by Alyson Noel
Kissing Heather could easily become an addiction, a way to temporarily mask his painful reality. But he refused to use Heather in that way. And Mateo had never been one for random hookups. He was a solid relationship guy.
“Where have you gone?”
Mateo blinked at Heather’s curving pink lips, just inches from his.
“You’re a million miles away.” She tucked a renegade curl behind her ear and grinned in such a warm, appealing way, he could feel himself relenting on the deal he’d just struck with himself. “The stars are aligned.” She motioned toward a surprisingly clear and starry sky, courtesy of the late summer Santa Ana winds that had swept away the usual blanket of smog before mellowing to a much-welcomed breeze. “I don’t want to jinx it, but I truly believe we’re both on our way to greatness, and what better way to celebrate than in this ridiculously tacky, oversize party pad?”
Greatness translated to multiple zeros in his bank account and the best care for Valentina—a total win. And yet, so much had happened in the span of a week, his feelings were all over the place, though they didn’t necessarily veer toward celebratory.
His gaze met Heather’s. With her long golden hair cascading over her bare shoulders and her blue eyes flashing on his, there was no denying the attraction pulsing between them, like an invisible string pulling them together.
Next thing he knew Heather was leaning into him, pressing her body flush against his as his arms instinctively circled her waist. In his pocket, he felt his phone vibrate with an incoming text, but with Heather’s lips so warm against his, it was easy to ignore, easy to forget they were in a public place. Easy to forget he shouldn’t be doing this.
“Uh-oh, blogger alert.”
Heather pulled away and straightened her dress, as Mateo followed the length of her gaze all the way across the yard to the place where Layla stood watching.
TWENTY-THREE
USED TO LOVE YOU SOBER
Layla had arrived at the party unfashionably early, but that was only because she wasn’t there to have fun; she was there to do her job and make sure everything ran smoothly, or at least that was her assignment, according to the speech Emerson had given upon meeting her at the door.
She was only an hour in when she’d decided it was a lot more fun to be a nightclub promoter. Which was really saying something, considering how she’d been as completely unsuited for the job promoting Jewel as she was in her current position as junior marketer, or party fluffer, or whatever the hell Ira was paying her to do.
Still, the crowd was starting to grow, packing the expansive space with so many big-name athletes, actors, musicians, and models that the celebrity blogger inside her couldn’t help but feel gleeful at all the possible stories surrounding her. Though she’d been warned, by Emerson no less, that gossip blogging was strictly off-limits, she was encouraged to write about the event, but only in the most complimentary, product-friendly way. And even then, using only the preapproved photos supplied by the hired photographers. In other words—the usual obligatory, snooze-fest puff piece she had no interest in writing.
A quick trip to the gifting suite told her it had come together nicely, and there was no shortage of sexy, barely clad girls serving endless shots of Unrivaled tequila, which seemed to keep the male guests happy and sated. There was a DJ set up in the disco, and thanks to copious amounts of tequila, people were already dancing. There was also a putting green, a bowling alley, a game room stocked with purple felt billiard tables and vintage pinball machines, so many bars she lost count, and a multitude of bedrooms that, by the looks of the crowd, would be put to good use at some point.
There was even a cigar den on offer that was rumored to be well stocked with Cubans. Last she’d looked she’d found herself gaping in horror at the sight of her dad, haloed by foul-smelling smoke clouds while a woman Layla had never seen before perched on his knee. For one thing, her dad didn’t smoke. For another, her dad didn’t flirt or date or hook up or whatever it was he was doing with the blonde. As if seeing her dad at a party wasn’t bad enough, even worse was the nagging worry that it was all due to Ira’s influence.
Ever since her dad had started working for Ira, his nights were spent painting the mural and his days spent crashing for a few hours while Layla was at work. Ira had him on such a tight leash, Layla barely saw him. Initially she was worried about his health and well-being—he was really pushing himself. But after seeing him smoking a Cuban and acting so out of character, she wondered if she should be even more concerned.
