“You’re not from here.” Her hand fell from his cheek.
Tommy shook his head. He was mesmerized. She was everything he’d expected—poised, pretty, not at all getable—and the exact opposite of what he assumed—open, authentic, deep.
“Let me guess—you came here to chase your dream of fortune and fame?” She cocked her head as her eyes glinted mischievously.
Tommy shot her a sheepish look and buried his hands deep into the front pockets of his jeans, suddenly reduced to yet another LA cliché.
She looked around the room. “I like this place. No one gives a shit that I’m here. You have no idea what a relief that is.”
“Oh, but I do.” Tommy grinned. “I’m here every day and no one ever gives a shit.”
She laughed in a way that made the joke seem funnier than it was, leaving Tommy to wonder if she was serious, or maybe just acting. The whole thing was confusing as hell. All Tommy knew for sure was that he’d never seen anything more beautiful than Madison Brooks enjoying a spontaneous laugh, whatever the reason. From the moment it happened, Tommy was hers to command.
The band returned and began a new set. The sudden burst of sound prompted Tommy to look toward the stage, only to return to Madison and discover she’d left.
He chased after her, which was not at all cool, but it wasn’t like that stopped him. “There’s still another set!” he called, but she was already gone, leaving Tommy to make a frantic grab for his cell and snap a photo of her retreating form. He needed evidence to prove it really had happened, as much for Ira as for himself.
When he could no longer see her, he touched the place on his cheek where her fingers had been, wishing he’d at least taken the time to shave, while simultaneously feeling bad for having misjudged her as yet another high-maintenance bitch who was way out of his league.
She might be out of his league, but after having met her and actually spoken to her, he had the sense there was more to Madison Brooks than he’d thought. He imagined them kicking back with a beer, riffing on their individual philosophies of life. From what he’d seen, it seemed entirely possible.
TWENTY-SIX
SHOW ME WHAT I’M LOOKING FOR
Layla hovered near her most important table of gets, making sure they had plenty of drinks, cell phone chargers, and whatever else they might need. She’d basically been reduced to a professional party fluffer for low-level celebrities, but a few of them had made Ira’s list, so there was that to consider.
One thing was sure—she could remove Madison Brooks from her list, since Madison wouldn’t be stopping by anytime soon. Still, despite the cop’s dire warnings, Madison had never gotten around to filing a complaint, which gave Layla free rein to go after her on her blog every chance she could get.
When she wasn’t bashing Madison, she was using her blog to promote Jewel, and it had made all the difference. She’d also contacted Hollywood’s top managers and publicists, letting them know their clients had a permanent spot on her guest list, and her dad had a friend who owned a trendy boutique in Santa Monica who was willing to offer some nice tie-in discounts. The kind of stuff she should’ve done from the start.
With the colored lights swirling overhead, and the music seeming to pulse against her skin, it was like being inside a kaleidoscope. Funny how quickly she’d gone from hating everything about her job to looking forward to the time she spent at the club. If nothing else, her nights at Jewel provided a nice respite from the outside world and the more stressful parts of her life, namely the growing tension between her and Mateo.
“The models are here!” Zion brandished a bottle of top-shelf vodka, grinning in a way that made it hard to tell if he was gloating or sharing. Though where he was concerned, it was one and the same. He modeled part-time (when he wasn’t at the club, or waiting tables), and he’d managed to cut a deal with his agency that brought in the hot, young demographic Ira was after. Good for Jewel, not necessarily good for her.
She smiled tightly and showed him the text that had just come through. Ryan Hawthorne was back at Night for Night. The constant updates from Ira’s assistants were simultaneously annoying and addicting.
“Bitch.” Zion scowled, as Layla quirked her brow.
“More like Queen Bitch,” she snapped, watching Zion make for his table of thirsty models.
She lingered near the edge of the sleek, white leather sofas that gleamed in alternating, vibrant jewel tones cast from the colored lights overhead, waiting for just the right moment to pounce. It was amazing how careless those silly starlets became after a few drinks. The cell phones they left lying around had given Layla access to all manner of juicy photos and texts she had no problem exploiting.
Her insider access had already paid off in a major surge in ad revenue. If things continued, she could easily pay for journalism school through her blog profits alone. Sure, the comments section was getting a bit vitriolic, but who cared? The numbers were the only thing that mattered, and the numbers never lied.
She ran her hands down the front of her tight black leather minidress—a recent investment paid for with blog money. She’d never intended to spend it on anything as banal as clothes, but the best way to gain the
confidence of her gets was to emulate them. At first it made her uncomfortable, and between the sexy new clothes and platinum-blond highlights, she felt like an imposter. But the new angled layers did give her hair an edgy feel that suited her, and weren’t the clothes really just a slightly girlier version of her usual look? Whatever. There was no denying it worked.
“I think my phone charger’s broken!” one of the starlets whined, acting like it was the worst thing that had ever happened, and maybe it was. Layla had never met a more entitled, spoiled group.
She tried to determine who out of the whole rotten crew had said it. Her gaze centered on Heather Rollins, a B-list TV star with a major fixation on all things Madison Brooks. She was glaring at Layla as though she was personally responsible. Which she was, but there was no way Heather could’ve known that Layla always switched off at least one of the chargers each night. It might have been overkill, but so far, it had worked. And as much as she disliked Heather (she was hands down the worst behaved of them all, which was really saying something), for whatever reason, tonight the dice had landed on her. Layla considered it a windfall.
She topped off Heather’s drink and fumbled with the switch she’d turned off earlier as though trying to fix it.
“How long is this going to take? We all want to dance.”
“I’ll have it working by the time you get back.”