Beautiful Idols: Unrivaled Part 4

"The rules are simple. Those who make the cut will be a.s.signed a club to promote. At first you'll be working in teams, but don't think for a moment you can slack off and let the others pull your weight. I'll be watching. I'm always watching. I know everyone who walks through my doors, and I'll know whose efforts reeled them in." He reached for a bottle of water and took a slow, purposeful swig that seemed less about thirst and more about allowing time for his words to sink in. Ira was positioning himself as a sort of all-seeing, all-knowing sage, and judging by the sudden onset of s.h.i.+fting and throat clearing, it worked.

"Getting a good turnout at your club earns you points. And I'm not going to mince words, since we're all adults. . . ." Ira checked with his a.s.sistant. "They're all adults, right? You checked IDs?" The a.s.sistant smiled coyly. "In the world of nightclubs, the younger, the hotter, and the more famous your gets, the more points they're worth. The clubs are all eighteen and up-eighteen to party, twenty-one to drink. Obviously." He quirked a brow, allowed enough time for people to laugh, which of course they did, then went on to say, "Each week, the promoter with the least number of points will be eliminated, while the promoter with the most points will earn cash to spend on marketing and party planning for their clubs. The promoter with the most points at the end of the summer wins. And by 'wins,' I mean the winner will walk away with half of all the cover charges collected by the clubs during the course of the summer."

The words were spoken in italics. Or at least that was how Aster heard it.

"The harder everyone works, the bigger the prize. The profits could be huge and they're for the winner to keep."

Blah, blah, blah. Aster couldn't care less about the cash. Sure it would be nice to buy her own Burberry bikinis, but it was the connections that truly interested her. Her agent was right-Ira's clubs attracted Hollywood's finest. She was beginning to wonder why she hadn't thought of it herself.

"Any questions?" Ira's tone made it clear that questions weren't actually welcomed, but just as Aster was raising her hand, having no idea what she would ask but determined to be noticed, that d.a.m.n Layla beat her to it.

"What about the first week?"

Ira squinted, fiddled with the cap on his water bottle. "What about it?"

"Will we be given a promotional allowance to get started?"

"Only twelve will make the cut. No use talking details that won't apply to most."

Layla nodded, then shot Aster a squinty look.

Clearly she didn't give a s.h.i.+t about the answer. She just wanted the same thing Aster did, to get Ira to notice her in a sea of desperate wannabes too scared to speak up in his presence.

Yep. She was definitely one to watch.

SEVEN.

I CAN'T GET NO (SATISFACTION) Tommy followed Ira's a.s.sistant into his office, trying not to stare too hard at the way her hips swayed in her little black skirt. From what he'd seen, all of Ira's a.s.sistants were smokin'. His dad was clearly living the good life.

"Mr. Redman, Tommy Phillips is here." Her voice was prim, but the intimate look that followed was all Tommy needed to know Ira was nailing her.

Well, at least someone in his family was having some fun. His mom had sworn off men long ago. Claimed to be perfectly happy keeping house with her bilingual parrot. And despite Tommy's good looks, in a showy town like LA it hardly compensated for the c.r.a.p car, the s.h.i.+thole apartment, and the nearly empty wallet.

Tommy sat before Ira, wis.h.i.+ng he'd taken time to prepare. He knew the importance of rehearsing for a gig, but when it came to the most important interview of his life, he hadn't so much as bothered to go over some possible responses to Ira's inevitable questions. And yet, nothing could've prepared him for the intensity of going one-on-one with Ira in a closed room with a pack of hot, clipboard-toting a.s.sistants standing by.

Ira leaned back in his chair and pushed his sleeves up his forearms, allowing a glimpse of the bracelet of small round beads that reminded Tommy of the prayer beads his mom always wore. It seemed like an odd choice for a man like Ira. Then again, most LA moguls liked to feign a spiritual side, claiming to adhere to a rigorous schedule of yoga and meditation before heading out into the world and obliterating compet.i.tors, entire companies, and anything else that got in their way.

Just above the bracelet was an expensive gold watch, this one a Cartier, as opposed to the Rolex of the other day. Probably had a whole collection of 'em-one for every day of the month-while Tommy relied on his cell phone to keep track of time. And if things didn't pick up, he'd be forced to hawk it on Craigslist.

