She waved it away. "The tape. I want to hear it. If for no other reason than it will save us from the slow, burning torture of small talk."

He slid the disc from his backpack and inserted it into the stereo. Holding his breath as the first strains of a six-string guitar filled the car. When his vocals kicked in, he thought he'd keel over from anxiety. Layla said nothing. And the few times he peeked, her expression was blank.

When the first song ended, she still hadn't spoken. Same went for the second and third. He was just about to beg her to put him out of his misery and give him the verdict-good or bad, either way he could take it-when she finally lowered the volume and said, "Your lyrics are amazing. Your voice is strong and distinctive. Your guitar playing-I'm a.s.suming that's you on guitar?"

He nodded, barely able to breathe.

"You really slam that thing, which, I hope you take that as a compliment because it's meant as one."

"But . . ." There was always a but.

"But nothing." She shrugged, that simple statement bringing some of the sweetest relief he'd ever known. "It's all there. You've got a really strong foundation. It's like that car you drive. It's got all the makings of a cla.s.sic; it just needs a little spit and polish and a fat wad of cash to push it over the edge."

He looked at her in wonder. It was a compliment delivered like a fact. Nothing effusive about it. No, OhmiG.o.d, Tommy-you are the most awesomeness! like all the other girls had said, if only to get on his good side.

For that reason alone, Layla's compliment meant more to him than the opinions of anyone else who'd heard his music so far.

Ever since the contest began, his rock-star dream had taken a backseat as he became more and more determined to impress Ira through his business savvy. But as soon as it was over, he'd get back in the studio. Layla's comments confirmed it was a dream worth pursuing.

He could finally exhale.

When she cranked the volume and hit Repeat, choosing to spend the rest of the ride listening to his music, the compliment became even sweeter.

"Don't say I didn't warn you." Tommy paused before his front door, watching Layla roll her eyes in response. He was surprised she'd even agreed to come in. And though he wasn't sure what it meant, at the very least, he hoped they could find a way to be friends.

"I guarantee I've seen worse."

"Doubtful." He laughed but opened the door anyway. Trying to see his s.h.i.thole apartment through Layla's eyes and cringing on her behalf.

She crossed the worn carpet to the other side of the room, aiming straight for his collection of vinyl stacked against the wall, where she promptly pulled Led Zeppelin IV from its sleeve, placed it on the turntable, and lowered the needle. She turned to Tommy with a grin when the opening strains of "Going to California" filled the small s.p.a.ce.

"You a Zeppelin fan?" Tommy handed her a beer.

"Thanks to my dad, I was raised on this stuff." She clinked the neck of her bottle against his and took a sip. "Your music is reminiscent of Jimmy Page, and the lyrics remind me of you."

Tommy stood before her, rendered temporarily speechless. "Jimmy Page is one of my idols," he finally said. "As for the rest, well, thanks."

She lifted the beer to her lips, took a long swig, and glanced around his small but mostly tidy den. "It's not as bad as you pretend." She nodded. "I mean, there's no weird smell, you have an impressive collection of much-loved, well-read, waterlogged paperbacks, and who doesn't love a popcorn ceiling inexplicably speckled with gold bits?"

She flashed a wicked grin, then turned and headed straight for his bedroom as Tommy followed. It was his house, but she was in charge.

She stood next to the mattress on the floor and looked all around. "Candles. Decent sheets . . . how many girls have you brought here, Tommy?"

He opened his mouth to reply, then promptly shut it again. He wasn't sure how to answer. He wasn't sure he was willing to answer.

"Surely I'm not the first?"

"What if I said you were?" He watched her carefully, unsure where this was leading.

"Then I'd have no choice but to accuse you of lying."

"Well, okay then." He was more than willing to drop it.

The sight of Layla in his bedroom was way too tempting. Their kiss had been brief, but he wouldn't forget it anytime soon. As much as he wanted to repeat it, he needed to focus on winning the contest, not chase after a girl who was constantly giving him mixed signals, despite having a boyfriend. Eager to return to more neutral ground, he led her out of his room and over to the couch.

"So how'd you score Madison Brooks?" She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "It doesn't seem like her kind of club."

Tommy sipped his beer. Layla ignored hers. "She just showed up," he said, unwilling to share anything more.

"But what was she like? I mean, you talked to her, right?"

The question was simple, but when Tommy started messing with his hair and scratching at his cheek, he knew she suspected him of hiding something. Like she said, she was good at reading people.

"She was nice." Tommy's voice was tentative. He wanted to say more but wasn't sure it was safe. His fingers played at the rim of his beer, as his gaze grew increasingly distant, lost in the memory of the night one of the most celebrated girls in the world decided to drop into his club. "I mean, we didn't really talk all that much, but she wasn't anything like I expected. She was almost like-" His voice faded, he shook his head, unable to put a word to it.

Layla leaned forward, urging him to continue.

He searched the room as though he expected to find the answer written on the wall with peeling paint, the carpet with the creepy dark stain, or maybe even the torn cover of the Hunter S. Thompson paperback. "Like some of the girls I used to know back home," he finally said.

