"I'm thinking this one would go well with those new Jimmy Choos." Christina dangled a cute color-block dress before her, but Madison didn't want cute. She wanted something special, not the same tired thing everyone else was wearing.

Her phone chimed, but Madison ignored it. Not because she was lazy (she wasn't), or because she was pampered to a ridiculous degree (she was), but because she knew it was Ryan and she had no interest in FaceTiming with him.

Christina paused, but Madison nodded for her to continue, until the ever-faithful Emily swooped in, retrieved Madison's phone from the table, and in a tone of hushed excitement said, "It's Ryan!"

Madison fought the urge to laugh. Emily was a good a.s.sistant-solid, dependable-but her fangirl crush on Ryan made her impossible to trust. The less she knew about Madison's true feelings for Ryan, the better.

"Hey, babe." Ryan's voice was lazy and deep as his sandy-blond hair and sleepy green eyes filled up the screen. "I've been thinking about you all day. Have you been thinking about me?"

Madison watched as Christina and Emily crept from the room, closing the door behind them. "Of course." She sank deeper into the cushions and pulled a cashmere throw over her lap. Whenever Ryan was around, or even on FaceTime, she found herself reaching for a pillow, a blanket, whatever she could find to build a barrier between them.

"Yeah? And what exactly were you thinking?" He sprawled full length on the couch in his on-set trailer, his head propped with a cushion, his hand working his belt.

"You couldn't handle it," she said, her voice barely disguising her resentment for the way he always pushed her into doing things that made her uncomfortable.

It wasn't that she was a prude-far from it-and it wasn't like Ryan wasn't a fine piece of boy specimen-as the hot young star of a popular TV drama, Ryan Hawthorne was the fuel of countless teen fantasies. He simply wasn't her type, and no amount of publicity would ever change that. After putting up with him for the last six months, she was more than ready to end it. Her agent had other ideas and was actively campaigning for her to continue the charade until she inked her next deal, but he wasn't the one who had to kiss him, watch him chew with his mouth open, or fend off his constant need for FaceTime s.e.x. The public canoodling had dragged on long enough. It was time for RyMad to die. Though it was important to time it just right.

"Oh, I can handle it." His voice was raspy, his breathing strained, as his fingers tugged at his zipper. In another half a second those pants would be gone.

"Baby-" She deepened her voice in the way Ryan liked. "You know Christina's here. Emily too."

"Yeah, so, send 'em on an errand or something." He kicked his boxers to his knees. "I miss you, baby. I need me some Mad time."

Madison cringed. She hated when he said things like Mad time-there was nothing s.e.xy about it. There was also nothing s.e.xy about seeing Ryan Hawthorne bared on her screen, despite what his millions of fans might think.

"But I still haven't found a dress for Jimmy Kimmel tomorrow," she cooed in a way she hoped was convincing.

"Does Jimmy have this?"

"Pretty sure he does." He was too far gone to notice she'd rolled her eyes.

"You always look good, baby." His voice was hoa.r.s.e.

Madison muted the volume, absentmindedly fingering the scar on the inside of her arm-the only blemish on her flawless white skin. She was often asked about it in interviews, but Madison had a well-rehea.r.s.ed answer for everything regarding her past.

She waited for Ryan to go through the motions, wondering how much longer she could put him off without him catching on to just how much she'd grown to despise him. Once it was done, she raised the volume and purred, "You have no idea how much I miss you." Not a total lie, she reasoned, since he clearly had no idea she didn't miss him one bit. "But now is not a good time."

He made no move to cover himself, even though she'd made it clear that round two would not happen on her watch. Though a second later he was pulling a T-shirt over his head, saying, "Rain check?"

That was the one good thing about Ryan-he had the attention span of a gnat, and his moods were easily changed. He was just about to nail down a time, when Madison smiled apologetically and pushed End.

She leaned against the cushions and waited. Emily and Christina were probably mashed against the door frame, eavesdropping. They'd check in soon enough.

