Beautiful Idols: Unrivaled Part 19

Whether it mattered in the big scheme of things wasn't the point. People would clamor to read every word. There was no greater pleasure than watching a celebrity's life go off the rails. It gave people a chance to choose sides, declare their loyalty (or lack of), and collectively shake their heads, smirk, and scoff at the idiocy of the rich and famous.

How could he?

She should've known.

She looks like a gold-digging fame wh.o.r.e. . . .

And if there were videos and stills to ill.u.s.trate, even better.

Besides, it wasn't like Layla was blogging for some lofty intellectual news outlet. She had her own insatiable reader base and advertisers, and it was her responsibility to see they were properly fed in the way they'd come to expect.

For maximum impact (and maximum credit), she needed to publish the piece ASAP. Ensure hers was the story people read the moment they woke up and reached for their green juice.

She gnawed her bottom lip, crossed her fingers, took one last look at the stills with the snarky captions she'd added, and pressed Post. For better or worse, it was out there now, and there was no looking back.

THIRTY-EIGHT.

ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?.

Aster Amirpour rolled onto her side, bent her knees to her chest, and clutched her hands to the sides of a head that felt like a herd of elephants were stomping directly on top of it.

She didn't know which was worse, her parched and aching throat, or her killer headache. Until she forced herself into a sitting position, untangled her legs from the black satin sheets, pushed her soles against the white flokati rug, and tried to stand, only to fall back onto the bed. It was definitely the dizziness, followed by the nausea, with the headache and parched throat placing third and fourth respectively.

"Ryan," she groaned, in desperate need of some aspirin and a bottle of water that might hopefully kick-start the recuperative process. Unable to speak above a whisper, she rolled to his side of the bed and cracked an eye open, only to find it abandoned.

She thrust her arm out before her, ran her hand across the sheets. They were cold to the touch. As though he'd left a long time ago and hadn't bothered to return. But that wasn't possible, was it?

She bolted upright. Wincing against a surge of queasiness, she squinted through burning eyes at a bold and masculine s.p.a.ce filled with modern, slightly oversize furniture. An enormous leather chaise, mirrored tables, and a king-size bed.

She dropped her head to her hands, unable to recall any details after leaving the club. The only thing she knew for sure was she was naked, alone, and she had no idea where she was.

Did the room belong to Ryan?

Was she in his apartment-or was it a fancy hotel suite?

She checked the bathroom and explored the adjoining den, finding more modern furnis.h.i.+ngs, more hard angles, sharp corners, and mirrored surfaces, but no Ryan. After a thorough check of each room, including the closets, it was clear he was gone, so she sent him a text that read: Where R U? When he failed to reply, she called, but it went straight into voice mail.

With the sun already peeking through the drapes, sneaking home unseen would prove an impossible feat. Her car was still parked at Night for Night, and that stupid jerk who claimed to adore her enough to steal her virginity apparently couldn't be bothered to stick around long enough to drive her back to the club to retrieve it. There was no other way to read it. He hadn't even bothered to leave a note.

She dropped to her knees, dragged her purse from under the chaise, and went about collecting her belongings. Her bra and underwear were on opposite sides of the room, but they were torn, sticky, and so totally disgusting she couldn't bear to look at them, much less wear them. Her dress had been flung on the floor next to the couch in the den, and despite having once loved it more than any other dress she'd ever owned, now it seemed as trashy and contaminated as she currently felt. She wadded it into a ball with the undergarments and dumped the mess into the trash.

Though she drew a line at abandoning the Valentino stilettos. Ryan had taken enough. No way would she lose the shoes too.

In the bathroom, she ran some cool water over her face, but no matter how much she splashed and rubbed with the washcloth, she still looked like h.e.l.l. Her eyes were bloodshot, her makeup smeared, and she bore the wild, abandoned look of someone staggering beneath a burdensome load of regret. Sc.r.a.ping her hair into a messy topknot, she rifled through the few pieces of clothing hanging in his closet and wondered if Ryan actually lived there. Still, there were jeans and a soft blue b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt, and she didn't think twice about claiming them.

After rolling the jeans at the hem, she tucked the s.h.i.+rt halfway in, secured one of his belts at her waist, shoved her feet into the stilettos, swiped his dark sungla.s.ses from the dresser on her way out the door, and began the long walk of shame home.

THIRTY-NINE.

BULLET WITH b.u.t.tERFLY WINGS.

Tommy Phillips grasped the pillow next to his head and propped it over his cheek, reluctant to let in the light of a new day if it meant leaving the contented coc.o.o.n of his dreams.

