“How’d the first night go?”
Tommy shrugged. “You tell me.”
“I’m more interested in how you think it went.”
Unlike the rest of his team, he didn’t have a big group of friends to pull in. So he’d had some cards made, passed them around his favorite record store, and made sure to leave some at the yoga studio down the street. As far as strategies went, it was far from genius; still, it had resulted in plenty of nonfamous gets and some smokin’ hot yoga girls.
Ira stared at Tommy, waiting for an answer, but Tommy knew better than to boast, especially when there was nothing worth boasting about. Ira would only call him on it. Make him feel shakier than he already did. He was ruthless. The way he’d ditched Tommy’s mom after learning she was pregnant was all the proof Tommy needed. Sure, he’d left her some cash—enough to cover the abortion. But he couldn’t bother to stick around long enough to drive her to the clinic. Ira just assumed then, like he did now, that everyone would gladly do his bidding. It probably never occurred to him she’d use the money to buy diapers and a crib.
“Could’ve been better,” Tommy finally admitted. “And it will be. I have an idea I’d like to discuss, if you have a minute.” He stepped offstage, preferring to be on equal footing. “I want to take that back room and turn it into a private space.”
Ira frowned. “It’s already a private space.”
“No, I mean private as in VIP access only.”
“That’s where the bands hang between sets.”
“Exactly,” Tommy said. “We’ve got a good summer lineup, and if we opened that room to a select group of people, gave it more of a lounge feel, we could increase our numbers and up our cool factor.”
Ira looked him over but gave nothing away.
“And I want to run it and get credit for the gets, since I’m the one who thought of it.”
“What about your team?”
“What about them?” Tommy shrugged dismissively.
“And which VIPs can you deliver?”
“At the moment, none.” No point in lying. “But soon, plenty. More than that room can handle.”
Ira got up without a word and headed toward his office, calling over his shoulder to say, “For now, why don’t you work out a plan that doesn’t depend on my help.”
Tommy glared at his back, wondering who he hated more in that moment, Ira or himself. It was a good idea—bordering on great—but his delivery had been a mess. It was simultaneously cocky and sloppy. No wonder Ira hadn’t taken him seriously. Still, watch him steal the idea and deny Tommy the credit.
He snatched his leather jacket and banged outside to his wreck of a car. Screw it. He’d find another way to build his numbers and impress the old man in a way he’d have to acknowledge. He had an idea he’d been spinning as a backup, but he was hoping to put it off until later in the contest, in case he got desperate. It was risky as hell and could land the club in serious trouble. Still, he saw no reason to wait, as nothing good ever came from playing it safe. If nothing else, Ira would admire his drive. And if it worked, it would secure him the win. Tomorrow he’d test it. By Saturday, he’d have the kinks ironed out. By Sunday, Ira would be rewarding him for a job well done.
He wondered if Layla would pull it together by then.
He grinned at the memory of Layla’s face—that sweet urchin face with the pouty lips, clear, wide-set eyes, and a complexion pure as porcelain.
When it came to the kind of networking needed to succeed at this job, she was her own worst enemy. LA was a town of actors and storytellers, populated by those more comfortable playing an imaginary role than being themselves, and the prize always went to the one who faked it best.
Layla didn’t know how to be anything but herself. Wouldn’t be long before she came around and admitted he’d been right all along.
The Scarlet-Savannah-Serenas of the world had nothing on her. He’d waited this long to get with a girl; he figured he might as well hold out for the one who truly intrigued him.
FIFTEEN
YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL
Luckily, Javen had silenced the house alarm, which allowed Aster to sneak into her room without alerting Nanny Mitra and fall into a deep, soundless sleep. Or at least it was deep and soundless until her phone chimed the next morning with a text from one of Ira’s assistants, confirming Night for Night had brought in the biggest haul, thanks to Aster’s efforts. Though there was
complete silence from her team, which made her feel bad. Aster wasn’t used to being hated.
What was that saying about success breeding contempt? Apparently it was true.
She leaned against her tufted silk headboard, fumbled through her bag for the envelope Ira gave her, and spread the contents across her crisp white Frette sheets. Despite her family’s massive wealth, when it came to their kids, her parents kept a tight fist. She owned exactly two dresses she could wear to the club—one of which she’d worn for the interview, and the other last night. The rest of her wardrobe consisted of stuff her mother approved of, which meant buying more dresses, really sexy (but tasteful, not trashy) dresses was imperative. A few more stilettos would also be good. Maybe some jewelry as well—the trendy, costumey stuff—the kind of things that would make her mother faint if she ever caught Aster wearing them.