Layla frowned. “You mean like for weddings and stuff? Like you plan to rent it out?” Did Ira want her to be a wedding planner? Because she couldn’t think of a job she’d be worse suited for.
His gaze darkened. He preferred to be the one talking. “Performance space in the most literal sense.”
She continued sipping her coffee and fought to smile with her eyes, though she doubted her ability to feign such a look.
“The space is all white—like an empty canvas, a blank slate in which to design your own night and write your own ending.”
Layla continued to fake interest, but Ira was veering toward the surreal. It was beginning to feel more like the late-night ramblings of a stoner after too many bong hits than a conversation with a world-famous tycoon. The way the fluorescent lights overhead illuminated the pale yellow walls of the employee break room seemed to reinforce the bizarre, dreamlike feel.
“Picture a series of long hallways with multiple doors to choose from. Some of the rooms will offer a mostly auditory experience, while others will be more visually driven, where you’re entering a performance in progress—maybe as a participant, maybe just an observer—to be determined. The idea is for the experience to be so seamless that the line between fiction and reality is blurred.” He paused, clearly demanding a response from her.
“Wow. That sounds . . .” Layla stalled. She had a hard time imagining any of it, much less attaching a label to his vision. “Ambitious.” She nodded firmly. It was the best she could offer under such scrutiny.
Ira’s gaze drifted. “It is. And that’s where you come in.” He leveled his focus on her. “I’m planning a soft opening of sorts. We’re still building out the space, so it’s not yet ready for the public. But Trena Moretti has agreed to devote an entire show to me and the business I’ve built, and we’ve decided to include some of the before shots of RED. I’d like you to be a part of that.”
On the outside, Layla nodded uncertainly. Inside, she wondered
what she could possibly add.
“What I’m offering is the chance of a lifetime. I’m asking you to join a small, exclusive group hand-selected by me to represent what I hope will become the crown jewel of my brand. All I ask from you is to keep an open mind. You never know what you’re capable of until you’re put to the test. Also, dress appropriately. You will be filmed.”
Layla froze. The part about being put to the test was similar to what Trena had said at Lake Shrine. And while there was nothing unusual about the statement itself, it did strike her as odd to hear the same advice twice in the course of a week.
“So, when is this happening?”
“Tomorrow night, seven sharp. Are we in agreement?”
What she wanted to say was, No, we are definitely not! Then flee as fast and far as her legs would carry her. She’d known Ira since the start of the summer and it was probably the longest conversation they’d ever had, and it gave her the creeps.
Instead, she forced what she hoped was an amiable expression and said, “I’d be honored.”
“Great,” he said, already turning away. “Tomorrow night then. And don’t mention this to anyone. You know how upset people get when they don’t make the list.”
THIRTY-ONE
I TOOK A PILL IN IBIZA
Madison Brooks was restless. Aimlessly roaming the expanse of Tommy’s apartment, she rifled through his extensive vinyl collection and picked up random framed photos before setting them back down again with barely so much as a glance. She felt edgy. Fidgety. Once again she was counting the minutes until she could make her escape.
So far, Tommy had been nothing but generous, and to Madison’s chagrin, a perfect gentleman. He’d made up a room for her, given her free run of the place, and had even stocked his fridge according to the long, detailed list she gave him. It was the most luxury she’d enjoyed in a very long while, and yet, she still felt as trapped as she had when she’d been locked up in the cinder-block cell.
It was surprising how easily she’d been able to sway them all to her side. At the time, she thought for sure Ryan, Aster, and Layla would cut her off halfway through her story and put a call in to Larsen. Somehow, against all odds, she’d managed to convince them to delay alerting the authorities just a little bit longer. Which was why she felt so bad about her plan to betray them.
She paused by the breakfast bar and ran a finger across the stack of newspapers and magazines Tommy had left for her to read. People was on top, and yet again, Madison’s face stared back from the cover. She recognized the picture as a still from one of her movies, where she’d played a small-town grifter. The way her mouth pulled tight and her gaze narrowed and veered off to the side was a perfect match for the headline, which promised a deeper look at a star no one really knew.
Funny to think how she’d vanished from sight, only to find her image more prominent than ever. There was even talk of an Oscar nom, a Golden Globe too. Ira wasn’t the only one getting a major PR bump. Madison’s abduction had sent her star meter soaring to the sort of stratospheric heights even a lead role in a critically acclaimed blockbuster could never accomplish. Not everyone was willing to sit in a darkened theater and watch a two-hour movie unfold, but most everyone liked to keep up on the sordid details of the latest tragedy in the making, and Madison planned to milk it for all it was worth.
For those who made their living in the public eye, attention was currency. The day the fans stopped talking was the day they stopped caring. Like a forced retirement, the end of celebrity gossip was the beginning of obscurity.
Still, she’d have to find a way to reframe the diary entries. Since the first one had been posted, a new one appeared every day. The incendiary content had inflamed news outlets the world over, but Layla was too afraid of the threatening notes to do anything to stop the carnage. As soon as Madison came out of hiding, she’d deny every word. She just hoped it wouldn’t be too late. The reveals had left her fans feeling deeply betrayed. The longer the mess was allowed to drag on, the more their rage would cement until there was no turning back.
She paused before the full-length mirror. A few healthy meals and a decent night’s sleep in a comfortable bed had gone a long way toward adding a bit of color back to her cheeks. Her cuts and bruises were still visible but beginning to fade. And while her ankle was still an issue, the pain was lessening, which made it easier to accommodate.
The hem of Tommy’s old Led Zeppelin T-shirt curled at the top of her thighs. She knew it was his favorite and hoped he wouldn’t mind that she’d borrowed it. Funny to think how just a few miles away she had a fantasy closet filled with the most coveted designer offerings, while here it was a choice between the cheap denim miniskirt she’d arrived in, a souvenir T-shirt featuring her face, or whatever she could cull from Tommy’s closet.
She fluffed her hair around her shoulders and frowned. She’d aimed for pretty but accessible, sexy yet friendly. While she hadn’t exactly nailed the look, she did exude a sort of haunting frailty that might convince Tommy she was in need of his comfort . . . in whatever form that might take.
Her plan was awful. But she refused to believe it made her an awful person. It was like the old saying went: desperate people do desperate things. At the moment, Madison Brooks felt like the most desperate girl in the world.