This was a mistake-one of his biggest in a very long list. He should've left that stupid flyer in the trash where he'd originally tossed it.

"So," Ira said. "Tell me something about you that I don't already know."

Tommy hesitated, unsure what he meant. Did Ira recognize him from that day at Farrington's?

He forced his gaze to meet Ira's, wondering how he'd react if Tommy said, "Well, Dad, as it just so happens, I'm the long-lost son you abandoned."

Would Ira lose his cool? Have him tossed from the room?

Wasn't worth finding out. Or at least not today.

"Guess that depends on what you do know." Tommy practically dared Ira to remind him of how he'd nearly cried when Ira bought his dream guitar out from under him. He was guessing Ira was enough of a douchebag s.a.d.i.s.t to do it.

"You're hungry." Ira steepled his fingers and held them under his chin. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here. Question is, what are you hungry for?"

Rent money, a shelf full of Grammys, to prove myself worthy and one day surpa.s.s your success in ways you never saw coming.

Tommy shrugged and looked around the room. It was sleek, modern, minimal but expensive. Even the requisite ego wall, covered floor to ceiling with framed photos of Ira's various magazine covers, was tastefully done. "I like to win." Tommy s.h.i.+fted in his seat, then instantly regretted it. It made him look nervous, unsure of himself. He was, but it wasn't like he needed to show it.

"Who doesn't?" Ira frowned, the steeple collapsed, and his hands fell to his lap, where he fiddled with the tiger's-eye beads on his bracelet, as Tommy wondered if something from Ira's brief dalliance with his mom had managed to stick.

Tommy's mom was one of those new-age hippies (except she really hated that word-the beliefs dated back thousands of years, she would say). Not only did she believe in the healing power of crystals but also that everyone was guided by angels, that Love with a capital L could cure anything, along with a whole list of other stuff Tommy could never fully align with. She was the one who should've moved to LA. It would've been a better fit. Though if he remembered correctly, she might've said something about tiger's-eye being protective, guarding against curses and the like. All Tommy knew was on his first day of high school she'd slipped a similar stone into his pocket. By the end of third period he'd already lost it, and yet he still managed to survive those four years mostly unscathed. Though it made sense that Ira would need that sort of protection. A guy like that came with a long list of enemies just waiting to attack.

Tommy counted himself among them.

He picked at the hole in the knee of his jeans and waited for Ira to continue.

"Heard I caused you some trouble over at Farrington's?" Ira paused, waiting for Tommy to confirm or deny.

It was a test. Every moment with Ira was a final exam.

"He canned me." Tommy lifted his shoulders as though it was no big thing, but they both knew he was lying.

"You might think that makes me feel obligated to you." Ira studied his nails, not polished, just filed and buffed, keeping the man in manicure. "But that would be a mistake." He leveled his gaze on Tommy's. "I tend to take a more nihilistic view-at least where the more mundane social mores are concerned."

Was this guy for real? Did all of the interviews go like this-with Ira aimlessly pontificating like they both had all the time in the world?

And how the h.e.l.l was Tommy expected to reply to a statement like that?

Ira was a major windbag who loved to hear his own voice.

Tommy was a man of much fewer words.

Clearly he took after his mother.

"You made a choice that day. You chose to act on your own and risk the consequence. All of our actions bring consequences. Getting fired was yours."

Tommy ran his tongue across his gums, flipped his boot on his knee, and messed with the gash in the shank. No longer caring if Ira saw the sorry state of his shoes, his finances, his life. Seemed like he'd blown the interview long before he arrived. It was Farrington's all over again. The guy was completely devoid of an empathy gene. Great father figure he was turning out to be.

It was time to head back to Oklahoma, where people at least said what they meant and never made sport of other people's well-being. Back home, he didn't know a single person who behaved like Ira. They were good, down-home, solid, dependable folks. He couldn't believe he'd just used the word folks-but yeah, folks who would never so much as- "-which is why you're not a good fit."

The room fell silent. Tommy had no idea what had just happened. "So . . . I'm not a good fit because you like to take a nihilistic approach, or because you got me fired so easily?" He scrambled to catch up.

"What do you think?"

Tommy shook his head. This was un-f.u.c.king-believable.

"For someone who claims they love to win, you haven't said a single thing to convince me."

