guy was completely devoid of an empathy gene. Great father figure he was turning out to be.
It was time to head back to Oklahoma, where people at least said what they meant and never made sport of other people’s well-being. Back home, he didn’t know a single person who behaved like Ira. They were good, down-home, solid, dependable folks. He couldn’t believe he’d just used the word folks—but yeah, folks who would never so much as—
“—which is why you’re not a good fit.”
The room fell silent. Tommy had no idea what had just happened. “So … I’m not a good fit because you like to take a nihilistic approach, or because you got me fired so easily?” He scrambled to catch up.
“What do you think?”
Tommy shook his head. This was un-fucking-believable.
“For someone who claims they love to win, you haven’t said a single thing to convince me.”
“You don’t even know me.” Tommy stood, struggling to keep his cool. He wasn’t good enough for the job, wasn’t good enough to be Ira’s son. He’d never felt as powerless as he did at that moment.
“Don’t I?” Ira tilted his head, studying Tommy like he saw right through him.
“You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
Ira shrugged and reached for his phone, which only enraged Tommy more. He might be broke, down on his luck, but he didn’t have to tolerate being treated like this, and he wouldn’t leave without Ira knowing it.
“Just so we’re clear—” He pushed his chair aside, nearly tipping it over. “The consequence of your decision will prove to be your loss, not mine.”
He made for the door, pushing past the assistants scurrying out of his way, just as Ira said, “I’m beginning to wonder if you’re right.”
Tommy pulled the door open, still committed to leaving while he was somewhat ahead.
“You’re my weakest candidate by far.”
Tommy scowled. Ira was an asshole. An asshole who didn’t know when to quit.
“But if you can learn to take that grudge of yours and use it to fuel your goals, as opposed to using it as your go-to excuse for remaining a victim, then you just might end up surprising us both.”
Tommy turned. “So now you’re quoting Oprah?”
Ira laughed. It was short, almost inaudible, but Tommy caught it nonetheless.
“Usually at this point, the groveling interviewee conveys a stream of gratitude they can barely contain.”
“I don’t remember groveling,” Tommy snapped, wondering if maybe he was the one who didn’t know when to quit.
“To your credit.” Ira nodded. Dividing his attention between his phone and Tommy, he said, “Jennifer will lead you to the back room, where the other candidates are waiting. You’ll need to remain there until the rest of the interviews are concluded, at which point you’ll receive your assignments.”
Tommy shook his head, trying to make sense of what had happened. Maybe Ira wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. Maybe he just took some getting used to. Besides, all that stuff about Oklahoma was bullshit. People are people. Prone to do what they’re prone to do. Geography had nothing to do with it.
“Oh, and Tommy?” Ira’s eyes glinted with an emotion Tommy couldn’t quite place. “I can see why you loved that guitar. My instructor says it’s as good a starter instrument as any.”
Another test. Ira was trying to rile him by inferring that his dream guitar was somehow inferior. But Tommy just grinned. Following Jennifer out the door, he said, “Glad to hear she’s working for you.”
Of course Aster made the cut. She saw how Ira looked at her. Like most men who’d risen to a place of power, he appreciated the sight of a pretty girl. Probably even thought his success somehow entitled him to date her. Only in Ira’s case, it wasn’t just that.
As Aster sat across from him, she couldn’t help but notice that while he clearly liked what he saw, it was more in terms of what her sexy good looks could do for his clubs (as opposed to him envisioning her legs wrapped around him, or whatever old men think about when they’re fantasizing about girls who are far too young for them). His eyes conducted a thorough inspection, evaluating her physical advantages like any other commodity, while determining the best way to exploit them for professional gain, and it didn’t bother her in the least. She’d survived enough disappointing auditions to know the score. This was the first time she’d nailed one.
She wondered if it had to do with his final question: What makes you think you can win this thing? All the while studying her with that deeply penetrating gaze of his.
For a few panicked moments she sat silently before him, trying to determine the best angle to follow. Finally deciding that Ira didn’t seem like the type to honor humility, she met his gaze and said, “Next to me, everyone else is an amateur.” Then she chased it with the sexy and confident grin she’d practiced earlier.
He’d gazed at her a good long time—enough for Aster to second-guess her answer. She was just about to say something to soften the boast, when he ordered his assistant to escort her into the next room.
What she didn’t expect when she got there was the unlikely group who’d made the cut too. Of course that damn Layla was there, she’d figured as much. But Tommy she’d pegged as a wild card. She guessed he was cute—if you liked ‘em low rent, anguished, and hungry. Aster did not. As for the rest, well, Karly was a surprise; then again, some guys (a lot of guys—most guys) really went for that sparkly, frothy blond look. The goth guy, Ash, made it, as did Brittney, the girl in cowboy boots and denim cutoffs so short they covered only slightly more ass than Aster’s Burberry bikini bottom. There was another guy, Jin, who was so skinny and pasty Aster figured him for a gamer or tech geek who rarely ventured outside, and an androgynous girl, Sydney, covered in loads of tattoos and piercings (or at least Aster thought she was a girl). Two of the guys, Diego and Zion, looked normal enough (well, normal for LA), which meant they looked like they’d strolled straight off the page of a Calvin Klein underwear ad. Cute, no doubt, but Aster didn’t go for the overtly pretty types. Guys like that tended to spend way too much time thinking about themselves, and not enough time focusing on her. The final two looked wholesome, all-American. The girl, Taylor, was so fresh faced and healthy, she looked like she came straight from an equestrian lesson, while the guy, Brandon, was tanned with just the right amount of windblown hair, like he’d docked his yacht in the harbor and was waiting for his driver to whisk him off for dinner and drinks at the club.
Ira had cast a wide net of looks and ethnicities. Six girls and six guys—not a single one over the age of nineteen. Guess he wasn’t joking when he said he was after a young, hot demographic of club goers.
Aster settled among them, making a point to avoid Layla, who she’d already deemed as the first to take down—and waited for what happened next. Unlike the earlier waiting room, this new room was silent. Probably because they were no longer potential comrades—they