His dream life-his waking life-they'd merged together so seamlessly there was no longer any boundary between them. It was like he'd spent the entire night kissing Madison Brooks-first in the Vesper, where she'd gazed at him through those exquisite violet eyes-only to carry the memory of her into his dreams, where she welcomed him into her arms once again.

Kissing her was insane! The kind of thing he never imagined would happen to him.

What was even more insane was the undeniable connection they'd shared. Tommy was sure he wasn't just a rebound, a convenient way for her to feel good about herself after discovering her boyfriend's betrayal. She was genuinely drawn to him. There was no disputing the evidence.

She'd trusted him to look after her, protect her, whisk her away from the gawkers and see her to safety.

Trusted him enough to see her as she really was, minus the veil of celebrity, just a real girl, drinking a beer, and kissing a boy she clearly had a crush on.

He sank deeper into the sheets, remembering the look in her eyes . . . the sweet wistfulness of her sigh . . . the play of her fingers at the nape of his neck . . . the intoxicating feel of her lips pressed against his . . . the regretful tinge in her voice when she'd left.

It was all the proof he needed to know she was as into him as he was into her.

And the best part was, Tommy had the pics to prove it.

He tossed the pillow, rolled onto his side, and reached for the phone he'd abandoned on the floor. He was about to check his camera roll when a long chain of texts popped onto the screen.

How the h.e.l.l-?

He quickly scrolled through them, staring in disbelief at the numerous pics of the Ryan, Madison, and Aster drama. Including pictures of him with his arm secured around Madison as he led her through the Vesper's back door, shooting a cautious look over her shoulder as the door closed behind them, his expression promising serious consequences to anyone who dared follow.

But clearly someone had followed. And they'd made sure his hookup with Madison had gone viral.

He raced toward his grime-covered window, only to discover a swarm of photogs camped right outside. Most likely waiting for him to leave so they could shout their questions and insults and record his reactions.

He raked his fingers through his hair, unsure what to do. It wasn't exactly the way Tommy had hoped to make a name for himself, and yet he couldn't hide out in his apartment and wait for the vultures to move on to some other scandal.

Fact was, his fridge was empty, his cupboards were bare, and he had a serious need for coffee.

He shook his head, moved away from the window, and made for the shower. If he was going to make his tabloid debut, he might as well look his best.

FORTY.

WAKE ME UP WHEN SEPTEMBER ENDS.

The driver pulled away with a loud crunch of gravel and a judgmental look (though she might have imagined that last part), as Aster punched the code for the electronic gate on the keypad and began the long walk up the driveway.

Her house loomed large in the distance. Probably because it was large, one of the largest on the block, which was really saying something, considering the high level of affluence in the neighborhood. But on that particular morning the Mediterranean manse seemed almost too large, sort of ominous and foreboding. Like the red-clay-tiled roof and sloping archways might turn on her at any second, become less of a luxurious sanctuary and more of a prison.

She wobbled uncertainly, her heels skidding against the uneven stones, until she slipped off her shoes and walked the rest of the way in bare feet. Her eyes darted wildly, looking for signs of Nanny Mitra, the maids and gardeners who came every day, anyone who might spot her lurking in her own front yard, looking as guilty as she'd surely be charged.

Normally she'd sneak into her house via the door in the garage that led straight to the back hall, but the remote to open the garage was in her car, and her car was no longer in the Night for Night parking lot. It'd either been stolen or towed. Either way she was screwed.

Sometimes, though, Javen left the French doors that led from the backyard into the den unlocked, mostly on the nights he snuck out. She could only hope he'd thought to do so again. Funny how their campaign to fool Nanny Mitra had made them closer than ever.

She crept around back, twisted the k.n.o.b, and exhaled in relief when the door eased open and she stepped into a darkened den with the drapes still drawn. A good sign the maids had yet to arrive, which meant Nanny was probably still in her room, maybe even asleep. Aster slipped up the stairs, unable to so much as breathe until she'd made it safely to her room with the door closed behind her.

Tossing her shoes and bag toward the overstuffed chair in the corner, she sagged against her bed and stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. She felt like c.r.a.p. She looked even worse. And with the Sunday meeting scheduled for early afternoon, she doubted she'd make it, doubted she could pull it together by then, and had no plans to try. Despite what had happened-or maybe even because of it-she was still well in the lead, and there was no way Ira would take that away just because she failed to show at an obligatory event with a predetermined outcome.

What she wanted-no, actually needed-more than anything was a long, hot shower, if for no other reason than to scrub every remaining trace of Ryan Hawthorne from her flesh.

Scrubbing him from her memory was a whole other problem that wouldn't be remedied anytime soon.

She pulled the elastic from her hair and shook out the strands. After casting one last searing glance at her pathetic image in the mirror, she heaved herself off her bed and started to make for the bathroom, when her bedroom door sprang open, and her mother and father stood in the doorway.