Then again, maybe he just wanted to cut loose and have a little fun. It was a party, after all. And maybe, just maybe, Layla should stop acting like she was the parent and lighten up a little.
For the moment, she resolved to not only shelve her concerns, but to do whatever it took to avoid going anywhere near that room.
She glanced across the long stretch of lawn, where a stage was set and one of Ira’s minions fussed with the mic in preparation for Ira’s official greeting, after which Tommy would make his debut.
Only no one knew it was Tommy. Malina had made Layla promise to keep his identity under wraps, and Layla was still struggling with the decision to go along with her request. Malina had reasoned that Tommy was too easily linked to Madison’s disappearance—that the connection would only hinder his chances of people taking him seriously. While it made perfect sense on the surface, something about it didn’t fully add up. Layla was sure there was more going on than there seemed.
She’d held off on booking Tommy for as long as she could, prompting Malina to leave a string of feverish messages before Layla got around to returning her calls. Though she was tempted to reject him, if for no other reason than to get back at him for acting like such a giant douche, in the end, her sense of ethics won out. Tommy deserved a fair shot at his dream. As for everything else, that was for his conscience to deal with, not hers.
Not to mention that if he nailed the performance, it would reflect well on her. If not, then she’d probably get canned, which might not turn out to be such a bad thing. Either way, someone would win.
She moved through the throng of Hollywood elite, spotting Trena over by the bar deep in conversation with James, while Ira made the rounds, looking slick and sleek and in total control. For a moment, when his steely navy-blue gaze met hers, Layla felt the tug of something familiar—there was someone he reminded her of that she could never quite place. Then, just as quickly, Ira moved on and Layla caught a glimpse of Tommy chatting up a curvy blonde in a minuscule dress she was seriously close to busting out of. Typical. Layla rolled her eyes and looked away.
So far she hadn’t seen Aster or Ryan, and while she could hardly blame them for bailing, she doubted Ira would view it so generously. No matter how crowded the party, Layla had no doubt Ira ran it much like his clubs—with his finger on the pulse of everything and everyone.
All around her, people were talking and laughing, and when she heard someone calling her name, she was surprised to find Emerson approaching. His arm was linked with that of a beautiful girl Layla soon recognized as Trena’s assistant, Priya.
Emerson was grinning, which was such an odd sight Layla wasn’t sure what to make of it. And though Priya grinned too, her eyes remained cold and dark and fixed right on Layla’s.
“Priya, this is Layla, the one I was telling you about.” Emerson motioned between them as Layla felt herself tense.
Whatever it was Emerson had told her, Layla guessed it wasn’t good. Around the office, Emerson made no attempt to hide how much he disliked her. And yet here he was, grinning like they were old friends. Was this for real? Or was this just Emerson’s way of putting on a party face?
“What could he have possibly told you?” Layla forced her lips into a bit of a curl. There, now he’d seen her party face too.
Priya gave her a long, considering gaze. Starting at Layla’s ankle-wrap sandals, she worked her way up the snug off-the-shoulder dress before landing on her artfully smudged eyeliner
, where she paused and said, “He told me you write a very popular blog. But of course I already knew that. I used to read it religiously. But other than that cryptic message you posted the other day, it seems you’ve stopped writing. May I ask why?”
The question was innocuous enough, but the delivery was as probing as Priya’s gaze, and it left Layla wondering what was really going on. This wasn’t just small talk.
“Just . . . taking a break.” Layla shrugged, shooting a quick look at Emerson, who seemed a little too interested in her answer as well. Returning her attention to Priya, she said, “So how’s it working out with Trena?”
Emerson glanced between them. “You two know each other?”
“Not exactly,” Priya said quickly—a little too quickly.
And again with the intense gaze. What was her problem?
“Well, now I’m confused.” Emerson laughed. Only it didn’t seem real. But then, everything about the conversation leaned more toward surreal.
“We both work for Trena,” Priya said.