Layla squinted, but he soon went on to explain.

"Not the kind I usually dated." A small smile broke onto his face. "She just seemed really normal. Uncomplicated. Not spoiled. Like she didn't belong in the glamorous life she'd found herself in. Like there was a part of her that was better suited to a much simpler existence in a much smaller place . . ."

His voice halted. From the incredulous look on Layla's face, he'd revealed far more than he should have.

"So, you come up with all that." She drew air circles with her finger. "And yet, you claim you 'didn't really talk all that much.'" She c.o.c.ked her head, allowing her hair to flop into her eyes. "Sounds like you talked a lot more than you let on."

Tommy shifted uncomfortably, picked at a loose thread on the cushion. "Maybe it's better if we don't talk about the compet.i.tion."

"Why not?" She narrowed her gaze. "It's the only thing we have in common."

"We both like Zeppelin," he said. It was a pathetic attempt, but he was eager to return to a more peaceful state. He hated confrontation. Especially when he had no idea why he was being confronted. "What're you doing?" he asked, watching as she leaped from the couch and inexplicably made for the door.

"This was a bad idea." She ran a hand through her white-blond hair and frowned. "Compet.i.tion and friendship don't mix."

"But-you barely drank any of your beer." He pointed stupidly at the mostly full bottle as though that was enough to convince her to stay.

"You finish it," she snapped, her mood shifting so quickly he could barely keep up. "Like you said, you handle it better."

Without another word, she let herself out. Leaving Tommy to wonder what the h.e.l.l had just happened.

THIRTY.

NOTHING ELSE MATTERS.

Madison sat on the patio at n.o.bu gazing out at Malibu Beach, enjoying the feel of the soft breeze brushing over her cheek. Ever since she'd moved to LA, the ocean had become a welcome retreat. Watching the waves continuously lap at the sh.o.r.e was her favorite way to meditate. She'd thought about buying a place by the water, but with all the public access, beach houses were tough to safeguard. Besides, for the moment, all her dreams were on hold until her problem was handled.

"Was that James I just saw?" Ryan bent to give her a perfunctory kiss. "You know, the bouncer at Night for Night? Could've sworn I just saw him tipping the valet and collecting a sick matte-black CTS-V coupe." He shook his head. "Didn't know being a bouncer paid so well."

Madison shrugged like she had no idea what he was talking about. Ryan didn't need to know about her arrangement with James or anyone else on her payroll. What she was about to divulge was revealing enough. She could only hope he'd cooperate-that their time together hadn't resulted in complete animosity.

He claimed his seat reluctantly, wearing an expression of wary distrust. Well, they'd have to find a way around all that. Now more than ever they needed each other.

"So, what's this about?" He centered his green eyes on her, his voice surprisingly brusque.

She gazed out at the sea, watching the sun slice through glorious bands of purple and pink as it dove toward the glistening silver-blue water. "Remember that night when you wanted to come here for dinner but I chose to stay home, so you said you were going out with your friends but you really went to see Aster Amirpour at Night for Night?"

His eyes widened, but he soon got control of his face and switched into neutral.

"I was just wondering-exactly how serious are you about Aster?" She leaned back in her seat, observing him closely. Watching as he shook his head, clutched the sides of his chair. He was just about to bail when she reached toward him and said, "Please-no more games. Let's be straight for a change."

He flashed her a dubious look, shot a hand through his tousled blond hair. The silence stretched between them until he finally relented. "I don't know." He splayed his hands on the smooth wood tabletop, studying his fingers as though trying to recall the lines that went with this scene. "I guess my interest lies somewhere between not very and very."

Madison nodded. "And what is it you see in her, aside from the obvious?"

He ran a hand over his face, gazed at the other diners, before returning to her. "Mad, come on." He flipped his hands on the table and frowned. "What's this about?"

"It's about getting to the truth."

"Jeez, I . . . this is really uncomfortable, okay?"

Madison nodded, encouraging him to continue.

"Fine." He focused on his fork, pressing the tines with the tips of his fingers. "According to my shrink-"

"You told your shrink?" She knew he saw a shrink, everyone did, but she didn't realize he actually confided in her. She figured he was just there for the medical marijuana prescription she'd written for him.

"I thought it was like confession-that I was supposed to confide all my sins." He shrugged. "Anyway, according to her, my attraction to Aster is about her needing me in ways you never could. She also says I'm acting out because of my show getting canceled. Trying to bolster my ego and feel important again." He looked away, as though it pained him to say it.

"And what if I said she was wrong?"

Madison observed him placidly, knowing she'd clinched it when he tilted his head, nodded for her to go on.

"What if I told you I do need you-more than you could ever guess?"

Ryan licked his lips and leaned toward her, clearly aware that a deal was about to be struck. "I'm listening."

"Good." Madison grinned, settled deeper into her seat. "Order us some drinks, and I'll explain everything. But first you have to promise not to tell your shrink, your priest, or anyone else what I'm about to tell you."

