by Alyson Noel
He gazed at her in wonder. “Down to every last detail.”
“And yet, you still saw right through it.” Her biggest fans hadn’t even recognized her, and yet Tommy had.
“I might’ve kissed and told.” He shot her a guilty look. “But I never forgot the moment you revealed the real you.” He held her gaze until her cheeks begin to heat. The rest of her body soon followed. “Where to now?” he asked, breaking the spell and returning them both back to reality and the decisions ahead.
“You’re not going to turn me in?”
“No,” he said, his voice firm. “Not before you’ve had a chance to explain.”
It was the best scenario she could hope for. “Your mama raised you right,” she told him. “You’re one of the good ones.”
Tommy laughed and engaged the ignition. “Someday, when this is all over, I’ll tell her you said so.”
TWENTY-ONE
KILLER QUEEN
Trena stood in the entry of Madison’s trailer, not the least bit surprised to find it unlocked. First thing she’d spotted as she headed for the door were two sets of fresh tire tracks.
Inside, it looked messy, haphazard. Like someone had emptied all the cupboards and drawers, then shoved everything back in a hurry. Though it definitely belonged to Madison. Trena had done a quick bit of research on the property just to make sure Javen wasn’t messing with her. Still, that didn’t mean Madison had recently been there.
After checking out the bathroom and the bedroom alcove, she moved toward the area at the opposite end that was set up like a small den. Her gaze drifted from the stacks of cushions to the pile of art books, before coming to rest on Madison’s diamond-encrusted gold Piaget watch sitting among a pile of crystals. Just like that, her hunch was confirmed: Madison Brooks was alive!
Despite the inflammatory stories she’d reported, Trena had never believed Madison was dead. Her provocative headlines had helped fuel her success, but the watch was the first real piece of proof she’d yet to come across.
The diamonds surrounding the bezel were dull and desperately in need of a cleaning. Even the band was scratched, which seemed odd, considering how Madison was known for being fastidious with her belongings.
Retrieving a pair of latex gloves from her bag, Trena hooked the timepiece with her finger and angled it toward the light. Trena had studied enough video footage and stills of Madison from the night of her breakup with Ryan to know it was the same watch she’d worn at the time. It was the only watch Madison was ever known to wear. And the engraved initials on the back of the case served to confirm it.
She dropped it into a plastic bag and considered how best to proceed. The only real question was whether or not to alert Detective Larsen.
On the one hand, she owed him. It was because of him that she’d been the first to break the Joshua Tree story.
Also, just because Madison was alive didn’t mean she wasn’t in danger.
And yet, the trailer showed no obvious signs of a struggle. Nothing to lead her to believe Madison was being held against her will.
No, something else was going on—something Trena couldn’t quite put her finger on.
Her phone chimed with an incoming message. Not long after she’d started reporting on Madison’s story, she’d set up a tip line. So far nothing solid had come of it, but as she peered at the screen, she had the unmistakable feeling that was about to change.
Someone had sent her a video. It had been filmed with an unsteady hand, but from what Trena could make out, it was taken at the impromptu memorial that Madison’s fans had set up just outside Night for Night.
The usual street music of honking cars and sirens could be heard in the background, as the camera panned across the crowd gathered around the collection of items left in Madison’s memory. The sound of laughter was soon eclipsed by a female voice saying, “What the hell are you doing?”
“Shhh . . . video in progress!” another voice said. And then in a mock-serious tone: “We’re on Hollywood Boulevard outside Night for Night, where MaryDella Slocum was last seen.” Uncontrollable laughter followed, prompting the video to swing wildly before someone else took over.
“And we sincerely hope she turns up dead, because that’s what she deserves for lying to us all these years! RIP, bitch!”
Trena played the video again. And then again. On the third viewing she realized the words weren’t important.
Whoever had shot the video hadn’t intentionally set out to capture the skinny blond girl placing a single turquoise-and-gold hoop earring next to a stuffed teddy bear with angel wings. But as Trena watched it unfold yet again, she narrowed her focus to that girl, noting the way she stiffened and turned after hearing the words, “RIP, bitch!” The girl’s face was hidden behind dark oversize sunglasses, though there was no mistaking it was her.
“Where are you now, Madison?” Trena whispered. “Where have you gone?”
She froze the frame to study the picture when another text arrived.
I have the earring. It’s yours for a price.
Amateurs. Trena smirked. A couple of dumb teens who could be bought off easily. Without hesitation she replied.
I’ll be in touch soon.
She dropped her phone in her bag and started to leave. Then, thinking better, she retrieved the watch from the plastic bag, placed it back where she’d found it, and put in a call to Larsen.
Let him have this one. If nothing else, he would owe her, and it was always better when he was in her debt.
Besides, thanks to the video, Trena was onto a much bigger lead.
TWENTY-TWO
LET’S HURT TONIGHT
Tommy pulled up to a surprisingly unassuming home and parked in the drive.
“What is this place?”
“A secret hideaway. Only now that you’re here, I guess it’s not such a secret anymore.” Madison glanced over her shoulder and shot him a look he wasn’t quite sure how to read.
