeared. But then with the abundance of stiff-backed chairs and priceless antiques Aster had been forbidden to touch as a kid, the house had been designed more with an eye to impress than to comfort.
Not surprisingly, her mother was the first to break the silence. “I’m sure you can imagine how distressing it was for us to learn that you were out on bail and you’d failed to contact us.”
Aster stared down at her hands. She’d expected this, and yet she still hadn’t come up with a satisfying answer that would explain her actions without hurting their feelings. “I needed some space,” she finally said. “And I guess I figured you did as well.”
Her mother tilted her chin in a way that made her appear even more poised and regal than usual. And with her dad standing behind her, his hand resting on the back of her chair, they looked so imperious, so impenetrable, Aster wondered why she’d ever thought it a good idea to visit them.
She gripped the edge of the cushion and started to rise. This was a mistake. She needed to leave before it could get any worse.
“We saw the interview.”
Aster was crouched in a half-standing, half-sitting position when her father’s voice jerked her away from her thoughts.
“You held your own with that reporter. I was proud of the way you handled her.” Aster slowly lowered herself back onto the cushion and prepared to settle in, if only for a little longer.
Her father was proud of her.
She’d made her father proud.
She was close to weeping from the sheer joy of hearing his words, but forced herself to merely nod in reply.
“We know you didn’t do it, Aster.”
The last statement came from her mother, and Aster wondered for a moment if maybe she’d somehow imagined it. It was the very last thing she’d ever expected to hear. She’d been sure her mom had assumed she was guilty of every imaginable atrocity from the moment she’d caught Aster sneaking into the house dressed in boys’ clothes.
“Though that doesn’t excuse the actions you took that landed you in your current predicament. Nor does it excuse the hell you’ve put this family through.”
And . . . she’s back! Aster slumped low on the sofa. She’d expected exactly this and much worse. Hell, she deserved it. She’d hurt them in every conceivable way, and there was no making up for it. All she could do now was try to shield them from the freak show her life had become. Unfortunately, with the upcoming trial, the public scrutiny was about to amp up in ways they could never foresee.
She ran her fingers over the custom upholstery, aware that every touch, every look, was the last until she could put the whole mess behind her. And if things didn’t go her way, then it was entirely possible she’d never return.
Her father patted her mother’s shoulder in a vain attempt to calm her, but Aster’s mother, as usual, refused to be silenced.
“Your brother’s studies are slipping, we’re plagued by paparazzi who continuously manage to sneak inside our community, not to mention our company stocks are plummeting.”
“They’re not plummeting,” Aster’s father corrected, but her mother shook her head and held firm.
“Our business interests are being adversely affected.”
Aster swallowed hard, unsure exactly what was expected of her. There was no use defending herself when they’d already confirmed they believed she was innocent. As for all their other grievances, there was no denying she was 100 percent guilty of causing them.
All except for Javen’s poor grades, which probably had a lot more to do with his new boyfriend than her. Though it wasn’t like she’d ever reveal that. It was his secret to share.
Aster threw up her hands. “I’m not really sure what you want me to do here.”
“Move home,” her father said. “So we can look after you.”
The pleading look on his face nearly saw her agreeing. But a moment later, Aster shook her head. “You think it’s bad now with the paparazzi? It’ll be ten times worse if I move back. And while I can never make up for all the trouble and heartache I’ve caused, I can do my best to protect you from at least some of the circus that surrounds me. And the only way to do that is to distance myself entirely.”
“But I’ve hired a team of lawyers!” her father cut in. Edging around her mother’s chair, he came to stand before her. “They want to talk to you about discussing a plea bargain.”
Aster nearly shot out of her chair as her gaze darted wildly between her parents. “A plea bargain? Why would I even consider that when I’m innocent?”
“This has nothing to do with whether or not you’re innocent,” her mother said as Aster stared incredulously, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. “Aster, you have to realize there’s an overwhelming amount of evidence stacked against you. The prosecution is already threatening the death penalty.”
Aster gaped in astonishment. They couldn’t possibly believe this was the best path to follow. She was willing to do whatever it took to protect them, shield them, and most of all stop hurting them. But not at her expense. Not like this.
“We can get you a reduced sentence with the possibility of parole for good behavior,” her father said. “You’ll be out in a matter of years.”
