“Sorry we woke you,” she said. It was the least of a long list of things she felt sorry about.
“Who said you woke me?” Her dad sipped his coffee. “I was in the studio. Working.”
Layla brightened. At least one of them was taking positive steps in his life. “When can I see it?”
“Soon.” He nodded, took another sip.
“Really?”
He shrugged unconvincingly and gazed out the window. “When it’s ready. Meanwhile, I’ve got some interest from one of the bigger galleries. This could be the one that changes everything. Or at least it better be.”
His jaw tensed with worry, causing Layla to study him with concern. It’d been years since he’d last sold a piece. And while it had fetched a high price, surely the money was close to running out by now.
She was about to ask him about it, but before she could get to it, he grinned and ruffled her hair.
“Hey—watch the head!” She playfully batted his hand. “Feels like I’m hosting a heavy metal band in there.”
“Metallica or Iron Maiden?” His gaze narrowed as though he was trying to decide which would be worse.
“It’s a metalpalooza, featuring Metallica, Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath . . . who’d I leave out?”
He made an exaggerated grimace. “You know what you need?”
“A time machine?”
“Yes.” He nodded sagely, his blue eyes crinkling at the sides. “But until then, how ’bout I take you to breakfast. Something big, greasy, and loaded with trans fats.”
“See, now you’ve just gone from being too soft on me to enabling me. It’s a slippery slope, Dad.”
“We’ll discuss over breakfast. You can fill me in on the correct way to proceed when your daughter stumbles home drunk with a boy who’s not her boyfriend.” His gaze met hers. It was even sharper than his words.
“Looks like you got it down after all.” She smiled wanly. “But I’m sorry I can’t join you. I need to head out to a meeting so Ira can fire me.”
Layla pulled up to Night for Night, wondering why Ira didn’t just send the bad news via messenger. It would serve as a sort of poetic bookend to how the whole mess began. Well, at least they weren’t meeting at Jewel. In her mind, the entire club was one gigantic crime scene she hoped never to revisit.
By the time she walked into the Moroccan-themed club, most everyone was there. She was five minutes early—they were probably ten. Yet another example of how poorly suited she was for the job.
She risked a quick glance at Aster, as perfect and prissy as ever in her short white tennis dress and long, glossy ponytail, and purposely avoided meeting Tommy’s gaze. Though a quick head count told her Goth Boy was missing, and she couldn’t help but hope his failure to show would count as a forfeit, allow her one more week to make up for the last.
But who was she kidding? She’d already been pegged as the first to go. Probably why they all looked so smug and relaxed, texting on their cell phones, or in Tommy’s case, sprawling on one of the sofas, feet propped on an ottoman, taking a nap.
She needed to find another way to get to journalism school. Now more than ever a move out of state was imperative.
As luck would have it, Goth Boy slipped in seconds before Ira’s swarm of assistants took their place before the contestants.
Layla found a vacant chair and sank into the cushions, looking lazy, insubordinate, but she was beyond caring. She just hoped they’d hurry up and fire her so she could get back on her bike and go on a nice, long, head-clearing ride. Laguna might be nice. And she could invite Mateo to join her. He’d like the surf, and they needed to spend some time together. . . .
“. . . not surprisingly, Thursday night was our slowest night of the week.”
When had Ira started talking? Layla forced herself to sit up straighter.
“Though there’s no question the Night for Night team pulled in the most heads, mostly thanks to Aster Amirpour.”
Layla fought back a smirk. Of course, Queen Bitch Aster got all the credit. Why was life so stinkin’ unfair?
“Numbers at all three clubs steadily increased, culminating in last night, which saw the biggest draw yet. Each club managed to bring in decent crowds, but some more decent than others.” He took a moment to gaze leisurely among them. Stupid sadist was enjoying himself. He’d probably drag it out for as long as he could, like he was the host of some dumb reality TV show.
“As you may know, the Vesper is the smallest of the three clubs, while Jewel is the largest.”