He didn’t want to flatter himself into thinking she was flirting, because it wasn’t that, or at least not entirely, though her expression was unmistakably warm, bordering on intimate. Well, they’d shared a moment. He supposed it was an acknowledgment of that. Either way, he was done deciphering her every move. From this point forward, he planned to sit back and see what unfolded.
The house was remote, with no visible neighbors, which made sense for someone who guarded their privacy as much as Madison. Still, from the pictures he’d seen, the LA house was the stuff of fantasies. It seemed strange to want to escape from a place that represented everything she’d worked so hard to achieve.
Then again, Madison was a true star. Instead of griping over the price of fame, she’d accepted the inevitable and found a temporary escape from the pressure.
She swung the door wide, silenced the alarm, and invited him to follow. He blinked at his surroundings. The space was nothing like he’d expected, even though he hadn’t known what to expect.
The ceilings were lined with thick beams, and the dark wood floors were occasionally interrupted by woven jute rugs. In the den, he found an ivory linen couch, a set of leather club chairs, and what looked to be an original fireplace made of hand-smoothed plaster. Through the French doors just beyond, he could make out a charming garden terrace filled with lanterns, a long table, and a hammock lilting in the breeze in the far corner.
“California ranch chic.” Madison watched him survey the place. “What do you think?”
He turned with a start. While he’d been checking out the property, she’d removed her disguise, leaving her long dark hair tumbling over her shoulders as her violet eyes flashed on his. She was skinny and injured, and her makeup was heavy-handed, but at the moment, it was clear why Madison Brooks was the biggest star in the world. She radiated something that continued to thrive despite whatever had happened to her.
The look she gave him was so intense it set him off balance and left him wondering if she’d guessed at his thoughts. “I think it makes for
a nice getaway,” he finally said, forcing a crooked grin to his face.
She glanced around the space and nodded in agreement. “But now that you’ve seen it, I guess I have no choice but to sell it.”
“You’ve never brought anyone here?” He understood the need to be alone, but it seemed strange not to share such a place.
“No one I wasn’t one hundred percent sure I could trust.”
He met her gaze. “So, no one then.”
Motioning for him to sit, she went to grab a couple of beers.
Tommy wasn’t sure he should drink. He was exhausted from the drive and hadn’t the slightest clue what she had in mind. But when Madison emerged from the kitchen, handed him a bottle, and plopped onto the couch beside him, he figured a little blunting of the nerves might do him some good.
“Last time we shared a beer, things didn’t turn out so well for me.” She tapped the bottle to her lip and stared thoughtfully.
“Same.” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then hesitated before placing the beer on the table.
“You’ve got old-school manners. I like that. But this is a coaster-free zone, so . . .” She placed her own beer directly on the table and gestured for him to do so as well.
She was trying to make him feel comfortable, and while Tommy appreciated the gesture, he was hoping to move on to the discussion they needed to have.
“So.” She shifted her body toward him. “What now?”
Tommy eased back against the cushions. “Way I see it, it’s my turn to interview you.”
She leaned her head back and stared up at the ceiling. Then, without warning, she rose to her feet and extended a hand he was slow to take.
“What’s this? What’s going on?”
“Only one way to find out.” She wiggled her brows.
Grasping her hand in his, he followed her down a hall to a large room at the end.
“I think you’re going to like this.” She grinned as she swung the door open.
Tommy stood on the threshold. One thing was sure: Madison never failed to surprise him.
“It’s a combination training room slash rage room.” She slipped inside. “Have you ever seen one?”
Tommy shook his head and ran his gaze around the space. The floor was covered in wall-to-wall rubber that gave slightly under his step. Three of the walls appeared to be heavily padded, while the fourth consisted of badly dented drywall. In a far corner hung a large punching bag, along with an assortment of boxing gloves, paddles, and bats. A shelf stacked with cheap porcelain plates completed the theme.
“This is my favorite way to de-stress. Much better and far more effective than more illicit activities.”
Tommy shifted uncertainly. How much built-up anger did a person have to possess to even need such a place?
“You should try it.” She shot him a knowing look.
Tommy waved a hand. “That’s okay,” he said. “I’m good.”
She peered at him so intently he cringed. “I’m guessing you accepted the beer not just out of politeness but to also take off some of the edge from what’s turning out to be kind of a messed-up day.”
He shrugged. She might be right, but he was under no obligation to admit it.
“Are you actually going to pretend you’re not angry at me for hijacking your Rolling Stone interview?”
He turned on her.
“The interview was real. I simply got lucky and decided to take advantage of an opportunity that was presented to me.”
His mind raced to catch up with her words. “I stood up Rolling Stone magazine?”
She handed him a bat and took a step back.
He gripped the handle and glared. “You sure you want to give me this right after admitting that?”
She lifted her shoulders. “People always have the capacity to surprise.”
Their eyes met.
“Go ahead,” she urged. “Show me how mad I’ve made you.”
Tommy pressed his lips together and tightened his grip. He really was mad. Actually he was angry in a way words could never express. Once she’d confirmed her true identity, he assumed the interview was faked too. Discovering it wasn’t left him enraged, and there was no telling how Malina might react.
