by Alyson Noel
“You know what would be perfect right now?”
Layla blinked at Tommy, his face looming close, those navy-blue eyes flashing on hers as his lips broke into a mischievous grin.
“In-N-Out.” He swiped the bottle from her grasp and took a swig, as Layla sprawled across the black leather seat and laughed.
“It’s official,” she said, taking the bottle from him. “You may never qualify as a native, but you’ve earned yourself some serious California foodie cred.”
At Tommy’s orders, the driver swung by the drive-through, where Layla and Tommy ordered enough food to host their own party. Before they’d even merged back onto the street, Layla was already digging into her burger and fries.
“You know what I like about you?” Tommy sank low on his seat and regarded her with a hooded gaze.
Layla froze. Aware of the sound of her heart beating frantically, she couldn’t even begin to guess what might follow that statement, though she was eager to hear.
“Your appetite.”
She cocked her head, sure she’d misunderstood.
“So many girls pick at their food, or fret over their food, or talk incessantly about how they shouldn’t be eating the very thing that they’re eating and how they’ll have to pay penance later, like they committed some sort of crime against humanity by enjoying a burger.” He shook his head. “Kind of sucks the fun out of going out for a meal. But you—you just dig in as though you’re actually enjoying yourself. It’s a thing of beauty to behold.”
Layla was stunned. It was one of the strangest compliments she’d ever received, and yet part of her felt the need to defend her fellow sisters by explaining the food-phobic, body-shaming culture they’d all been boxed into living.
In the end, she chose to stay quiet and take another big, juicy bite.
“What time does your ride turn into a pumpkin?” She placed a hand over her mouth as she chewed.
Tommy shrugged. “Why—you want to go somewhere? Should I have him drop you at home?”
Layla thought about home—thought about the possibility of her dad hooking up with his new lady friend in the room just down the hall from hers.
“Why don’t we go to your place?” she said, unsure if she was emboldened by the tequila, the compliment, or her revulsion at the thought of her dad shagging in a vintage Venice Beach bungalow that was anything but soundproof. Whatever it was, she was committed to seeing it through.
Tommy looked her over. The way his lip tugged at the side as his brow quirked high, it was impossible to tell if this was a look of interest or surprise.
“Just for a little while,” she said, not entirely sure that she meant it, but she didn’t want to seem pushy, eager, or God forbid, desperate. “I’m too amped to go home. Not yet anyway.”
Tommy gave the order, and the driver dropped them off just outside a modern high-rise building Layla didn’t recognize. “Welcome to paradise,” Tommy said, opening the door and motioning her toward the entrance.
“Wait—where are we?” Layla stood on the sidewalk, squinting as she tried to get her bearings. “This is Sunset Boulevard—I thought we were going to your place?”
“This is my place—my new place. Which, I should probably warn you, happens to be a major step up from my last place. Not a shag carpet or popcorn ceiling in sight.” Tommy grinned proudly; then, seeing the way Layla hesitated, he said, “Though if you prefer a more down-market vibe, we can always head over there. It’s still mine until the end of the month.”
Layla blinked at Tommy. Had steady employment and a shiny new record deal turned him into yet another status-obsessed Angeleno? Money changed people. She’d seen it happen before. Question was, how much had it changed Tommy?
Slowly, she looked him over. The thrashed motorcycle boots he’d once worn had been replaced with a newer, more stylish pair. And though he’d stuck with his usual uniform of jeans and a T-shirt, they’d clearly been upgraded too. She shifted uncertainly from foot to foot, unsure what to make of it. But when she lifted her gaze to meet his, he met her with a look so open and inviting she knew that despite a few superficial upgrades, deep down inside he was still the same Tommy she’d known from the start.
Besides, didn’t she essentially want the same thing—to live a bigger and better, more upgraded life than the one she’d been living?
Was it possible her rush to judgment was no more than a pathetic, knee-jerk, jealousy-fueled reaction at seeing how quickly he’d progressed toward his dream?
Maybe. Probably. But at the moment, she preferred not to think about it.