"So . . ." As if on cue, Christina peeked into the room. Her blue eyes worried, shoulders rising to her ears. "None of them work?"

Madison blinked. Maybe those dresses weren't all as bad as she'd thought-surely at least one was a keeper?

Then again, why not pretend to hate them? It was good to shake people up. Make them try harder. Sharpen their game.

She scrunched her nose and shook her head. She had a long, hot summer of talk shows, movie promos, and photo shoots. Christina would have to exert a little more effort.

"From what I hear, Heather's dying to wear the black one," Christina said.

Madison crossed her legs and purposely nudged a still-sleeping Blue with her toes, amused by the way his ears perked up for a second before flopping down again. The thought of her annoying former costar brought a scowl to her face. Heather was always trying to promote herself through her connections, no matter how tenuous, to bigger celebrities, and Madison would never forgive herself for having fallen for it.

It was back in the early days when they'd first met. Back when she didn't really know anyone and was so grateful to make a friend in a town where she didn't have any, she ignored Heather's more alarming traits-her pathological compet.i.tiveness among them. Though as soon as Madison hit it big, her star blazing so bright Heather's was reduced to a flicker, the snide comments, thinly veiled insults, and fits of jealousy increased to where Madison could no longer overlook them. So she cut Heather off; visited her local dog shelter; found her new best friend, Blue; and never looked back. And yet, Heather still continued to stalk her, always tagging her on Twitter, or trying to copy Madison's every move, like there was a formula for success other than hard work, determination, and a little sprinkle of fairy dust. What a bore.

"Well, I think the only reason she wants it is because she thinks you want it." Christina turned toward the rolling rack and started closing the heavy bags so she could haul them back to her car-the sight of which made Madison feel a little sad for rushing the process.

After the fiasco with Heather, Madison hadn't made other friends. She had plenty of hangers-on, sure, but not a single bestie. The problem with girls (the nice ones, not the crazy ones like Heather) was they always wanted to delve too deep. To share and confide, to glean her innermost thoughts, explore the territory of their mutual mommy and daddy issues, and, unlike boys, they couldn't be dissuaded with s.e.x (or at least not most of them); they demanded answers instead. It was the sort of intimacy Madison just couldn't risk. The moments spent trying on clothes and gossiping with Christina were as close as Madison got to girl bonding.

"Well, won't she be disappointed to learn I rejected it." Madison was determined to delay Christina's departure for as long as she could. "Unless we don't tell her. Might be fun to watch her try to trump me in yet another tireless round of Who Wore It Better?"

Christina grinned knowingly. She had a reputation for being the best, limiting her list of clients to the topmost members of the Hollywood elite. "I don't think that's going to happen anytime soon."

Madison's lips curved into a half smile as she nudged Blue again with her toes. "You've been here for over an hour and the only gossip I get from you is about Heather? Are you holding out on me?"

Christina shot her an alarmed look, and then seeing Madison was joking (well, kind of), she relaxed and said, "It's been a slow week. But I did hear something about a compet.i.tion that Ira Redman's running. Have you heard about it? He's posted flyers all over town."

Madison shot her a curious look. She knew Ira the way she knew most people connected to the industry-through the party, charity, and awards shows circuit. Of course she was aware of his reputation as the nightclub czar of LA, everyone was, but most of their contact had been relegated to Ira trying to lure her to his clubs through flattery and gifts. For her last birthday he'd sent her a red Herms Kelly bag, which cost three times more than the Gucci bag her agent had sent. She'd quickly unwrapped it, added it to her collection of designer handbags, and told Emily to send him a thank-you card.

"Anyway, it's something to do with promoting his clubs, but I have a friend on the inside who says you're on his list of gets. So prepare for a bunch of desperate kids trying to lure you in!"