His shoulders tensed. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed Madison’s face. She looked pale, fragile, tragic, and vulnerable. But in her gaze, he caught a glimmer of unmistakable excitement.
Facing the padded wall, he swung the bat so hard a loud whack reverberated throughout the room. His biceps juddered in response, and his pulse raced as a rush of endorphins coursed through him. He longed to do it again, but with Madison watching, he lowered the bat to his side. “This is fun and all, but we need to talk. You have a lot to explain.”
“I do,” she agreed. “But not until you’ve worked through your anger. C’mon,” she chided. “I know you can do better than that. What’re you so afraid of, Tommy? This isn’t just a rage room. It’s a safe room.”
Tommy hesitated, torn between looking foolish and smacking the hell out of that wall until he felt better. He closed his eyes, squared his shoulders, and widened his stance. The first swing had felt good, the second even better.
He swung again. And again. He swung for Detective Larsen, the paparazzi, for the faceless douche who’d slashed his car tires. He swung for every hater who’d sent a death threat. He swung for Trena Moretti, who dragged his name through the mud in a bid for higher ratings. He even swung for Layla because he liked her, and she drove him crazy in ways both good and bad. And because deep down inside, he knew they’d probably blow up before they could even try to make it work. He swung for Ira Redman, his piece-of-shit father. And he kept on swinging until he’d swung so many times he could no longer remember what he was swinging for or how he even got there.
Exhausted, he dropped the bat to the ground and turned to face Madison. His face sheened with sweat, his shoulder throbbed in a raging dull ache. Still, he felt more alive than he had in ages.
Madison pushed away from the wall and slowly walked toward him. “You have no idea how beautiful that was.” Her eyes glimmered. “One of the most authentic displays I’ve seen in a while.” She moved so close there was merely a hand’s width between them. “How do you feel?”
Tommy’s gaze rested on hers. “Good,” he said, his voice hoarse as he fought to steady his breath.
“Good, like spent? Like you let it all out? Or is there a part of you that still wants to throttle me?”
He nodded toward the row of paddles. “What are those for?”
Madison’s violet eyes flashed, and her grin grew wider. “I thought you’d never ask.”
TWENTY-THREE
HEY, JEALOUSY
Layla spotted Tommy’s car in the drive and stared dumb-founded at the sight.
What the hell was Tommy Phillips doing at Madison Brooks’s secret address?
Just how long had he known Madison was alive?
She parked at the end of the road and sent Aster a text.
Change of plan. Meet me at the end of the street. You’ll see why when you get here.
So far, they’d communicated solely via Javen, but Layla was too keyed up to go through the motions. For all she knew, Tommy and Madison were responsible for the numerous threats she’d received. Hell, they’d probably been working together all along.
She glared at the rearview mirror. It took every ounce of her will to keep from breaking down the front door and pummeling them both until they resembled one of the cartoon cats on the notes she’d been sent.
Despite everything she’d been through—public humiliation, death threats, jail time—Layla finally knew what it was like to be so consumed by rage she literally couldn’t see straight. What had once seemed like some dumb cliché of flaring nostrils, racing heart, shaking hands, seeing red, and an absolute inability to think clearly had become her current reality.
She’d trusted Tommy. She’d made herself vulnerable to him. And the whole time,
he’d been stringing her along in whatever sick game the two of them were playing.
She fingered the door handle. Checked the time on her phone. Where the hell were Aster and Ryan? If they didn’t show in the next five minutes, then she was going in on her own.
She pressed her forehead against the steering wheel and forced her breath to come. To think she’d traded Mateo for Tommy . . . what a colossal mistake that had been.
She’d always figured Mateo was too nice for her, that he deserved someone better, less cynical. Mateo was content living a quiet life, filled with simple pleasures. The contrast between his vision and Layla’s had left her feeling restless, antsy, and craving a bigger experience.
At the time, Tommy seemed more her speed. He had big dreams and the ambition to feed them.
Being confronted with the truth was a humbling experience. Clearly she’d misjudged both guys.
When his little sister fell ill and his mom lost her job, Mateo didn’t hesitate to do what it took to ease his mom’s financial burdens and cover Valentina’s medical bills. The swift and noble nature of his actions had left her both awed and ashamed for ever having doubted him.
And this was where Tommy’s ambition had led him. She glared into the rearview mirror again.
She’d been such a fool, and now it was too late to reverse. Mateo’s star was on the rise. He was dating Heather Rollins, of all people—a girl he’d once professed to dislike. From what she’d seen at Ira’s tequila launch party, Mateo had since changed his mind.
Once this was all behind her, she vowed to walk away and never look back. Aside from Mateo, she’d never been good at maintaining romantic relationships. Maybe she really was more like her mom than she cared to admit. Rumor had it her mom’s latest marriage was on the rocks and headed in the same direction as her first one, to Layla’s dad.
Layla glanced at her phone and looked all around. Still no sign of Aster and Ryan. Well, screw it. The five-minute allowance had been arbitrary at best.
Tired of waiting. Going in.
The text swooshed into the ether as Layla bolted from the car and ran as fast as her legs would carry her.
