Blacklist. Alyson Noel
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to the sort of real-life experience you can’t get at school, and I’m pretty sure I delivered, no?”
This time, when a rush of tears coursed down her cheeks, Aster did nothing to stop them. It marked the second time Ira had stepped in to help her in a way her parents refused to do. But more importantly, unlike her parents, Ira didn’t judge her. Didn’t try to keep her feeling diminished and small. His belief in her potential was relentless, and he encouraged her to believe in herself relentlessly too.
She wondered why he did it—why he even bothered. He’d never asked for anything in return other than for her to succeed at her job. For someone who always seemed to be working an angle, she’d yet to figure out what angle he was working with her.
While she loved her family, the thought of returning home to the watchful glare of Nanny Mitra and her parents was too much to bear. She hated the fact that she needed rescuing, but was grateful to have someone other than her parents to save her from drowning.
“Thank you,” she said, her throat so constricted she nearly choked on the words.
Ira smiled and stood. A second later the lawyer stood too, saying, “It may take a few hours to process your bail, but you’ll be out of here soon.”
Aster watched as the guard opened the door and the two men filed out of the room.
“And Aster,” Ira called over his shoulder. “Don’t worry so much. It’s all going to fall into place. I promise you that.”
As the guard led her back to her cell, Aster clung to Ira’s words like the life preserver they were.
WHY’D YOU COME IN HERE LOOKIN’ LIKE THAT
Tommy Phillips arrived five minutes later than planned, but still early enough to claim the darkest, most secluded booth in the nearly empty bar. In a city fueled by ambitious overachievers who equated success with an inflated level of busyness, the only other patrons were tourists looking to boost their Instagram accounts with a grim piece of Hollywood lore, and the daytime regulars who bore the soft, defeated look of those who’d not only forfeited the race, but had chosen never to run.
In another three hours they’d all be gone, edged out by after-work warriors willing to look past the faint smell of burnt popcorn and the antiquated jukebox playing a steady stream of deep tracks in their search for cheap drinks, willing women, and any other vice with the promise to numb them.
While Tommy wasn’t exactly living the dream, at least he’d managed to avoid that particular brand of nine-to-five hell.
He settled onto the red vinyl cushion and ordered a beer from the waitress who’d flashed him a flirty look he didn’t return. A month ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated to flaunt the heartbreaker grin that had made him a legend back at his Oklahoma high school. But ever since Madison Brooks disappeared and the tabloids turned their focus to him for the small walk-on part that he’d played, Tommy’s go-to response to a pretty girl flirting was to avert his gaze and wait for her to move away.
It wreaked hell on his love life. Never mind his nonexistent sex life.
Like the rest of LA, he was eager for the dry spell to end.
He centered his gaze on the entrance, not wanting to miss the moment Layla arrived. Though they texted often, it’d been a week since he’d seen her. A week since LA was in flames and they watched their friend get hauled away for first-degree murder.
A few moments later, when the door swung open and Layla appeared as a small, black-clad figure in a circle of light, Tommy took one look at her platinum-blond hair, gray-blue eyes, and pale lovely face, and realized he wasn’t even close to being over her.
Though she was definitely over him.
Not that there was anything to be over exactly. The kiss they’d shared had been a one-time thing; not to mention, last he’d checked, Layla had a boyfriend. Still, the memory had managed to stick no matter how hard he tried to forget.
She paused in the entry, scanning the room. She’d find him eventually, though no thanks to him. It wasn’t often Tommy got a chance to observe her unaware—looking just the slightest bit lost and unsure as opposed to her usual sarcasm and swagger—and he planned to enjoy it for as long as he could.
“Way to pick a venue, Tommy.” Layla flung her bag into the booth and slid in beside it, as Tommy tried not to notice the way her dress hitched up her thighs. If she caught him staring, she’d eat him alive. “Isn’t this where they found that actress’s body parts chopped into bits and stored in plastic containers in the fridge?”
“That was back in the sixties. They’ve remodeled the kitchen since then,” Tommy said, not the least bit disturbed by the bar’s grisly past.
Layla took a dubious look all around. “Looks like that’s the only thing that’s been remodeled.”
The waitress arrived with his beer and Layla ordered a coffee, black. As the server walked away, Layla turned to Tommy and said, “Did she just roll her eyes at me?”
“They depend on their tips.” Tommy shrugged. “Besides, haven’t you reached your caffeine quota by now?”
Layla checked her phone and placed it on the table before her. “I didn’t call you to discuss my need for coffee rehab.”
Tommy bit back a grin and took a slow sip of beer. Layla had no patience for small talk. He’d learned that the first day they’d met, when he’d made the mistake of trying to engage the cute blonde who’d rolled up to the Unrivaled Nightlife interview on an electric-blue Kawasaki. That first meeting hadn’t gone well, but back then Layla had hated Aster too. And yet, here she was, determined to find some way to save her.
Tommy pressed his forearms to the table and leaned toward her. It was time he stopped fantasizing about a relationship that would never be and focused on the real point of the meeting.
“Still can’t get in to see Aster.” Layla sighed. “Who knew county jail was tougher to breach than the VIP list at Ira’s clubs?” She frowned. “Not to mention how I’m pretty sure Trena knows more than she’s letting on. But every time I bring it up, she insists on talking around it. It’s like she’s determined to block me and I can’t figure out why. After all, I’m the one who fed her the clue about Ryan Hawthorne. Maybe she needs a reminder.”
“She’s protecting her intel. Doesn’t want you to scoop her, or whatever you journalists call it.” Tommy watched as Layla absentmindedly drew invisible circles on the tabletop using the tip of a blue-painted nail. Trena wasn’t the only one talking around it; Layla was holding back too. On the phone, she’d been urgent, insisting he drop everything and meet right away. But now that they were face-to-face, she was acting like she regretted her choice, or worse—debating whether or not she could trust him.
Layla started to speak, then paused as the waitress dropped off her coffee. The moment the server moved out of earshot, she looked at Tommy and said, “I told her I’m no longer writing about it. I’m taking a break from the subject, and believe me when I say my numbers have plummeted because of it. My advertisers are bailing, and I’m taking a major money hit. Still, I can’t in good conscience continue to write about it. Not when I’m sure Aster’s innocent.” She regarded her coffee with a regretful stare. “I never should’ve posted those pics of her and Ryan kissing. I put the cops right on her trail, and once there, they were too lazy to look anywhere else.”
Tommy could hardly believe what he’d just heard. “And what about the pics you posted of me?”
If he was expecting an apology, clearly it wasn’t forthcoming. He watched as Layla shot back against the vinyl upholstery, folded her arms at her chest, and centered a steely gaze right on his. “Way I remember it, you didn’t hesitate to