Madison settled deeper into the cushions, a sigh of contentment escaping her lips. So what if her life was filled with suck-ups and sycophants-all of them handsomely paid to fluff her ego and laugh at her jokes? She was still the luckiest person she knew, living the kind of gilded existence most people couldn't conceive of. And wasn't one of the major benefits of being rich and famous the unfettered access to all the right things?

The right table in a crowded restaurant with a three-hour wait.

The right first-cla.s.s seat on an overbooked flight.

The right VIP pa.s.s to any concert or sporting event worth seeing.

The right clothes arriving straight to her door for her to try on at her leisure.

The right team of people who kept her life running safely and smoothly, for which she paid dearly.

She'd worked hard for the privilege and saw no reason not to milk it.

If Ira Redman wanted to enlist a bunch of kids to flatter her, who was she to stop him?

"Come back tomorrow morning," she said, a.s.suming Christina would move any other appointments she might have. "And bring me something pretty. I want to leave Jimmy speechless. Oh, and get me a list of those kids from your friend. I like to know who's stalking me."

FIVE.

MENTAL HOPSCOTCH.

Layla felt bad lying to Mateo, but really, what choice did she have? He'd made it clear that day at the beach exactly what he thought of the LA club scene. Admitting she'd decided to show up for the interview would only upset him. Besides, it wasn't like anything would ever come of it. Surely Ira would see she didn't fit in that world.

She steered her Kawasaki Ninja 250R toward Jewel, the club designated for the interview, about to claim a s.p.a.ce that had just opened, when, seemingly out of nowhere, a white C-Cla.s.s Mercedes swerved into her lane, forcing Layla to squeeze hard on the brakes. Her back wheel fishtailed wildly as she fought to keep control of the bike. Finally screeching to a stop and miraculously managing to stay upright, she watched in a mixture of frustration and outrage when the driver stole the spot right out from under her.

"Hey!" Layla yelled, her heart racing frantically thanks to the near-death experience. "What the h.e.l.l?" She watched as a dark-haired girl in a tight black dress rolled out of the car with such arrogance and ease Layla was completely incensed. "That was my s.p.a.ce!" she shouted in outrage. In a place where street parking was scarce, s.p.a.ce s.n.a.t.c.hing was a serious breach of common decency.

The girl anch.o.r.ed her sungla.s.ses onto her forehead and glared dismissively. "How can it be your s.p.a.ce if I'm in it?"

Layla stared in astonishment. So enraged she practically spit when she said, "Are you for real? You almost killed me!"

The girl shot Layla a derisive look, shook her long hair over her shoulder, and headed for the club. By the time Layla found another, less desirable s.p.a.ce, the girl was long gone. She'd probably jumped the line and was already inside, while Layla slogged along with the rest of them, slowly wending their way toward the door.

She removed her helmet, ran a hand through her wheat-colored hair, and checked her reflection in the smudgy gla.s.s window, hoping her gray V-neck tee, shrunken black blazer, and tight leather leggings looked more rocker chick than h.e.l.l's Angel. Then she traded her heavy boots for a pair of designer knockoff stilettos she'd bought for the occasion and could still barely walk in.

Despite making a living reporting on the celebrity scene, she couldn't remember the last time she'd been inside a club. Most of her stories revolved more around the closing-time antics, when the celebrities spilled out the doors, swaying precariously on their Jimmy Choos as they made their way to their rides. Those drunken, unguarded moments provided loads of material. She'd learned that firsthand after nearly getting clipped one night by some B-list jerk driving a Porsche. When Layla used her cell to record the offense, the celeb went after her, and she sold the resulting coverage to TMZ in an act of revenge that inadvertently kick-started her freelance career.

It wasn't exactly the writing gig she'd dreamed of, but it'd gotten her through high school without having to rely on her dad, whose career as an artist was either feast or famine. And while she told herself she was doing her part to chip away at a world she despised, most of the time she felt more like a low-life paparazzi than an actual journalist. But, if this gig with Ira worked out, she could put all that behind her.

