He wanted to ask her about the accent, really get in there and listen to every story she was willing to share, but he couldn’t think of a single good way to approach it. Clearly it was something she’d worked hard to keep well under wraps; losing an accent like that was no easy feat.
“Madison—” He figured he’d start with a simple question and build from there. But before he could finish, her phone vibrated with an incoming text that had her face darkening the moment she read it.
“I have to go.” She sprang to her feet and ran a hand through her hair, glancing around frantically for the purse Tommy handed her.
“You okay?” He stood beside her, sorry to see her go. She’d probably forget all about him. He knew he’d never forget about her.
“Yeah—I just—” She pressed her bag to her chest and raced for the door, pausing on the threshold long enough to slip off his jacket and toss it to him. “Thanks.” She looked at him as though there was so much more she wanted to say but no time to say it. She shook her head, blinked a few times, and the next thing he knew, she’d shot into the night.
“Madison!” He raced after her, his voice hoarse, breathless. “At least let me walk you to your car,” he offered, anything to prolong his time with her.
But she was already gone.
Already running away from his life and back to her world of secrets and lies.
THIRTY-SIX
BREAKING THE GIRL
Madison Brooks burst onto the sidewalk, aware of Tommy calling after her, his voice as perplexed as it was sincere. But Tommy had already helped more than he knew. Madison couldn’t remember when she’d last felt so at peace—so accepted for her authentic self—as opposed to the girl everyone believed her to be.
Funny how she’d given up on Paul and decided to take matters into her own hands, only to receive his text at the most unfortunate time. A few more hours of drinking beers and kissing Tommy would’ve been nice, but Madison didn’t fool herself about which held more importance.
She ducked her head low, arranged her scarf so it covered her head, and made a run for her car, only to grasp the handle and discover she’d left the keys in the jacket Tommy had loaned her.
She glanced back at the Vesper, gazed down Hollywood Boulevard toward Night for Night, and decided to run for it, or rather walk really fast. A girl sprinting down the street with a scarf tossed over her head would attract too much attention. A girl walking quickly with a back the hell off and stay out of my way thousand-yard stare would make people think twice about messing with her.
Thanks to an unconventional childhood, Madison had been defending herself for as long as she could remember. Despite her pampered Hollywood life, she’d never forgotten how to take care of herself. Surely Paul would drive her home, which meant she could settle the key situation in the morning. If nothing else, it would give her an excuse to see Tommy, not that she needed one. From the way he’d kissed her, she was pretty sure he’d jump at the chance. The thought brought a smile to her face.
Her eyes scanned the palm-tree-lined boulevard, as the heels of her Gucci stilettos stabbed a succession of pink-and-gold Walk of Fame stars. Jennifer Aniston, Elvis Presley, Gwyneth Paltrow, Michael Jackson—she stormed past them all, including her own. Though she barely paused long enough to notice. The goal was accomplished, relegated to the past. Once Madison achieved something, she was immediately on to the next new thing. She made it a point to never look back.
Not a lot of cars on the road at this hour, but the freaks were out in full force. Must be later than she’d thought—certainly late enough for Night for Night to be closed—late enough for Ryan and Aster to have already moved on. She wondered vaguely what had happened after she’d left.
Was he upset with her for going overboard?
Had they gone home together?
Or was Aster still intent on playing her prim-and-proper game?
Either way, she wished Ryan well; the rest she’d read about soon enough. Funny how she’d put all that in motion only to have Paul come through at the very last moment, rendering the drama completely unnecessary.
Still, she couldn’t think of a better ending. RyMad was dead, Ryan and Aster would get all the publicity they desired, and Madison was free to move on with her life without constantly looking over her shoulder, now that Paul had handled things for her.
She paused on the corner, checked both ways, then darted across the street, against the red light. The text had come in a good five minutes ago with instructions to hurry. Paul was a stickler for time. Madison would not disappoint.
From what she could tell, no one had managed to follow her and Tommy to the Vesper, which meant that no one was following her now as she returned to Night for Night. Though it wouldn’t be long before the vultures came out in full force. Considering the scene she’d caused, she could expect nothing less.
She imagined how she might’ve looked under the glow of the lights—her face wet with tears, voice hoarse with accusation. There wasn’t a girl in the crowd who wouldn’t be on her side, other than her most ardent haters and Aster of course.
Her agent would have a fit. Her PR people would be in a snit. But Madison felt good about the decision, and if they couldn’t get on board, she’d have to remind them exactly who they worked for. And if they still couldn’t get on board, well, there were plenty more where they came from. Hollywood agents were like plastic surgeons and Starbucks—one on every corner.
She crept to the side door, punched the code James had given her into the keypad, and slipped inside the large darkened space. Her spiked heels echoing loudly through the empty club, she made her way up the stairs to the terrace, anxious to hear exactly how Paul had handled the threat.
THIRTY-SEVEN
BIGMOUTH STRIKES AGAIN
Layla carried her double espresso from the Nespresso maker in the kitchen to the cluttered desk in her bedroom. The pricey coffeemaker had been a little outside their usual household budget, but they regarded it as less of a splurge and more a necessity. Her father was known to spend a lot of caffeine-fueled nights holed up in his studio working on projects, and while Layla also wrote some of her best pieces at night, mostly she just liked really good coffee.