Blacklist. Alyson Noel
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Priya rolled her eyes and shook her head, her brow furrowed in judgment.
Again, it was exactly what Trena had thought. While Hollywood was aspirational for many, it was also well known for eating its young. Which meant no responsible and loving parent would support their kid making that move on their own—and especially not at fourteen.
“Question is—who helped her get settled, and where are they now?” Trena looked at the dark-eyed girl sitting beside her. “Because one thing is sure, Madison didn’t conquer this city on her own. She may be more mature than most—an old soul, if you will—but she certainly didn’t navigate the Los Angeles real estate market without help of some kind.”
Priya’s eyes flashed. Her enthusiasm was so infectious Trena found herself uttering the very thing she’d earlier convinced herself not to. And yet she’d be foolish to miss the opportunity. Sure the girl was young and a bit too eager to please, but she was also smart, driven, and maybe exactly what Trena needed to kick the Madison story to the next level.
“What if you start out part-time and we’ll see how that goes?”
Priya didn’t even try to conceal her excitement. “Can I start now? Seriously, you can drop me off right here and I’ll call for an Uber. Oh, unless you still want me to finish the day like we planned?”
Trena turned onto Hollywood Boulevard. The plan had been for Priya to sit in and observe while Trena interviewed Ira Redman at his new club, after which Trena would take the girl out for a meal, give her some advice, shake hands, and be done with it. But now, all of that seemed like a huge waste of Priya’s talents and time.
Trena pulled to the curb. “Where will you start?” She watched as Priya slung her purse on her shoulder and jumped from the car.
“I have my sources.” The girl raised her phone to her ear, shot Trena an enigmatic grin, and raced down the boulevard as Trena drove a bit farther before parking in the only available space that wasn’t occupied by a work truck.
She smiled at the bouncer who met her at the back door, wondering if he remembered her from the last time she’d stopped by Night for Night—the night Madison had gone missing.
“Ms. Moretti.” He gave her a quick once-over, before admitting her inside.
Trena started to enter, then thought better and paused in the entry. She was on her way to interview Ira Redman, an interview she’d been trying to secure since before Madison Brooks disappeared. Though she intended to ask the tough questions and really go after him, she was sure Ira would try to turn it into a puff piece—the sort of vanity profile she had no interest in writing.
But maybe she had it all wrong.
Maybe she’d been too focused on the front door when she should’ve been eyeing the back.
While she had no doubt that Ira held the key to the city’s numerous secrets, she was just as sure he had every intention of keeping them sealed. When it came to her job, Trena was a pro, but men like Ira were so well versed in charm and PR it was nearly impossible to dig past the surface and make a dent in the glossy veneer.
But a guy like James . . .
Trena paused long enough to give the bouncer an appreciative look. Thanks to a solid mix of Jamaican and Italian genes combined with daily six-mile runs, at thirty-six years old Trena could still hold her own. Sure, certain parts weren’t exactly as pert as they once were, but what she lacked in youthful springiness, she more than made up for in experience.
Or at least that was what she used to think until her break with her fiancé left her feeling vulnerable, distrusting, and doubting her prowess. She’d responded to his betrayal by throwing herself into work, and purposely ignoring any man who so much as looked at her. But now, with the sexy bouncer standing before her, she wondered if she might carve out some time for a little flirtation. He was younger than her, but from the considering grin he’d shot her, it wasn’t like it mattered. Still, it’d been so long since she’d last been with a man, her attempt at flirting left her feeling foolish, and more than a little self-conscious.
“Isn’t it a bit early for you to be watching the door?” She checked the time on her watch, then returned her focus to him. His lips were full, his dark skin gleamed, and the way his brown eyes narrowed on hers told her he sensed exactly what she’d been thinking.
“Just doing my job.” His lips twitched at the corners, and she found herself wondering what they’d be like to kiss.
“Do you ever get a day off?”
His grin widened, but he refused to answer either way.
“Because I’d love a chance to interview you . . . if you could ever spare the time.”
James cocked his head to the side as though weighing the offer. “I thought you were here for Ira,” he said.
Trena settled her gaze on his massive arms—imagining those biceps wrapped firmly around her. Aware of the heat rising to her cheeks, she quickly dismissed the image and said, “Something tells me you’d make a far more interesting subject.”
He tossed his head back and laughed as though she was joking, but Trena was entirely serious. She’d get the interview. Maybe not today, but eventually. James had secrets. Possibly Ira’s secrets, and maybe even Madison’s too. Luckily for her, she was persistent and patient and had every intention of meeting him again.
“In case you decide you’re interested.” She dipped a hand into her bag and presented her card.
James held her gaze as he slipped the card from between her index and middle fingers—the feel of his flesh grazing hers enough to send her belly into a flutter. More than ever, she wanted that interview. What surprised her was how much she wanted him too.
She watched as he tucked the card into his pocket, then held the door wide as he ushered her inside to where Ira was waiting.
Aster stood in the middle of what could only be described as a construction zone and looked all around. Though Ira had assured her that the former souvenir shop was well on its way to its latest incarnation as his newest, chicest, most exclusive nightclub to date, at the moment it more closely resembled a serial killer’s lair with its plastic-draped walls and floors and the constant background hum of power drills and saws.
It was eerie, creepy, and the look Ira’s assistant had flashed her as Aster entered the space left her feeling unsettled.
Was this how it was going to be from now on? People giving her the side-eye as they quickly backed away?
She swiped a bead of sweat from her brow and sipped from the bottle of water Ira’s driver had given her on the ride over. Outside, the temperature soared into the triple digits—inside, it seemed even hotter.
Though she’d choose the heat, the incessant construction clatter, and the pervasive smell of freshly poured cement over the harsh environs of jail any day, she’d been more than a little taken aback when Ira insisted on stopping by the new club before dropping her at her place at the W.
“So, what do you think?” he asked, his face free of expression, though somehow she knew it was praise that he wanted.
“Well . . .” She bumped the water bottle against her chin, struggling to find something positive to say, when one of Ira’s pencil-skirt-wearing assistants carefully picked her way through the debris in her red-soled designer heels and began apprising him on the number of urgent calls he needed to make and scheduled meetings he’d missed. Aster watched in guilt-ridden silence, knowing she was to blame for his falling so far behind on his day.
“Also, Trena Moretti just arrived. She’s waiting by the back door,” the redhead told him.