Layla frowned. Clearly Priya knew that wasn’t true, so why would she make a point of saying it? “No,” Layla said, doing nothing to mask the edge creeping into her tone. “I don’t.”
Priya cocked her head to the side and furrowed her brow as though giving deep consideration to the matter. For Trena’s sake, Layla hoped Priya was better at researching than she was acting.
“Sorry, my bad,” Priya finally said. “I could’ve sworn you were one of her sources.”
Though Priya’s arm was still linked with Emerson’s, she kept just enough distance between her body and his that Layla couldn’t tell if they were merely friends, or something more. Not that it mattered, and not that it was any of her business. But at the moment, she’d welcome any sort of clue as to what was really going on here. Layla felt fairly confident that Trena would never reveal her sources. Not to anyone. And especially not to a part-time assistant she’d recently hired. Clearly, Priya was fishing, but what was she fishing for? All Layla knew for sure was that the two of them were giving her the creeps, and the sooner she got away from them, the better.
“Listen, I’m gonna . . .” She jabbed a thumb in the opposite direction and took off before they had a chance to respond.
Why were they so interested in her blog? Were they somehow involved with the creepy notes she’d been getting? While she wouldn’t put it past them, for the moment she had nothing that connected them to Madison. But after that strange encounter, she wouldn’t rule them out either.
She moved through the crowd of partygoers, desperate to shake off the bad vibe they’d given her. It seemed everyone was either happily paired off, or flirting to a degree that they were soon to be paired off. Hell, even her dad was poised to get lucky—a thought that elicited an image so horrifying Layla shook her head fiercely in a desperate attempt to dismiss it.
Still, all those happy couples left Layla feeling lonely. She missed having a partner, someone to flirt with and get excited about. Once again she found herself wondering if maybe letting Mateo go without a fight was something she’d always regret.
Instinctively, she reached for her phone. She could text him. Just to say hello, nothing more. Maybe she’d even include a pic of her current over-the-top surroundings and add a snarky quip to go with it. Mateo hated this sort of extravagance, and it would be a fun, harmless joke between them. After all, they had a history, and just because they’d decided to take a break didn’t mean she’d stopped caring about him.
She took a pic of the pool, filled with oversize white-and-gold swan floaties with bikini-clad models riding their backs and typed:
#SwanGoals
The moment she heard her phone swoosh, informing her that the text had been sent and there was no going back, she swiped a shot of tequila from a passing waiter and drained it in hopes it might help dim some of the panic.
In less than a minute she’d committed two regrettable acts she might never live down. Though while her last experience with tequila hadn’t ended so well, Layla was older now. Wiser. Besides, she could pretty much guarantee she wouldn’t be kissing Tommy Phillips ever again.
She turned toward the stage, where Ira was preparing to take the mic, and where just off to the side, Mateo—her Mateo—was kissing Heather Rollins.
Wait—what?
Layla squinted. Blinked. And yet, the view remained stubbornly the same.
Ira was speaking now, but Layla couldn’t make out the words. It was as though everything around her had paused, while Mateo and Heather continued mauling each other in the most gruesome display of PDA she’d ever been forced to witness.
When Heather finally came up for air, Layla couldn’t help but notice the small smile that spread across her face as Heather’s gaze veered directly to hers.
A moment later, Mateo looked too, but Layla couldn’t bear to meet it.
She pressed a palm to her belly, sure she was about to be sick, and glanced around frantically, searching for an exit. But the wall of people made it impossible to escape.
Somewhere behind her, Ira made a joke, and the crowd surged with the usual obligatory laugh, as Layla fought to squeeze free, desperate to make her way to one of the fifty bathrooms so she could lock herself inside and try to make sense of the horrifying sight she’d witnessed.
She’d just found an opening and was about to make a run for it, when someone grabbed hold of her and Layla turned to find Heather’s fingers circling her wrist.
“I have an exclusive for you!” she sang, in her usual giddy, breathless way. “If you’re still blogging, that is. I noticed you haven’t been writing much lately.”
