Beautiful Idols: Unrivaled Part 18

Was she the only one who noticed how the whole scene seemed staged? When Madison had just appeared out of nowhere and started screaming, Aster had the distinct impression she'd spent the last week rehearsing the moment in front of her mirror. It was as though she'd purposely laid out a trap, and Aster, naive fool that she was, had blindly stepped in.

Only, she hadn't been all that naive. Or at least not entirely.

"One thing's sure . . ."

The sound of Ryan's voice pulled her away from her thoughts and back to the present. At some point Ira had left, leaving them with two flutes of champagne.

"You just took your first step toward making a name for yourself." Ryan looked her over appreciatively, while Aster picked at the hem of her dress. "Don't act so scandalized," he said. "It's the quickest route to fame I can think of, other than a s.e.x tape."

She pulled away, ignoring the flute he pressed on her. "You act like I should be happy about it. Like you're happy about it."

He raised his gla.s.s and studied the bubbles. "Happy to get my life back? Sure. Happy to be yelled at in a crowded nightclub while she cried adorably for her audience? Not in the least." He shrugged, took a sip, then quickly chased it with another. "But it's out there, Aster. For better or worse. Which means I have no choice but to find a way to play it to my advantage. And my advice to you, if you want to make it in this business, is to find your own angle to make sure it elevates you."

He abandoned his gla.s.s and leaned toward her, his hand returning to the place on her thigh that started the mess, even though it hadn't really started the mess. The mess got started that day in the Neiman Marcus shoe department, when Aster decided to flirt with another girl's guy in hopes of getting famous.

She swallowed hard, forced her gaze to meet his. His fingers were inching up her leg, her pulse quickening the higher they climbed.

"I guarantee by tomorrow your agent will be calling with all kinds of interview requests." He rubbed his lips together as though preparing to kiss her-a kiss that, despite everything, she still wanted.

"And I won't accept them." Her voice was indignant, angry, the logic of her mind completely at war with her heart. On the one hand, his touch was driving her mad. On the other, it was impossible to accept how glib he was acting after all that had happened.

"Good call. Don't talk to the press. Don't talk to anyone, not even your friends. You'd be amazed how quick they'll sell you out for a little cash and a few seconds of fame. Just go about your business, and when you do get ambushed, say, 'No comment,' and be on your way."

"When I get ambushed?" She pressed her legs together in an act of incredible will meant to keep his wandering fingers at bay.

"It's possible. But, babe, don't worry. I'll be with you the entire way."

He slid closer, pressed his thigh against hers. She wanted to believe him, but she needed to hear it again, needed to have it confirmed, leaving no doubt of the promise he'd made. "Will you?" She looked at him. "Will you really?"

"Only if you want me to."

His gaze bore into hers, leaving no doubt his word was good. Ryan offered everything she'd ever wanted-fame, fortune, nonstop media attention. Hers would be the name on everyone's lips, and all the cameras would be aimed at her face. Though she never dreamed it would happen like this.

He pressed a thumb to the underside of her chin, lifted her lips to meet his. His fingers gently eased her legs apart, reminding her of where they'd left off, and the places they still had to visit. "It's all good, Aster." He kissed her nose, her cheek, her forehead, her neck, before finding her lips once again. "You have no idea how good it's about to get. Will you trust me?"

She was alone in the Riad with Ryan Hawthorne.

By tomorrow morning she'd be famous, if she wasn't already.

It was pretty much everything she'd ever dreamed delivered straight to her door.

And there was no doubt that Ryan was entirely responsible for getting her there.

Ryan was rich, famous, connected, and more importantly, no longer Madison's boyfriend.

There was no reason for her to feel guilty.

Besides, she'd traveled so far from being a Perfect Persian Princess she might as well complete the journey.

She reached for her champagne, washed it down, and kissed him right back.

Her lips brus.h.i.+ng against his ear, she said, "I just need to run to the restroom-meet me by the door?"

She kissed him fully, deeply, then pushed away and made her way through the club.

THIRTY-FIVE.

JUST A GIRL.

"Wow."

Tommy searched Madison's gaze and traced a finger across the curve of her cheek. The pulse of her kiss still alive on his lips, he was unaware he'd even spoken, until she smiled softly and repeated the word.

"Wow, indeed." She sighed contentedly and curled her fingers at the nape of his neck. "Country boys sure know how to kiss. I can't believe I'd forgotten that."

Tommy narrowed his gaze, detecting the slightest tw.a.n.g in her voice-something he'd never expected. So that was her secret, or at least one of them. Clearly Madison wasn't quite the East Coast prodigy she'd claimed to be, not that Tommy had ever believed that particular story.

There was something so accessible about her, which seemed like such a ridiculous thing to say about a star of her caliber. Still, Tommy sensed she'd be more comfortable running across a freshly mowed lawn in bare feet than she was crossing a red carpet in designer heels.

The way she drank a beer, the way she kissed, the way her whole body relaxed when she was sure he was the only one looking, convinced him that if nothing else, he'd found a kindred spirit in the most unlikely of persons. It was like every other moment of her life was an act, while the moments they'd shared together were the real deal.

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 hoa.r.s.e, 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 h.e.l.l 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 s.p.a.ce. 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.

She'd always been a night owl, a trait she a.s.sumed she'd inherited from her dad, but it was nearly dawn and she refused to so much as look at her pillow until her story was written, polished, and ushered into the world.

Her fingers flew over the keyboard, fueled on the strongest beans Colombia offered and the insatiable rush of a shot at revenge. Queen b.i.t.c.h Aster and Madison were going down, and they deserved nothing less. If Tommy got caught in the cross fire, oh well. He was the one who chose to rescue Madison.

She'd always figured Aster would go after Ira to secure the win. Maybe swing by his office after hours and flash a little thigh. And who was to say that she hadn't? Who was to say they hadn't hooked up-maybe, in fact, still were hooking up on a regular basis?

Either way, it was a wild card Layla wasn't willing to play.

The last person she wanted to make an enemy of was Ira Redman.

But Queen b.i.t.c.h Aster Amirpour?

Bring it.

As for Madison . . .

Layla reviewed the video footage. Her stomach grew queasy as she watched the part where Tommy whisked her to safety like some gallant white knight in a pair of faded jeans, a black leather jacket, and trashed motorcycle boots.

Tommy was a fool. And Madison was an ent.i.tled brat who actively promoted her shallow, overindulged existence, inspiring legions of kids to emulate her, some who ended up dead like Carlos.

She read through the piece again, not entirely sure she should post it.

BEAUTIFUL IDOLS.

RIP RyMad Dearly Beloved, We gather here today to mourn the untimely demise of one of Hollywood's greatest love stories-the not-so-conscious uncoupling of Madison Brooks and Ryan Hawthorne.

Yes, readers, you read it here first: RyMad is dead.

I know what you're thinking.

How?

And maybe even, Why?

And certainly, Nooooo!

Sadly, it's true. And as the G.o.ds of Hollywood would have it, yours truly was right there when it happened, and I captured every wretched wrenching moment on video.

Though a word of warning before you hit Play: Once you've seen this, you can never unsee it. The images will be tattooed on your retinas for life eternal.

In lieu of flowers, feel free to pay your respects in the comments.

The best journalists were fearless. Told the stories that needed to be told. While it was debatable the Ryan-Madison-Aster love triangle counted as a story that needed to be told, maybe that wasn't for Layla to decide.