“So they’ll let me out when I’m eighty years old and my life is nearly over?” Aster shook her head, refused to even consider it. The week she’d spent in jail had been an absolute nightmare, and that was like a country club compared to the harsh reality of a state prison.
“Aster, please—don’t be so naive . . . ,” her mother started, but Aster had already turned away, was already crossing the precious hand-woven Persian rug that had been passed down through multiple generations of Amirpours, and heading for the door. Her eyes swimming with tears, she blindly felt her way out of there.
“At least speak to our lawyers.” Her father chased behind her.
Aster paused with her hand on the knob. She knew they meant well—that they were panicked and fearful and desperate for a way to end the nightmare. But people driven by fear were known to make notoriously bad choices. What they were asking her to do was inconceivable at best. She had a little more than a month to further her investigation and prove them all wrong, and she intended to take full advantage of every second of freedom she currently had. Rushing to make an agreement with the prosecution would only succeed in her being locked away for a very long while.
“I have lawyers,” she said. “Good lawyers. Ira hired them.”
“And how are you going to repay him?” her mother asked, her face clouded with the worst sort of suspicion.
Aster cringed under her glare. She’d asked herself the same thing many times, and still had no ready answer. “I know it’s a lot to ask,” she said. “But I need you to trust that I just might know what I’m doing, despite all immediate evidence to the contrary.”
Her parents stood silent and united before her, and knowing that was the best she could hope for, Aster leaned in to hug them both briefly, then made her way back to her car.
To think the day had started on such a positive note, with Aster filling in some of the missing pieces she’d been unable to recall. With Layla’s support, she’d finally summoned the courage to watch the DVD in its entirety, which amounted to just under six minutes of a completely mortifying striptease, before she grew increasingly wobbly on her feet and the footage abruptly cut off. As embarrassing as it was to watch that with Layla, at least they were able to confirm there was no sign of assault. Though it wasn’t until Javen also confirmed that no one else had entered the apartment between the time the mystery girl left and Aster rushed out the next morning that she could truly experience the relief of that particular burden being lifted. And yet, despite the bright start, the visit with her parents had sunk her right back into the familiar depths of despair.
And now she had to go meet with Ira to discuss her appearance at his upcoming tequila launch scheduled for next weekend. The event would mark her first public debut since her interview with Trena had aired on TV the night before, and Ira, as usual, would leave nothing to chance.
Aster started her car and drove toward the gate. With her trial looming near, she resented both the intrusion on her time, and Ira expecting her to appear at his party like some kind of scandalous show pony. Though for the moment, she was in no position to argue. Accepting his help kept the burden off her family, which meant she was indebted to him, for better or worse.
TWENTY-TWO
EX’S & OH’S
“Don’t be so nervous—it’s gonna be fun!”
Easy for her to say. Mateo crawled out of Heather’s car and gazed up at the towering manse, feeling woefully out of his league, which was how he often felt these days. Between the numerous photo shoots required to build a portfolio, the meetings with agents, editors, and advertisers, not to mention the crash course in media training taught by Heather, who insisted he’d thank her later, his days were long and full and ran at a much quicker pace than he was used to. The sort of full-throttle lifestyle most Angelenos claimed to thrive on was something Mateo had always worked to avoid. And now, only a week in, he felt like a passenger in a runaway car with no brakes. There’d been no time for surfing, and ironically, he’d barely seen much of his family. The simple pleasures he’d once taken for granted suddenly seemed like a luxury.
He ran a thumb over the woven friendship bracelet he wore on his left wrist—a gift from Valentina, who’d made it for his birthday a couple of years before, and he hadn’t taken it off since. In the life he now found himself living, it was one of the few remaining tokens that anchored him to his former self, and he cherished it more than ever.
“Try not to look so impressed,” Heather hissed, grabbing him by the elbow and maneuvering him toward the security tent set up just outside the gate. “Or, more accurately, try not to look so horrified.” She laughed and squeezed his arm, as they waited for the bouncer to check them off the guest list and usher them inside.
“People actually live like this?” Mateo gaped at the ultramodern, multistory, over-the-top residence. It was like something out of a movie. A glass-and-steel fortress rumored to have over fifty bathrooms and thirty bedrooms, not that he planned on counting them. He’d also heard something about an on-site bowling alley, a subterranean twenty-car garage, and a working diner and hair salon. The whole thing reeked of the worst sort of excess.