She followed him inside the large, well-lit lobby and smiled to herself as he greeted the doorman by name. It was cute to see him feeling so proud of himself, and after riding the elevator to the sixth floor, they entered an apartment that showed just how big a leap in the pay grade he’d made.
“Wow.” It hardly conveyed the full extent of her amazement, but in her current state of awe, it was the best Layla could manage. She crossed the pale hardwood floors en route to the balcony, which offered a stunning view of the Hollywood sign.
“Did you notice the keyless entry?” Tommy was just behind her. “The whole place is controlled by tablet—the heating, air-conditioning, TV, even the lights.” He tapped the screen on his iPad and grinned when the bulbs flickered on and off.
Layla stood at the edge of the terrace. With the wind in her hair and the city sprawled out below, she was equal parts admiration and envy. “You’re living the dream.” She turned to face him, her gaze moving from the grin that lit up his eyes to the room just beyond. It was a beautiful space, done up in the sort of high-end, West Coast, aspirational cool you saw on reality TV shows featuring families with lives far more posh than yours. A mix of soothing neutrals with its white walls, natural fiber furnishings, and custom oak cabinets and limestone countertops in the kitchen beyond, it was environmental chic at its best.
“There’s an on-site restaurant, a rooftop pool, and a gym with personal trainers and yoga teachers on call. It even comes with weekly maid service, which, I’m not ashamed to admit, is the amenity I’m most excited about. Though in the spirit of full disclosure, Malina helped set me up. I’m paying rent, of course, but for the moment, it’s at a really deep discount.”
“I’m assuming it came furnished as well?” Layla followed him back inside, noting how the lumpy old couch and the old crate that substituted for a coffee table were missing, though she was pleased to find his collection of well-worn paperbacks was still on display.
Nice as it was, what really impressed her was Tommy’s unerring pursuit of his dreams. She was used to people talking about their plans to hit it big—and yet, when it came down to it, most lacked the incentive to leave their parents’ couch long enough to actually go after the very thing they claimed to dream about.
But Tommy was the exception. When he cared about something, he was all in. As different as she, Aster, and Tommy were on the surface, they all shared the same sort of unwavering drive and ambition, which was undoubtedly how they all ended up working for Ira. Clearly he’d seen in them the same trait he valued most in himself.
He moved into the kitchen and started pulling plates and napkins and glasses together as she made for his prized vinyl collection. “Any new additions?” she asked. Last time they’d listened to Led Zeppelin, and it hadn’t gone well. And though she didn’t blame Jimmy Page, she figured it was better to go in another direction.
“Having a bit of an eighties moment.” Tommy set the plates on the coffee table and started divvying up the contents of the In-N-Out bags.
“Eighties as in Air Supply and Wham?” Layla crinkled her nose in distaste, as Tommy shot her a look of mock outrage.
“Eighties as in the Smiths and the Clash.” He came to stand beside her, and when his arm inadvertently brushed against hers as he leaned toward the stack, the brief moment of contact was all it took to send a jolt of electricity spinning through her veins. “Hatful of Hollow.” He w
aved the album before her. “Do you know it?”
Layla squinted, fought to gain control of herself.
“Trust me.” He pressed his lips together as he placed it onto the stereo deck and dropped the needle on the first track. “You will not be disappointed.”
A burst of static filled the room, soon followed by a hauntingly mournful voice as Tommy headed back to the kitchen to fetch them some water. He handed her a bottle, then settled onto the couch and motioned for her to join him. Overcome with an unexplainable bout of shyness, she sipped and ate in an odd, nervous silence.
“Layla . . . ,” Tommy started, his voice thick, hoarse, the sound of it causing her belly to flutter as she lifted her chin and studied his face, waiting for the words that would follow. His questioning gaze held hers, the moment seeming to unravel slowly, and the next thing she knew Tommy was kissing her.
Or maybe she was kissing Tommy.
It was impossible to tell who really started it.
All she knew for sure was that his body was warm and strong and felt like it was meant to be pressed against hers.