He nodded agreeably and flagged down a waiter. As the man approached, Ryan flashed Madison his best heartthrob grin and said, "And then later, you can tell me all about Della, your arrangement with James, and how you really got that scar on your arm."

THIRTY-ONE.

DESTINATION UNKNOWN.

Aster spun before her full-length mirror, making sure she appeared flawless from every angle. Ira was hosting an industry party at Night for Night and all the biggest players were invited, which meant she needed to look her absolute best.

She gazed at her Valentino heels and frowned. They went perfectly with her cream-colored vintage Alaa minidress she'd recently picked up at Decades on Melrose. Normally she avoided used clothing; something about it seemed kind of icky. But the way the dress clung to her curves banished her worst germophobe fears. There was no doubt Ryan would love it. But to really pull it off, the shoes were imperative. Question was: How to get them down the stairs and out the door without Nanny Mitra noticing.

It was the final night of week three in the compet.i.tion, and though she was managing to hold her own, the Vesper's numbers continually trumped hers, and Jewel was gaining traction, what with all the models and B-list celebs they were pulling in. Layla was crazy if she thought she could bribe Aster into sending Ryan Hawthorne her way.

When she'd first seen the pic, she was panicked. The thought of someone photographing what she thought was an intimate, private moment was disturbing at best. Last thing she needed was the pic to go viral, and yet she couldn't afford to let Layla win. She'd send Sugar Mills and whoever else she could wrangle from her agent, but that was the most she would do. Layla would just have to deal.

For now, she had bigger problems at stake, namely the shoes. Nanny was definitely onto her and Javen. Usually she was in bed by nine o'clock, nine thirty at the latest. But lately she'd taken to watching late-night TV, claiming to be a recent convert to Conan and company. Though they'd done their best to cover for each other, it was getting increasingly difficult with Nanny always poking around in their business.

She lifted her fingers to the gold-and-diamond hamsa pendant and begged whoever was in charge of such things to see her through another night, and, if it wasn't too much to ask, all the ones that followed. Despite outward appearances, Aster was starting to slip, mostly thanks to her friendship with Ryan.

While she'd managed to put him off, she couldn't help but wonder how much longer he'd be willing to settle for the few covert kisses they'd shared. Just the other night he'd accused her of being a tease. And though he'd smiled when he said it, there was an edge to his voice that left her uneasy.

She couldn't afford for him to lose interest. Not only was she becoming addicted to all the attention he showered on her-it was a rush unlike any she'd ever known-but she was also starting to believe he was actually serious about helping her break into Hollywood. He'd even promised to set up a meeting between her and his agent-a major upgrade from her own worthless agent. She knew he wouldn't let her down, but she also knew that eventually, he'd expect her to yield to more than just kissing.

From what Aster could piece together via the tabloids and blogs, Ryan and Madison were still together, but Ryan swore they were as good as over. She hoped he was telling the truth. She'd never intended to like him so much.

She slid her purse onto her lap and riffled through the contents-keys, lip gloss, driver's license, cash, and the condom she and her best friend, Safi, had bought one drunken night on a dare and that she'd carried around ever since just in case, were all there.

The only hitch in her plan was the shoes.

Going barefoot wasn't an option. But then neither was wearing the heels downstairs at ten o'clock at night in her robe while Nanny Mitra watched TV. Since she'd started the day faking a cold, if only to explain her exhaustion from staying up late and her subsequent need to sleep in, she figured she might as well play it out all the way. She slipped her robe over her dress, cinched it tightly at the waist, slid her window open, and tossed the shoes and purse onto the lawn two stories below. Cringing when the stilettos landed with a thud, she held her breath, hoping Nanny Mitra hadn't heard, and made for the stairs.

Arranging her hair to hang in her face, mostly to hide the fact that she was wearing foundation and blush (the eyes and lips she'd do in the car), she headed into the den, her eyes widening when she saw Javen lounging in one of the side chairs, pretending to read. Guess she wasn't the only one with big plans. He was playing his part, she was playing hers, the two of them working to keep Nanny subdued.

"Thought I'd come down and say good night," she said. "I just took some NyQuil and it's making me tired, so I think I'll turn in."

Nanny nodded and started to rise, but Aster raised a hand to ward her off.

"I might be contagious," she explained. "And I'd hate for you to get sick. I'll see you in the morning."

She and Javen exchanged a complicit look, as Aster headed back to her room and waited for her brother to text her the moment Nanny fell asleep in her chair, which didn't take long. Then she snuck down the stairs in her robe, just in case Nanny unexpectedly woke, slipped out the front door, gathered her purse and shoes from the lawn, and raced toward a whole new life that was finally about to begin.

Aster stood in the Riad and glanced nervously around the club, hoping Ryan hadn't changed his mind about her just when she'd decided on him. He knew about the party. Knew how important it was to her. And tonight of all nights she needed him there. She checked the time again. It was unlike him to be late.

"Aster."