“I’m willing to help, if you’ll let me. Let me prove that you really can trust me.”
Aster studied him. He seemed sincere, and there was no doubt that the more insiders they had on their side, the better. But she kept her expression as smooth as freshly poured concrete. Better to let him sweat it out until she decided.
After a moment’s silence, she said, “We’re not friends. Not even close. We’re just trying to solve a mystery and clear my name, nothing more. And, for the record, this isn’t one of your stupid Hollywood sitcoms. We’re not some zany group of superheroes out to avenge the world of evil. My very life is at stake. Which means, if I so much as catch you not taking this seriously, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
Ryan didn’t hesitate to offer his hand.
After a long moment, Aster shook on the deal. Then, dropping his hand just as quickly, she settled onto the rug, looked at Layla and Ryan, and said, “So, where do we begin?”
SIXTEEN
MUSI
C TO WATCH BOYS TO
There was no logical explanation for why she was feeling so grumpy. Sure, she’d barely gotten any sleep, having spent the bulk of the night at Madison’s, talking and strategizing and forming a plan with Ryan and Aster, but Layla was used to late nights, and she wasn’t much of a deep sleeper anyway. Going to bed for her was more like switching to do not disturb mode for a handful of hours while the rest of the world powered down.
Maybe it was because she missed blogging—connecting to an audience through the stories she wrote.
Maybe it was because she hadn’t fully adapted to life without Mateo. More than once she’d found herself in the midst of texting him after seeing something funny she knew he would like, only to remember just before she hit Send that, for the moment anyway, they were no longer friends.
Or maybe she was still miffed at Tommy for bailing on Aster when she needed his help. And maybe, just maybe, she missed him a little bit too.
Whatever the reason, Layla took it out on Hollywood Boulevard, swerving in and out of traffic while cursing all its tour buses and rubbernecking tourists driving their oddly colored rental cars well below the speed limit. Didn’t they realize there was nothing to see?
Okay, maybe there were a few semi-interesting sights like Grauman’s Chinese Theater and the Walk of Fame stars, but the majority of the boulevard was an eyesore of sagging buildings, cheesy souvenir shops, and smelly costumed weirdos charging people ridiculous fees just to pose with them. Despite Ira’s bid to turn it into the new Sunset (or rather the old Sunset, seeing as how the once-legendary strip of celebrated nightclubs was giving way to swanky hotels, luxury condos, and exclusive designer boutiques), it was the same old seedy freak parade Layla had always known.
She glared at the vanity plate before her. Was there anything dumber than a plate that announced the type of car it was attached to? Just in case you missed the insignia on the trunk, behold the very clever, phonetically spelled license plate to remind you of the type of car you are currently tailgating!
Layla had no shortage of petty annoyances. Her list of pet peeves was so lengthy it often left her feeling more like some old curmudgeon than the eighteen-year-old girl that she was. Maybe she should lighten up, open her heart, and embrace the fact that the person before her was a very proud Ferrari owner, and rightfully so.
But when she read the plate again, she realized the best and only recourse for someone like her was to maneuver around it until she could no longer see it.
She weaved in and out of traffic, scanning her rearview and side mirrors for radar-gun-wielding cops. Last thing she needed was a ticket; she was already running late as it was. While the BMW was comfortable and drove like a dream, if she’d taken the Kawasaki she would’ve been there by now. Still, the use of an Unrivaled company car was a major job perk she’d be a fool to pass up, and yet the fact that she hadn’t left Layla uneasy. It was more than the fear that she was turning into yet another shallow, materialistic, mall-worshipping zombie like her mom. Now that Layla and her dad were both working for Unrivaled, the car was like another hook connecting her to Ira.
Having started the day getting reprimanded for deeming the organic, gluten-free, Paleo-approved pet food as not goodie-bag-worthy when, according to Emerson, there was no shortage of celebrities wanting their dogs to eat like cavemen, Layla desperately needed to end her first week on the job by accomplishing at least one assignment she could feel proud of.
Emerson had jumped all over her when he caught her ducking out early, convinced she was getting a jump on the weekend. The astonished look on his face when she informed him she was on her way to meet with Malina Li at Elixir Records made the humiliation almost worth it.
For whatever reason, Ira had specifically asked her to handle the music for the tequila launch, which seemed like a pretty important task—one that would definitely be better handled by someone with far more experience. She’d even gone so far as to question why the Vesper’s booking agent didn’t handle it instead. Because I’m asking you, had been Ira’s terse reply, and Layla had been smart enough to leave it at that.
After turning left on a red (the only way to turn left in LA, thanks to the constant flow of heavy traffic), she found a space in the parking structure and rode the elevator to the very top floor, all the while trying not to feel completely out of her league, which she undoubtedly was.
The office walls were covered with framed photos of Elixir’s numerous rock star clients, and Layla tried not to fidget as the receptionist gave her a thorough once-over before ushering her into a sleek, modern, yet decidedly feminine space decorated in brushed golds and rich creams, where a gorgeous woman with long dark hair and deep red lips sat frowning behind a large ebony desk.
Malina Li, the head of A and R, was exactly the kind of woman Layla dreamed of interviewing. Her rise to the top of a male-dominated industry was the sort of story Layla dreamed of writing. But at the moment, Malina was scowling, and because of it, Layla was cringing.
“You’re not Ira,” Malina snapped.
Layla stood awkwardly before her. “I’m here on Ira’s behalf.” She hoped it was the right thing to say. The way Malina shook her head and leaned back in her seat, silently regarding Layla through a thick fringe of lashes and a judgmental brow, told her it wasn’t. “I’m going to be honest,” Layla said, figuring it was better to be frank and not even try to bluff her way through the meeting. “I’m not entirely sure why I’m here. I don’t usually handle these things.”
Malina sighed and crossed her legs at the knee. “Leave it to Ira to send a newbie to punish me.” The sour expression that followed only served to punctuate the sentiment. “Okay. Fine,” she said as though resigned to her fate. “I don’t know how much Ira’s told you, but the short version is the artist he booked for the launch just canceled due to reasons I will not get into. Suffice it to say Ira is furious. And while I understand his predicament, I’ve recently signed someone new who’s destined to blow up really big. If Ira agrees to book him, it will only raise the cachet of his brand, as he’ll be able to lay claim to being the first to showcase him.”
“Sounds exciting,” Layla said, but the baleful look Malina shot her told her she would’ve been better off saying nothing at all.
“So, seeing as Ira saw fit to send you, that means the future of my bright and shining star, my great new hope, rests entirely in your inexperienced hands.”
Layla swallowed. That sounded ridiculously overdramatic, but she knew better than to respond.