It was nothing like the last time they’d kissed. Sure, they were both fueled by tequila, but there was no more denying she’d been attracted to Tommy from the first day they’d met. No more denying she wanted him now just as much as she’d wanted him then—back when she was still dating Mateo. If that made her a horrible person, so be it. If it made her disloyal like her mom, well, at least she got it honestly. Despite the alcohol, they were two consenting adults, and Layla was ready to consent to anything Tommy was willing to do.
His mouth moved hungrily over hers before abandoning her lips in favor of her neck. His lips nipping, tasting, leaving a trail of sparks in their wake as his hands moved over her snug off-the-shoulder dress and tugged it down to her waist.
He gazed at her appreciatively. “God, you’re so beautiful . . . so perfect.” He dipped his head low to kiss her there too, as Layla arched to meet him. Her fingers pulling at his belt and unzipping his jeans, she swung a leg over his hip and straddled him at the waist, when he suddenly stopped, clasped her hands in his, and repeated her name. “Layla . . .” His voice was breathless, eyes glazed, as he pressed his forehead to hers. “Is this really about being with me—or is it about being against someone else?”
She frowned, moved to kiss him again, but when he pulled away, she glared and said, “What are you talking about? Why are you doing this?”
“I saw Mateo with Heather and—”
“And you’re afraid you might be a rebound?” Her face was incredulous.
“I’m afraid you’re trying to exorcise the memory of him through me. And I just want you to be sure you really want this. That you won’t end up regretting it, or worse, blaming me or hating me.”
At first she was furious—why did he have to wreck the moment by talking about logical things that might very well be true but that she absolutely, positively did not want to think about? But once she’d had a chance to digest the words, the anger seeped right out of her.
“Truth?” She exhaled. “I don’t know, but I’m not sure it matters. We’re over. Mateo and I are over. Which means I’m free to move on.”
“But are you over him?”
Layla studied the paint on the wall just before her, unsure what to say. “It was a bit of a shock to see him with her, I’m not gonna lie. Still, Mateo and I weren’t really as compatible as you might think.”
“And we are?”
“Most of the time I hate you.” She laughed. “But you are a pretty good kisser, so . . .”
“Pretty good? That’s it?”
She shrugged, folded her arms to cover herself.
“Can I get an excellent?”
“You can certainly try.” She cocked her head and arced her brow high. “But that’ll require you to stop talking.” She flashed him a flirtatious grin and leaned in to kiss him.
He met the kiss eagerly, his hands at her back, and crushed her body to his. “One more thing . . .” His lips moved against hers. “I like you. Which is why I want to make sure we’re on the same page. I don’t want things to be awkward between us.”
“Look,” she huffed, quickly losing patience. Either they were going to do this, or they weren’t going to do this. And if they weren’t, she’d just as soon leave. She had no interest in talking. Not about this. “You’re not allowed to have a girlfriend, and it just so happens, I’m not looking for a boyfriend. So why can’t we enjoy ourselves and see where we land?”
Calling an end to the argument, Layla reached for him again and Tommy made no move to stop her. She kissed him hard, exploring, tasting, her tongue melding with his. She nipped at his full bottom lip, a little harder than he’d expected, but Layla just grinned and pulled him back to her. And this time, when she tugged at his jeans, he did nothing to stop her.
He just watched with a heavy-lidded gaze as she dragged them down to his knees, and melted into her touch.
TWENTY-SEVEN
DIRTY DEEDS DONE DIRT CHEAP
“I don’t like this.” Aster shut the glove compartment and gazed worriedly out the windshield. It was the understatement of the year. After searching the front and back seats, she hadn’t found a single thing that could be considered out of the ordinary, and certainly nothing that could lead them to Madison, or at least hint at what’d happened to her. “What if it’s a setup? It feels like a setup.” She stared at Ryan, torn between wanting him to stop the car and wanting him to keep driving. In the end, her curiosity prevailed and she settled for seeing it through.