“No one actually lives in this place,” Heather said. “It’s more of a party house.”
Mateo frowned. Here he was, worried about paying his little sister’s medical bills, while others were building multimillion-dollar homes so they’d have a place to host elaborate parties. Before the rush of bitterness could completely take over, he looked at Heather and said, “Sounds like you’ve been here before.”
Heather shrugged nonchalantly, refusing to commit either way. Then, pushing through the crowded entry, she grabbed two shots of Unrivaled tequila from a passing waiter who was too overwhelmed to actually card anyone and handed one to Mateo. “We don’t have to stay long, but it’s good PR to appear at these things. As long as you don’t get carried away and drink too many of these, that is.” She hoisted her glass, tossed an arm around Mateo’s neck, and grinned for a nearby photographer. The whole scene was over and done with before Mateo could even process what’d happened.
Heather had a knack for spotting photogs and making every moment seem as though it were tailor made for Instagram. She clinked her glass against his and drained it with a toss of her head. Her eyes gleaming, cheeks flushed a light pink, she encouraged him to follow her lead. “Drink up so you can tell Ira how much you like it, even if you don’t.”
Mateo drained his shot, surprised by how smooth the tequila went down. Returning the empties to another passing waiter, Heather grasped Mateo’s hand in hers and led him through the house and outside to the backyard, toward the large, rectangular infinity pool that seemed to spill off the face of the earth.
Thanks to Heather’s insisting they arrive late, the party was in full swing. “Not only does it spare you the horror of appearing overeager,” she’d claimed, “but more importantly, it gives you the sober advantage. Nothing like showing up fresh and clearheaded while everyone else has spent the entire night drinking. You’d be amazed at what those notoriously private A-listers get up to once they start hittin’ the sauce. ‘Loose lips sink ships,’ as they say. But I say, ‘Better to watch their yacht go up in flames than your own.’”
Not only was Heather full of sayings like that, but she also had an entire rundown on the inner workings of the A-, B-, and C-lists (the D-list weren’t worth knowing, and so she didn’t). Most of the time, her incessant chatter made Mateo’s head spin. He could barely keep up with all the names, much less the gossip surrounding them. Even when he’d been with Layla, and he offered to proofread her blogs, he mostly looked for structure and typos; the actual content had never held any interest for him.
While Heather considered herself a solid member of the B-list, she was convinced her new show would propel her straight to the top of TV royalty and was constantly reminding Mateo of how she could help introduce him to all the right people whenever he got tired of modeling, which she insisted he would.
Truth was, Mateo was already tired of
modeling, but he was resigned to being in it for as long as it took. The money was good, more than he’d ever seen on a single paycheck with his name on it, so there was no reason to stop, no matter how foolish he felt posing for the camera.
Still, Heather had gone out of her way to help him. And while he had no interest in adding actor to his résumé, he was grateful for all that she’d done. She’d even promised to set him up with her financial adviser—an absolute necessity, according to her.
“How good are you with money?”‘ she’d asked, just after he’d received his first check.
Mateo had shrugged. “I’ve never had enough to know.”
The look Heather had given him was long and considering. “I know the money sounds like a lot at first, but trust me, between agents and taxes, it gets chipped away pretty quickly. Which is why so many once-promising entertainers end up broke and in rehab.”
“That won’t happen to me,” Mateo had said, though the skeptical look on Heather’s face left him unsettled.
Actually, Heather left him unsettled. Ever since the photo shoot on the beach, Mateo had been distracted by the thought of kissing her again. Probably because their kiss marked the only moment since Valentina fell ill and he broke up with Layla that he’d been able to lose himself in the moment and forget just how desperate his life had become.
For the first time ever, Mateo understood why people like his brother Carlos gravitated toward the numbing effect of alcohol, drugs, and other addictions when life got too rough. Carlos never forgave himself for surviving the car accident that claimed their father’s life. Even though they ruled out driver error early on, Carlos refused to ever get behind the wheel again and dedicated what little remained of his own life in pursuit of numbing and forgetting, instead of accepting the fact that sometimes life just didn’t make sense.