"You don't even know me." Tommy stood, struggling to keep his cool. He wasn't good enough for the job, wasn't good enough to be Ira's son. He'd never felt as powerless as he did at that moment.

"Don't I?" Ira tilted his head, studying Tommy like he saw right through him.

"You have no idea what I'm capable of."

Ira shrugged and reached for his phone, which only enraged Tommy more. He might be broke, down on his luck, but he didn't have to tolerate being treated like this, and he wouldn't leave without Ira knowing it.

"Just so we're clear-" He pushed his chair aside, nearly tipping it over. "The consequence of your decision will prove to be your loss, not mine."

He made for the door, pus.h.i.+ng past the a.s.sistants scurrying out of his way, just as Ira said, "I'm beginning to wonder if you're right."

Tommy pulled the door open, still committed to leaving while he was somewhat ahead.

"You're my weakest candidate by far."

Tommy scowled. Ira was an a.s.shole. An a.s.shole who didn't know when to quit.

"But if you can learn to take that grudge of yours and use it to fuel your goals, as opposed to using it as your go-to excuse for remaining a victim, then you just might end up surprising us both."

Tommy turned. "So now you're quoting Oprah?"

Ira laughed. It was short, almost inaudible, but Tommy caught it nonetheless.

"Usually at this point, the groveling interviewee conveys a stream of grat.i.tude they can barely contain."

"I don't remember groveling," Tommy snapped, wondering if maybe he was the one who didn't know when to quit.

"To your credit." Ira nodded. Dividing his attention between his phone and Tommy, he said, "Jennifer will lead you to the back room, where the other candidates are waiting. You'll need to remain there until the rest of the interviews are concluded, at which point you'll receive your a.s.signments."

Tommy shook his head, trying to make sense of what had happened. Maybe Ira wasn't as bad as he'd thought. Maybe he just took some getting used to. Besides, all that stuff about Oklahoma was bulls.h.i.+t. People are people. p.r.o.ne to do what they're p.r.o.ne to do. Geography had nothing to do with it.

"Oh, and Tommy?" Ira's eyes glinted with an emotion Tommy couldn't quite place. "I can see why you loved that guitar. My instructor says it's as good a starter instrument as any."

Another test. Ira was trying to rile him by inferring that his dream guitar was somehow inferior. But Tommy just grinned. Following Jennifer out the door, he said, "Glad to hear she's working for you."

EIGHT.

TEENAGE DREAM.

Of course Aster made the cut. She saw how Ira looked at her. Like most men who'd risen to a place of power, he appreciated the sight of a pretty girl. Probably even thought his success somehow ent.i.tled him to date her. Only in Ira's case, it wasn't just that.

As Aster sat across from him, she couldn't help but notice that while he clearly liked what he saw, it was more in terms of what her s.e.xy good looks could do for his clubs (as opposed to him envisioning her legs wrapped around him, or whatever old men think about when they're fantasizing about girls who are far too young for them). His eyes conducted a thorough inspection, evaluating her physical advantages like any other commodity, while determining the best way to exploit them for professional gain, and it didn't bother her in the least. She'd survived enough disappointing auditions to know the score. This was the first time she'd nailed one.

She wondered if it had to do with his final question: What makes you think you can win this thing? All the while studying her with that deeply penetrating gaze of his.

For a few panicked moments she sat silently before him, trying to determine the best angle to follow. Finally deciding that Ira didn't seem like the type to honor humility, she met his gaze and said, "Next to me, everyone else is an amateur." Then she chased it with the s.e.xy and confident grin she'd practiced earlier.

He'd gazed at her a good long time-enough for Aster to second-guess her answer. She was just about to say something to soften the boast, when he ordered his a.s.sistant to escort her into the next room.