“Oh, it’s definitely a setup.” Ryan gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles paled. “What are the chances of us just randomly bumping into Madison’s car?” He looked at her for so long that she gestured frantically for him to focus back on the road. Last thing they needed was to wreck a car the cops were undoubtedly looking for. “Clearly someone wanted it found. Still, there’s no way they could’ve known we’d be right there at that exact time . . . unless we’re being watched.” He shot Aster a sideways glance.
“If you were trying to calm my nerves, consider that a fail.” Aster shivered. “Question is, if they did leave it for us, was it so they can call the cops and get us arrested for grand theft auto, or—?”
Before she could finish, Ryan said, “No, this is about the Ghost.”
Aster looked at him. She had no idea what that meant.
He nodded toward the GPS. “That’s the name of the destination.”
Aster squinted. How had she missed that? Now that she’d seen it, she couldn’t help but wish she hadn’t.
“So . . . the Ghost is a place?”
Ryan looked at her. “We’re about to find out. According to this thing”—he nudged his chin toward the monitor—“we’re not all that far.”
At the GPS prompt, they pulled into a parking lot facing a small, two-story, nondescript office complex comprised of a U-shaped building set around an open courtyard.
“I don’t get it.” Aster frowned at the view as Ryan parked in a spot that was shielded from the street, then busily scrolled through his contacts list.
“I knew it,” he mumbled under his breath as he tucked his phone in his pocket and set about wiping down the gearshift and steering wheel with the cuff of his sleeve. “Better get your prints off that glove box, the door handle, and anything else you might’ve touched.”
She shot him a questioning look.
“It’s too risky to keep driving it. We’ll find another way home. Just after we check out this place.”
“Mind telling me what’s going on?” she whispered. “Because it seems like you know where we are, and it would be nice if you clued me in too.”
Ryan grimaced. “It’s a hunch, nothing more. I’ll let you know if I’m right.”
Aster followed him to the directory. She was barely able to make out the names before Ryan was racing up a flight of stairs and across a landing to where he stopped before a door bearing a plaque readin
g Banks Janitorial.
“Guy’s got a sense of humor.” He glanced at Aster when he added, “He cleans up celebrity dirt.”
He tried the knob only to find the door locked, and was just making for the window when Aster said, “Maybe this’ll work.” She unfolded her fingers to present a single gold key.
“Where’d you find that?” Ryan stared at her suspiciously.
“Glove box,” she mumbled, sliding the key into the lock.
“And you didn’t say anything?”
She shrugged and pushed the door open. “Wasn’t sure it mattered till now.”
Her hand went directly for the light switch, but Ryan was quick to grasp it in his before she could reach it. “It’ll attract too much attention,” he said. “Better to work in the dark.”
“Attention from who?” It was time for Ryan to talk. She was sick of being left out. “Why should we care about this janitor ghost guy? This just looks like some boring office park to me. So what exactly are you expecting to find?”
Ryan leaned against a wall and shined his phone discreetly around the small space. The light moved from a messy desk towering with papers, to a beat-up metal filing cabinet that had seen better days, to a set of well-worn chairs separated by a cheap plastic table, to the obligatory office spider plant that, from the looks of it, was desperately in need of watering.
“This is where Paul works,” he said. “He’s Madison’s fixer. Also known as the Ghost.”
Aster fell silent. She had so many questions and no idea where to start. “Why the nickname?” she asked, knowing it was probably the least important on the long list of things she could’ve asked, but then again, it could prove revealing.
Ryan pushed away from the wall. “I guess because his job sort of depends on him being invisible, and apparently he’s good at it.” He shuffled through a stack of files on the desk and glanced at Aster when he said, “It’s not like Madison talked about him much. But once, I saw her talking to this guy and when I asked her who he was, she tried to brush it off, but I wouldn’t let it go, so she claimed she didn’t know his real name, but that he went by the Ghost and he handled security detail for certain celebrities. Said she’d considered hiring him but ultimately decided against it. I pretended to believe her, but later, I did a little poking around and discovered his name is Paul. Officially, he works as a private investigator, but from what I hear, he does a lot more than that. And, despite what she told me, Madison did, in fact, hire him.”
