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.
/> “No.” Aster stood before them, her legs as shaky as her voice. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. I won’t do that. I’m going to trial, and I’m going to fight. I refuse to plead guilty for a crime I didn’t commit.”
“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.