Tommy grew still. It wasn’t the first time Ira had gone on a philosophical bent. Hell, he liked to pontificate more than anyone Tommy had ever met. What he didn’t understand was why Ira could possibly give enough of a shit to put so much thought into warning him against the worst part of himself.
There was a strange intimacy to the moment. They were alone, with no immediate threat of distraction. It was, Tommy realized, the perfect opportunity to confront one of his biggest fears and tell Ira the other half of the dream that had fueled the move west. Ira had just praised him, so surely he wouldn’t reject the idea of Tommy being his son.
It was all in play, just like he’d imagined. Tommy was famous, he had a record deal (well, at least for the moment), and enough money banked that he didn’t actually need Ira’s help. There was nothing Ira could give him that Tommy didn’t already have.
Except a willingness to admit to being his father.
It was now or never. He’d rehearsed the speech so many times the words were easily summoned.
His hands splayed on the table before him, he inhaled long and deep. His mouth opened to speak, when he suddenly realized that while he did want to salvage the record deal and continue to pursue his dreams, he was done caring what Ira Redman thought of him. All that mattered now was what Tommy thought of himself.
He pushed the shot glass away. “I’ve got an early morning.” He started to rise from his stool.
Ira’s gaze narrowed and held fast to his. “I’d like if you could stick around just a bit longer. I’ve got something special planned that I’d hate for you to miss.” He flashed Tommy a look that said the offer was nonnegotiable, and then he led him down a long hall to the last door on the left.
Tommy glanced nervously between Ira and th
e door.
“Why don’t you wait in here?” Ira swung the door open and ushered Tommy inside yet another room done up all in white. “Make yourself comfortable.” He gestured toward the long bench against the far wall. “The show will begin soon.”
The next thing Tommy knew, Ira was gone, and the door locked behind him.
THIRTY-EIGHT
LA WOMAN
Trena gazed around the empty white space, surprised to find she was the only one there. At the very least, she’d expected to find Ira waiting, but as it was, no one was even working the door.
She moved toward the bar, where she saw two shot glasses sitting side by side, one full, one empty, and beside them a bottle of Unrivaled tequila.
If nothing else, it was a sign that at least someone had been there. She just didn’t know if they still were.
The space was quiet, too quiet. And the way the light played against the stark white walls, splattering them with bright droplets of red, set her on edge.
“Welcome.”
Trena turned to find Heather Rollins dressed in a body-skimming white dress.
“I hope we haven’t kept you waiting too long.”
Trena frowned. We? So far Heather was the only person she’d seen. And something about her arrival seemed oddly showy, even for Ira’s standards.
“I’m here to see Ira.” Trena played it firm, professional. She was there to do a walk-through, frame a couple of scenes, and get a feel for the place. She wasn’t the least bit interested in Ira’s theatrics. It was a waste of her time.
Heather grinned. “I know, and you will, soon enough. Meanwhile, he’s asked me to show you around and explain his ideas.”
Trena looked her over. Heather was camera ready and flawlessly groomed. Her white dress hugged every curve, and her blond hair was perfectly fluffed and curled. “So, let me guess—you serve as a sort of club ambassador?”
Heather laughed. “Sure. That works. But before we begin, can I get you a drink?” She nodded toward the bar, causing Trena to notice that other than the open bottle of tequila, the shelves were completely empty.
Trena returned her focus to Heather. “I never drink on assignment. I prefer we get started.”
Heather led her away from the bar and down a short hall, where she stopped before a closed door. “First, a bit of a tour, and an explanation as to the sort of place Ira envisions.”
Trena braced for the worst. Dealing with Ira was a never-ending power struggle. The show was called In-Depth with Trena Moretti, yet Ira assumed he could insert his views into the script and control that too.
“He’s not interested in the same old run-of-the-mill profile piece.” Heather glanced over her shoulder. “He wants something different, and I’m sure you do too.”