FORTY-ONE.

BLOW ME (ONE LAST KISS).

The last thing Layla wanted to do was attend Ira's Sunday meeting, but short of dropping out of the contest, what choice did she have? She made a list of things that were markedly worse. Things like: alligator wrestling, skydiving without a parachute, crime-scene cleanup-but compared to the prospect of facing Tommy, Aster, Ira, and the undeniable chaos she'd unleashed by posting their pics on her blog, suddenly all those things seemed not only more favorable but also maybe even downright pleasurable if she'd only give them a try.

The second she'd sent her post into the world, she was overcome with the dueling emotions of absolute triumph and overwhelming regret. Reader response was immediate-the number of hits escalated in a way Layla had never seen, and the comments section was overflowing. But once the reality of coming face-to-face with two of the people she'd turned into unsuspecting internet celebrities began to sink in, she couldn't help but wonder if she should've eased up on the tone.

Then again, as a Hollywood blogger, wasn't it her duty to report those kinds of stories?

She backed her bike from the garage, nearly jumping out of her skin when someone snuck up beside her and said, "Hey."

"Mateo! OmiG.o.d, you scared the c.r.a.p out of me." She pressed her hand to her heart as though to keep it from breaking free of her chest.

He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and looked her over. "You're pretty jumpy."

"I had a late night. And a lot of caffeine." She cringed under the intensity of his gaze.

"Is that why you didn't answer my texts?"

She sighed and closed her eyes, wis.h.i.+ng she could stay that way, block the world out. He was going to make her late, but mentioning that wouldn't go over well.

"I'm sorry. I was busy, and-" She directed the words to a spot just past his shoulder to avoid looking at him.

"Your blog. I know. Trust me, I read it." He continued to study her, as though daring her to meet his eyes.

His voice hinted at something she was sure she didn't want to know, and yet she couldn't keep from asking, "And-what did you think?"

His features sharpened, as he gazed out at the house across the street-a recent remodel that resembled a two-story gift box with windows. "I think it's unlike you to be cruel," he finally said.

"It's not cruel if it's true," she snapped.

"But these are people you know-not public figures. There's a difference."

Inside she fumed. Mateo didn't know what he was talking about, but she wasn't going to stick around and enlighten him. "Listen," she said, trying to keep the edge from her voice. No matter how angry he made her, she hated when they fought, and lately it seemed like fighting had taken the place of everything else. "I have to go. We can discuss this later." She rolled her bike onto the street, trying to ignore the hurt look on Mateo's face.

She'd make it up to him later. But for now, she had a meeting to attend, and it had to come first.

She forced her mind to go blank as she made her way to the Vesper, but it was no use. Her hands were shaky, her heart was racing, and she knew it wasn't just the result of too much caffeine and too little sleep. This was about Mateo, and Mateo was wrong. The moment Aster had decided to steal Madison's boyfriend (not that Layla actually believed a person could be stolen, short of being kidnapped; people either went willingly or they didn't go at all-they weren't property one could swipe when no one was looking), she'd thrown herself into the ring. Same went for Tommy when he decided to rescue everyone's favorite celebrity. Layla had only done what any good journalist would do by reporting the story.

And yet, no matter how many times she replayed the words in her head, in the quiet of her soul she knew it wasn't entirely true. She'd acted from a dense, dark, and shadowy place. Forfeited her neutrality, the last remaining shreds of her journalistic integrity, and picked sides by choosing herself over everyone else. Anyone with a smidgen of insight could see Layla Harrison was far from innocent.

She paused before the ugly metal door and wondered if it wasn't too late to turn back. She could leave now, climb back in bed, and for a few blissful hours forget she'd ever allowed herself to get caught in this mess. She could- "Layla?" The door opened before her as Ira Redman loomed on the threshold. "You joining us?"

She ducked her head low and slipped inside. The Vesper was the darkest of all Ira's clubs. Even with the lights turned up, it still resembled someone's hip, gritty dungeon.

"So, now that everyone's here-" Ira began.

Before he could finish, someone called from the back, "What about Aster?"

Ira lifted his gaze from his clipboard. His features sharpening, he said, "Aster won't be joining us. Though I advise you to worry about your own survival, not hers."

From somewhere in back, someone snickered. Loudly, unmistakably, intended for Ira to hear.

Ira's steely gaze swept the room, though Layla sensed he knew exactly where it had come from. Ira claimed to know everything. Not to mention there were only eight suspects to choose from.

"If any of you have something to say, I suggest you do so. Pa.s.sive-aggressive snickers, groans, eye rolls, and the like will not be tolerated."