most people couldn’t conceive of. And wasn’t one of the major benefits of being rich and famous the unfettered access to all the right things?
The right table in a crowded restaurant with a three-hour wait.
The right first-class seat on an overbooked flight.
The right VIP pass to any concert or sporting event worth seeing.
The right clothes arriving straight to her door for her to try on at her leisure.
The right team of people who kept her life running safely and smoothly, for which she paid dearly.
She’d worked hard for the privilege and saw no reason not to milk it.
If Ira Redman wanted to enlist a bunch of kids to flatter her, who was she to stop him?
“Come back tomorrow morning,” she said, assuming Christina would move any other appointments she might have. “And bring me something pretty. I want to leave Jimmy speechless. Oh, and get me a list of those kids from your friend. I like to know who’s stalking me.”
Layla felt bad lying to Mateo, but really, what choice did she have? He’d made it clear that day at the beach exactly what he thought of the LA club scene. Admitting she’d decided to show up for the interview would only upset him. Besides, it wasn’t like anything would ever come of it. Surely Ira would see she didn’t fit in that world.
She steered her Kawasaki Ninja 250R toward Jewel, the club designated for the interview, about to claim a space that had just opened, when, seemingly out of nowhere, a white C-Class Mercedes swerved into her lane, forcing Layla to squeeze hard on the brakes. Her back wheel fishtailed wildly as she fought to keep control of the bike. Finally screeching to a stop and miraculously managing to stay upright, she watched in a mixture of frustration and outrage when the driver stole the spot right out from under her.
“Hey!” Layla yelled, her heart racing frantically thanks to the near-death experience. “What the hell?” She watched as a dark-haired girl in a tight black dress rolled out of the car with such arrogance and ease Layla was completely incensed. “That was my space!” she shouted in outrage. In a place where street parking was scarce, space snatching was a serious breach of common decency.
The girl anchored her sunglasses onto her forehead and glared dismissively. “How can it be your space if I’m in it?”
Layla stared in astonishment. So enraged she practically spit when she said, “Are you for real? You almost killed me!”
The girl shot Layla a derisive look, shook her long hair over her shoulder, and headed for the club. By the time Layla found another, less desirable space, the girl was long gone. She’d probably jumped the line and was already inside, while Layla slogged along with the rest of them, slowly wending their way toward the door.
She removed her helmet, ran a hand through her wheat-colored hair, and checked her reflection in the smudgy glass window, hoping her gray V-neck tee, shrunken black blazer, and tight leather leggings looked more rocker chick than Hell’s Angel. Then she traded her heavy boots for a pair of designer knockoff stilettos she’d bought for the occasion and could still barely walk in.
Despite making a living reporting on the celebrity scene, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been inside a club. Most of her stories revolved more around the closing-time antics, when the celebrities spilled out the doors, swaying precariously on their Jimmy Choos as they made their way to their rides. Those drunken, unguarded moments provided loads of material. She’d learned that firsthand after nearly getting clipped one night by some B-list jerk driving a Porsche. When Layla used her cell to record the offense, the celeb went after her, and she sold the resulting coverage to TMZ in an act of revenge that inadvertently kick-started her freelance career.
It wasn’t exactly the writing gig she’d dreamed of, but it’d gotten her through high school without having to rely on her dad, whose career as an artist was either feast or famine. And while she told herself she was doing her part to chip away at a world she despised, most of the time she felt more like a low-life paparazzi than an actual journalist. But, if this gig with Ira worked out, she could put all that behind her.
When she finally reached the door and the bouncer permitted her entry (the six people ahead of her weren’t nearly so lucky), she was handed an application and a name tag to stick on her blazer, then directed to a photographer, who clicked the shutter so fast Layla was sure he’d caught her mid-blink. Still dazed from the flash, she was then ushered by yet another assistant into the Vault—Jewel’s much-coveted, much-talked-about, legendary VIP section, which resembled the inside of a very plush jewelry box (as opposed to the actual bank vault Layla expected)—where she was told to wait.
Most people flocked to the front and center seats in an attempt to get noticed, but Layla headed straight for the back. Not because she was shy (she was), not because she was feeling intimidated (she definitely was), but because that particular vantage point allowed her to scope out the room, scrutinize her rivals, and determine who to beat and who to dismiss.
While she never got competitive over the usual things like being the prettiest girl in the room (the effort required to go from cute to pretty just wasn’t worth it), or gaining the attention of the hottest boys (it was already done—Mateo was the hottest guy in town), when it came to nailing the interview, she morphed into a cunning strategist fixed on securing the job no matter the cost.
Of course the girl who’d stolen her parking space (Aster, according to her name tag) was sitting front and center, and worse, she didn’t even blink or look away when Layla caught her openly staring. Her gaze remained focused, wide, and assured, and she brandished her startling beauty like a weapon meant to intimidate. So Layla did the only thing she could think of—she rolled her eyes and looked away, painfully aware she’d just time traveled straight back to junior high. Still, ignoring the mean girls was never an option. It hadn’t worked then, it wouldn’t work now. Girls like Aster had a loud bark, but Layla had a sharp, nasty bite. Aster would be a fool to underestimate her.
The rest of the crowd was pretty much a cross section of so many looks it reminded her of an American Idol casting call. There were goths, punks, metalheads, rappers, princessy blondes, a girl wearing pink cowboy boots and cutoffs so insanely short Layla wondered if she’d mistakenly wandered in looking for a bikini wax—all of them jockeying for attention. All of them completely clueless, in Layla’s estimation.
“Hey, you’re the girl with the bike, right?” There was enough of an accent to prove he wasn’t a native. “I saw you ride up.”
Layla’s gaze roamed past a pair of destroyed black leather motorcycle boots and frayed jeans slashed at the knee, before pausing on a vintage Jimmy Page T-shirt that looked so overly laundered she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d slept in it.
She shrugged in response. The weirdness with Aster had left her ready to hate on just about anyone who invaded her space, starting with this walking, talking indie-rocker cliché who’d probably never straddled a bike in his life.
“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,
