“Mind if I sit here?”
“Whatever,” she mumbled, overcome with shame the second she said it. It wasn’t like her to act like such a snot. Still, she wasn’t there to make friends, and she definitely wasn’t there to make small talk with some LA transplant desperate for connection, and she couldn’t think of a better way to get those two points across.
He lowered himself into the seat, settling into such a major manspread, one of his knees bumped against hers.
She sighed loud enough for him to hear. She had graduated from a snot to a colossal bitch, but she just didn’t care.
“Sorry.” He drew his legs in, which was better, until his foot started to jiggle.
She focused hard on her cell, doing her best to ignore him, but there was no use.
“Can you just—”
He followed the tip of her pointing finger to his bouncing foot.
“Oh. Guess I’m a little nervous.” He laughed. “Which probably makes me sound really uncool, but there it is. So, how’d you hear about this?”
Completely out of patience, Layla turned to him and said, “Listen—can we not do this?”
“Do what?” His grin was slow, wide, and disarmingly open. And when her gaze met his, all she could manage was a sharp intake of breath. His eyes were the most intense shade of blue she’d ever seen.
She stole a quick glance at his name tag, Tommy, and fought to pull herself together. “Let’s not chitchat, make small talk, or pretend to be friends.” Her tone was harsh, way too harsh for the circumstance, but she was beginning to think she should’ve listened to Mateo and avoided this place.
“Your call.” Tommy shrugged. Dismissing her so easily she couldn’t help but feel a little incensed by that too. “Too bad, though. From what I’ve seen so far, friends are in short supply around here.”
His words settled around her. And while part of her wished she could lighten up, another part, the part that was frustrated, insecure, and woefully out of her league, said, “Yeah, well, welcome to Hollywood.”
SIX
LONG COOL WOMAN (IN A BLACK DRESS)
Five minutes into the ordeal was all it took for Aster to dismiss everyone in the room as a possible competitor. Nightclubs thrived on glamour and beauty—the unattractive need not apply. That single requirement was enough to ensure that Aster secured the top spot.
Still, Layla (Lila? She had to squint to read the name tag) could pose a threat. She wasn’t nearly as pretty as Aster, but damn if she hadn’t hesitated to call her on that unfortunate parking space incident. Aster hadn’t even seen her until she was already climbing out of her car and Layla got up in her face. She’d been so agitated during the drive from Beverly Hills to Hollywood—alternating between you can do it! style pep talks and complete despair that she was fresh out of high school and had already sunk to this level—that when Layla went after her, Aster responded the only way she knew how—by acting like the worst, most haughty version of herself.
Everyone had a go-to defense. Some got angry, like Layla—some made jokes, like Aster’s brother, Javen—and some acted like stupid arrogant peacocks. Well, it was done now. There was no going back. Besides, Aster had a feeling that deep down, Layla wasn’t as tough as she seemed. As someone used to acting her way through most facets of life, Aster found it easy to recognize the trait in another. The game was equal parts illusion and distraction, but on Layla’s part, it was poorly played.
For one thing, her shoes were 100 percent not Louboutins. The red on the sole was way off. Never mind the heel height. And the way she’d stumbled into the room like a newborn colt testing its legs—clearly she hadn’t bothered to practice walking in them like Aster when she’d scored her first pair. Total rookie move. Even the biggest amateur knew you had to rehearse the role you wanted to play until you owned it so fully, you could no longer distinguish yourself from the fiction. Layla was out of her league. She might try to come off as strong and capable, but those sad knockoff shoes told the story of an imposter trying to inhabit a world she did not understand. And yet, clearly Layla was every bit as hungry and ruthless as Aster. Willing to play dirty if that was what it took, which was exactly why Aster focused on her.
Aster was an achiever, used to excelling at pretty much anything she set her mind to. Good grades, prom queen, class president—it had all been hers for the taking. But with her acting career failing to launch, she needed this job more than ever. The gig was sleazy, completely beneath her—but that was exactly the reason she needed to clinch it. If she couldn’t succeed as a lowly nightclub promoter, then what would that say about her?
Ira took his place at the podium, and Aster wasted no time crossing her legs in a way that significantly hiked up the hem of her Hervé Léger bandage dress, hoping to draw attention to a healthy expanse of tanned and toned thigh, while also sending the message she knew how to play this particular game.
Dressed in dark denim jeans and a black shirt, Ira somehow managed to look as tall, assured, and commanding as though he were standing behind the presidential podium wearing a bespoke suit.
“You all share one thing in common,” he began. “You were drawn to the idea of an epic competition, access to the hottest clubs, and, let’s not forget, the promise of an enormous cash prize.”
His gaze swept the room, and when it met Aster’s, she could’ve sworn he held it just a little bit longer. Then again, it was entirely possible she’d imagined it. Ira was magnetic—time seemed to stop and start depending on where he directed his attention.
“Like you, I was young and hungry once.” Ira shot them a well-practiced grin. “Back then, I would’ve jumped at the kind of opportunity I’m offering you.”
Another dramatic pause. Sheesh. Is everyone vying for a SAG card? No wonder it’s so tough to book a job.
“The rules are simple. Those who make the cut will be assigned 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 shifting 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 assistant. “They’re all adults, right? You checked IDs?” The assistant 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.