When she finally reached the door and the bouncer permitted her entry (the six people ahead of her weren't nearly so lucky), she was handed an application and a name tag to stick on her blazer, then directed to a photographer, who clicked the shutter so fast Layla was sure he'd caught her mid-blink. Still dazed from the flash, she was then ushered by yet another a.s.sistant into the Vault-Jewel's much-coveted, much-talked-about, legendary VIP section, which resembled the inside of a very plush jewelry box (as opposed to the actual bank vault Layla expected)-where she was told to wait.

Most people flocked to the front and center seats in an attempt to get noticed, but Layla headed straight for the back. Not because she was shy (she was), not because she was feeling intimidated (she definitely was), but because that particular vantage point allowed her to scope out the room, scrutinize her rivals, and determine who to beat and who to dismiss.

While she never got compet.i.tive over the usual things like being the prettiest girl in the room (the effort required to go from cute to pretty just wasn't worth it), or gaining the attention of the hottest boys (it was already done-Mateo was the hottest guy in town), when it came to nailing the interview, she morphed into a cunning strategist fixed on securing the job no matter the cost.

Of course the girl who'd stolen her parking s.p.a.ce (Aster, according to her name tag) was sitting front and center, and worse, she didn't even blink or look away when Layla caught her openly staring. Her gaze remained focused, wide, and a.s.sured, and she brandished her startling beauty like a weapon meant to intimidate. So Layla did the only thing she could think of-she rolled her eyes and looked away, painfully aware she'd just time traveled straight back to junior high. Still, ignoring the mean girls was never an option. It hadn't worked then, it wouldn't work now. Girls like Aster had a loud bark, but Layla had a sharp, nasty bite. Aster would be a fool to underestimate her.

The rest of the crowd was pretty much a cross section of so many looks it reminded her of an American Idol casting call. There were goths, punks, metalheads, rappers, princessy blondes, a girl wearing pink cowboy boots and cutoffs so insanely short Layla wondered if she'd mistakenly wandered in looking for a bikini wax-all of them jockeying for attention. All of them completely clueless, in Layla's estimation.

"Hey, you're the girl with the bike, right?" There was enough of an accent to prove he wasn't a native. "I saw you ride up."

Layla's gaze roamed past a pair of destroyed black leather motorcycle boots and frayed jeans slashed at the knee, before pausing on a vintage Jimmy Page T-shirt that looked so overly laundered she couldn't help but wonder if he'd slept in it.

She shrugged in response. The weirdness with Aster had left her ready to hate on just about anyone who invaded her s.p.a.ce, starting with this walking, talking indie-rocker cliche who'd probably never straddled a bike in his life.

"Mind if I sit here?"

"Whatever," she mumbled, overcome with shame the second she said it. It wasn't like her to act like such a snot. Still, she wasn't there to make friends, and she definitely wasn't there to make small talk with some LA transplant desperate for connection, and she couldn't think of a better way to get those two points across.

He lowered himself into the seat, settling into such a major manspread, one of his knees b.u.mped against hers.

She sighed loud enough for him to hear. She had graduated from a snot to a colossal b.i.t.c.h, but she just didn't care.

"Sorry." He drew his legs in, which was better, until his foot started to jiggle.

She focused hard on her cell, doing her best to ignore him, but there was no use.

"Can you just-"

He followed the tip of her pointing finger to his bouncing foot.

"Oh. Guess I'm a little nervous." He laughed. "Which probably makes me sound really uncool, but there it is. So, how'd you hear about this?"

Completely out of patience, Layla turned to him and said, "Listen-can we not do this?"

"Do what?" His grin was slow, wide, and disarmingly open. And when her gaze met his, all she could manage was a sharp intake of breath. His eyes were the most intense shade of blue she'd ever seen.

