, his fingers drummed the worn wooden tabletop. “It’s swarming with cops—been designated a crime scene until further notice—and there’s no telling how long it will last. It’s not like the LAPD is in the mood to cooperate.” His face darkened, his gaze grew distant, hooded, effectively shielding his thoughts. “That said—” He splayed his hands on the table, taking a moment to study them, before returning his focus to them. “I think it’s only fair we end the competition.”
Beside him, Aster gasped, as Layla shrugged, not seeming to care either way, while Tommy felt the beginnings of dread. He needed the extra time to secure the top spot. Thanks to the drama surrounding Madison, he’d been knocked off his game. Though their combined numbers were better than ever, after all they’d been through, it was like a limp to the finish. May the least wounded win.
“What about Zion, Sydney, and Diego?” Aster asked, glancing around the club as though she might’ve somehow missed them.
“I told them not to bother,” Ira said, without further explanation. “I’d originally planned for an impressive celebration to mark the end, but we’ll save it for another time.” Ira’s regret seemed genuine, but then he loved to put on a show, which made it hard to determine what was real and what was not. “You’ve all managed to surpass my expectations. The lengths you’ve gone to were impressive. I knew you had it in you—that’s why I hired you. And yet you never know what someone is truly capable of until they’re put to the test. All three of you have been tested in ways you never could’ve foreseen, and you managed to stay focused, relentless, and willing to break a few rules along the way.”
Tommy cringed beneath the lens of Ira’s gaze. So he’d known about the black wristbands and did nothing to stop it? Pretty risky, considering the kind of trouble that could’ve caused. But then Ira was never one to shy away from a gamble, and neither was Tommy. Seems they had more in common than he’d originally thought.
“In some circles those are not considered estimable qualities,” Ira continued. “But in my world—they’re some of the traits I most admire.” He drew his brows together, fingered his tiger’s-eye bracelet. “I’m sure you’re all very anxious to learn the name of the winner, so without further delay—Layla Harrison—”
He centered his gaze on hers, as Tommy looked between them. No way would he announce her the winner. She was lucky to have made it this far.
“You were completely outmatched by these two.” Ira wagged a finger between Tommy and Aster. “You were out of your element, and I should’ve canned you week one. But after a rough start, you managed to find your flow, and eventually you did a decent job of holding your own.”
Layla nodded, her expression ready for whatever Ira was dealing.
“That said, today was the day you were going to be cut.”
She was quick to concede the defeat. “I figured as much.” She slanted her gaze first toward Aster, then Tommy.
“Aster Amirpour—”
At the mention of Aster’s name, Tommy sat up straighter, his focus switching between Aster and Ira. She looked haunted, vulnerable, and yet it only seemed to enhance her beauty. Ira, as usual, gave nothing away.
“Your numbers were consistently good, and you scored some of the top names on my list. You also displayed a willingness to do whatever necessary to secure the win. . . .”
Wait— The dread Tommy felt at the start of the meeting had reached a steady hum. Was Aster getting fired? Because that didn’t sound like the kind of thing you say to someone before you release the blade and shout, “Off with her head!”
It couldn’t end this way. Now more than ever he needed the win. He had nothing else lined up, and he certainly hadn’t traveled all the way from Oklahoma to craft customized coffee drinks for Starbucks’s demanding clientele. Ira owed this to him—if there was ever a time for nepotism, it was now. Problem was, Tommy had never quite gotten around to revealing their connection, so how could Ira possibly know he owed the reward to his one and only son?
Maybe it was time for Tommy to make a reveal of his own.
“—and that’s why you are undisputedly the winner of the Unrivaled Nightlife Competition.”
Wait—who’s the winner? Tommy looked from Ira to Aster, cursing himself for zoning out. But one look at Aster’s beaming face was enough to confirm the worst.
Tommy shook his head, stared at the pockmarked table. After all the rules he’d broken . . . all the money he’d made for Ira . . . so he never managed to lure Ryan Hawthorne to the Vesper—so what? With the way things turned out, seemed like that should be celebrated, not mourned . . . and what the hell was going on between Ira and Aster anyway? He should’ve seen it coming. Leave it to Ira to fuck him over, even though he clearly deserved the win. He’d earned it. And he’d be damned if Ira would take—
“Tommy Phillips—”
Tommy heaved a deep exhale. Forced his gaze to meet Ira’s. Tempted to respond with a sarcastic, Yes, Dad? But he decided against it.
“You remind me of me at your age.”
Well, there’s a very good reason for that. . . .
“You’re tenacious, hungry, a bit untamed, willing to try nearly anything. And while you didn’t win the competition, I could really use someone like you on my team.”
Tommy blinked, unsure what to say. Ira was tricky. Unless he spelled it out in clear, concise terms, there was no telling where he was leading.
“Which is why I’m offering you a job working for Unrivaled Nightlife. Actually, I’m extending the offer to both you and Layla. Think of it as a sort of consolation prize for a job well done.”
Tommy peered at Layla—she looked as unsettled as he felt.
“Tommy, if you’re interested, I’m offering you a chance to run that private room you approached me about. It’s a sound idea. I’m willing to give it a try. And, Layla”—he turned toward her—“there’s an opening in the Jewel marketing department. I think you’d do well there. And, Aster, of course, I invite you to stay on as a promoter. You’ll receive a weekly cut of the heads you bring in, only this time it will be based on how much they spend. Oh, and in case you think I forgot . . .” He disappeared behind the bar, only to return with a new laptop for Layla, and for Tommy, the guitar he’d bought out from under him that fateful day at Farrington’s. “Figured you’d put it to better use,” he said, handing it over.
Tommy positioned the guitar in his arms and strummed a few strings. It needed tuning. Clearly Ira’s lessons, if he’d ever really taken them, hadn’t amounted to much. And yet, he was so overcome to finally have the twelve-string securely in his possession, he wasn’t sure how to respond.