Layla glanced blindly between Heather and Mateo, wondering if she looked as confused, injured, and dazed as she felt. But Heather continued yammering, seemingly oblivious to Layla’s fragile emotional state.
“He has an ad debuting tomorrow,” she stage-whispered. “But if you write it tonight, you’ll still get the jump on everyone else. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Somewhere in the distance, Ira was pushing his tequila. She should be there, standing alongside the rest of the Unrivaled marketing team and supporting him from the sidelines. Wasn’t it her job to check his shirt for lint and laugh the loudest at all his jokes? Maybe. Probably. Undoubtedly. And yet, somehow she couldn’t convince her brain to make her legs move. The sight of Heather and Mateo together had rendered her speechless, useless. It was too much to process.
Heather was grinning, her hands waving about in a dramatic display. “Meet America’s next top model!” She gestured toward Mateo as though he was a shiny new car some lucky person was destined to win. “Obviously, you’ve already met, but I thought you should be the first to know that Mateo is about to become the newest teen heartthrob!”
Layla swallowed past the lump in her throat and turned toward Mateo. The simple act of meeting his gaze was unbearably hard and depleted her strength, but she forced the words anyway. “Congratulations. That’s uh . . . that’s great.” Her voice rang as hollow and wooden as she currently felt.
Last she’d checked, Mateo despised Heather, abhorred Hollywood parties, and had accused her of being changed for the worse thanks to her involvement in such a phony, shallow world. And now, here he was, wearing designer jeans, an expensive T-shirt, and some stupid fucking fedora it was too hot to wear.
Without a word, she turned on her heel.
“Layla . . . ,” Mateo called after her, but Layla ignored him and raced blindly away.
TWENTY-FOUR
DRINK YOU AWAY
Tommy had been dumb enough to invite Tiki to the party, and he was already regretting it. He barely knew her, and he certainly didn’t think of her as a girlfriend or even a potential girlfriend. Truth was, he wasn’t even sure why he’d done it, other than he’d been scrambling for something to say to fill the awkward silence when five minutes into breakfast he’d discovered they had virtually nothing in common and so he’d blurted the only thing he could th
ink of—he invited her to his debut and she’d been quick to accept. He would’ve been better off making the usual halfhearted promise to call, but Tommy had never been any good at that either.
Malina had ordered him a limo, and for the entire ride there, he watched Tiki take selfies as she posed provocatively across the long bench seats, while Tommy mentally rehearsed the playlist. It was only a handful of songs, but the gig was more important than most. He’d be singing for A-listers, tastemakers, influencers with unlimited reach—the kind of celebrities and Hollywood players who had the power to make him if they liked what they saw.
The fact that he had Layla to thank for the gig left him uneasy. When Malina had informed him of her meeting with Layla, Tommy had groaned and figured he was doomed. Malina had raised a brow, but Tommy refused to explain.
“You’re in no position to be making enemies,” she’d told him.
To which Tommy replied, “Then you’ve definitely got the wrong guy. Thanks to the Madison mess, I have way more haters than fans.”
“It’s handled,” Malina had assured him, before going on to inform him of her decision to keep his identity under wraps. Which was how he came to be billed as “Special Surprise Performing Artist.”
Tommy thought for sure the idea would backfire. That sort of contrived vagueness only worked for real artists like Bono or Springsteen or some other Rock & Roll Hall of Famer who people would actually get excited about. Using it for some young, dumb unknown was bound to disappoint.
“You are famous,” she’d said. “Just not the right kind of famous—or at least not yet. But trust me, you will be.” When Malina’s dark eyes met his, it was just like she’d said: he was in no position to make enemies, much less disagree with people who knew more than him.
And now, after having just finished his set, he was filled with what could only be described as elation. The initial shocked silence when the crowd first recognized him as the thug tied to the Madison scandal had been more than a little disconcerting. But after a shaky start, Tommy found his voice, and it didn’t take long before the crowd forgot who he was and gave him a chance. The enthusiastic applause and screams for an encore when he finished his set proved Malina was right.