What she didn't expect when she got there was the unlikely group who'd made the cut too. Of course that d.a.m.n Layla was there, she'd figured as much. But Tommy she'd pegged as a wild card. She guessed he was cute-if you liked 'em low rent, anguished, and hungry. Aster did not. As for the rest, well, Karly was a surprise; then again, some guys (a lot of guys-most guys) really went for that sparkly, frothy blond look. The goth guy, Ash, made it, as did Brittney, the girl in cowboy boots and denim cutoffs so short they covered only slightly more a.s.s than Aster's Burberry bikini bottom. There was another guy, Jin, who was so skinny and pasty Aster figured him for a gamer or tech geek who rarely ventured outside, and an androgynous girl, Sydney, covered in loads of tattoos and piercings (or at least Aster thought she was a girl). Two of the guys, Diego and Zion, looked normal enough (well, normal for LA), which meant they looked like they'd strolled straight off the page of a Calvin Klein underwear ad. Cute, no doubt, but Aster didn't go for the overtly pretty types. Guys like that tended to spend way too much time thinking about themselves, and not enough time focusing on her. The final two looked wholesome, all-American. The girl, Taylor, was so fresh faced and healthy, she looked like she came straight from an equestrian lesson, while the guy, Brandon, was tanned with just the right amount of windblown hair, like he'd docked his yacht in the harbor and was waiting for his driver to whisk him off for dinner and drinks at the club.

Ira had cast a wide net of looks and ethnicities. Six girls and six guys-not a single one over the age of nineteen. Guess he wasn't joking when he said he was after a young, hot demographic of club goers.

Aster settled among them, making a point to avoid Layla, who she'd already deemed as the first to take down-and waited for what happened next. Unlike the earlier waiting room, this new room was silent. Probably because they were no longer potential comrades-they were now compet.i.tors out for the win.

She crossed her legs and ma.s.saged the tight muscles around her ankle and calf. It'd been a long day, and her toes were starting to ache after so many hours inside the take-no-prisoners Louboutin toe box. She snuck a glance at Layla, wondering if her cheap knockoffs hurt too, only to discover they'd been replaced with a pair of serious-looking black motorcycle boots.

"It's been a long and grueling day." Ira strode into the room, followed by his usual team of a.s.sistants. "Which should give you an indication of the level of commitment I expect. Though before you get too full of yourselves for having made it this far, let me remind you that not a single one of you is over nineteen-which makes you woefully inexperienced, despite what you think. Working for me will allow for the sort of real-life education you can't get at school. But before I continue, is anyone having second thoughts? Anyone want to back out?" He surveyed the room for a beat before continuing. "So, on to the logistics . . . there are legal forms to fill out. My a.s.sistants will guide you through the process. But first, you're probably wondering which clubs you'll promote."

Everyone nodded like they'd been wondering exactly that, Aster included. She had her heart set on Night for Night, the Casablanca-chic rooftop treasure. It was a perfect fit in every way-cla.s.sy, s.e.xy, and named after a cinematography technique used for night filming. She'd had a thing for Morocco ever since she came across a stack of her mother's old Vogues and spent the entire day staring at the spread of Talitha Getty wearing white patent-leather boots and a colorful coat, lounging on a roof with a mysterious man in the background. If Aster had to pick one single, defining moment that would shape who she'd hoped to one day become-it was that shot of Talitha Getty. She looked beautiful, pampered, exotic, and adored. Maybe even the slightest bit bored-but in a good way. Like her life was so full of lush adventures, she couldn't help but wonder if there was anything left to amuse her. She tapped her hamsa pendant for luck while Ira squinted at the clipboard his a.s.sistant held before him.

"Layla Harrison-you're promoting Night for Night."

Aster involuntarily gasped and shot a quick look at Layla, trying to gauge her reaction. But Layla just nodded, gave nothing away.

"Tommy Phillips-" When Ira's gaze centered on Tommy, Aster could've sworn she saw something pa.s.s between them. Something she couldn't quite read. "You're promoting Jewel."

If Tommy looked upset, it was probably because he had his heart set on the Vesper. It was gaining a reputation as a gritty underground club attracting top-notch musicians-a perfect match for someone like Tommy. Jewel was sleek and modern and attracted a high-end crowd-it was out of his league.

Ira made his way down the list, and even though she'd been keeping track, she couldn't stop from groaning when Ira's gaze settled on hers. She knew what was coming.

"Aster Amirpour-you'll be promoting the Vesper."

She shook her head as her hand shot up.

"Problem?" Ira looked at her.

"I'd like to request a different club." There was no way she'd fit in at the Vesper, and someone as business savvy as Ira should've known that. She wondered if he was testing her, testing all of them.

Ira studied her for a long moment. "Then I guess you'll have to find someone to trade with." He left without another word, leaving his a.s.sistants to pa.s.s out the piles of legal forms.

Aster shoved the forms in her purse. She needed to get to the three other people who got Night for Night that she hadn't almost run over.