She stole a quick glance at his name tag, Tommy, and fought to pull herself together. "Let's not chitchat, make small talk, or pretend to be friends." Her tone was harsh, way too harsh for the circ.u.mstance, but she was beginning to think she should've listened to Mateo and avoided this place.

"Your call." Tommy shrugged. Dismissing her so easily she couldn't help but feel a little incensed by that too. "Too bad, though. From what I've seen so far, friends are in short supply around here."

His words settled around her. And while part of her wished she could lighten up, another part, the part that was frustrated, insecure, and woefully out of her league, said, "Yeah, well, welcome to Hollywood."

SIX.

LONG COOL WOMAN (IN A BLACK DRESS).

Five minutes into the ordeal was all it took for Aster to dismiss everyone in the room as a possible compet.i.tor. Nightclubs thrived on glamour and beauty-the unattractive need not apply. That single requirement was enough to ensure that Aster secured the top spot.

Still, Layla (Lila? She had to squint to read the name tag) could pose a threat. She wasn't nearly as pretty as Aster, but d.a.m.n if she hadn't hesitated to call her on that unfortunate parking s.p.a.ce incident. Aster hadn't even seen her until she was already climbing out of her car and Layla got up in her face. She'd been so agitated during the drive from Beverly Hills to Hollywood-alternating between you can do it! style pep talks and complete despair that she was fresh out of high school and had already sunk to this level-that when Layla went after her, Aster responded the only way she knew how-by acting like the worst, most haughty version of herself.

Everyone had a go-to defense. Some got angry, like Layla-some made jokes, like Aster's brother, Javen-and some acted like stupid arrogant peac.o.c.ks. Well, it was done now. There was no going back. Besides, Aster had a feeling that deep down, Layla wasn't as tough as she seemed. As someone used to acting her way through most facets of life, Aster found it easy to recognize the trait in another. The game was equal parts illusion and distraction, but on Layla's part, it was poorly played.

For one thing, her shoes were 100 percent not Louboutins. The red on the sole was way off. Never mind the heel height. And the way she'd stumbled into the room like a newborn colt testing its legs-clearly she hadn't bothered to practice walking in them like Aster when she'd scored her first pair. Total rookie move. Even the biggest amateur knew you had to rehea.r.s.e the role you wanted to play until you owned it so fully, you could no longer distinguish yourself from the fiction. Layla was out of her league. She might try to come off as strong and capable, but those sad knockoff shoes told the story of an imposter trying to inhabit a world she did not understand. And yet, clearly Layla was every bit as hungry and ruthless as Aster. Willing to play dirty if that was what it took, which was exactly why Aster focused on her.

Aster was an achiever, used to excelling at pretty much anything she set her mind to. Good grades, prom queen, cla.s.s president-it had all been hers for the taking. But with her acting career failing to launch, she needed this job more than ever. The gig was sleazy, completely beneath her-but that was exactly the reason she needed to clinch it. If she couldn't succeed as a lowly nightclub promoter, then what would that say about her?

Ira took his place at the podium, and Aster wasted no time crossing her legs in a way that significantly hiked up the hem of her Herve Leger bandage dress, hoping to draw attention to a healthy expanse of tanned and toned thigh, while also sending the message she knew how to play this particular game.

Dressed in dark denim jeans and a black shirt, Ira somehow managed to look as tall, a.s.sured, and commanding as though he were standing behind the presidential podium wearing a bespoke suit.

"You all share one thing in common," he began. "You were drawn to the idea of an epic compet.i.tion, access to the hottest clubs, and, let's not forget, the promise of an enormous cash prize."

His gaze swept the room, and when it met Aster's, she could've sworn he held it just a little bit longer. Then again, it was entirely possible she'd imagined it. Ira was magnetic-time seemed to stop and start depending on where he directed his attention.

"Like you, I was young and hungry once." Ira shot them a well-practiced grin. "Back then, I would've jumped at the kind of opportunity I'm offering you."

Another dramatic pause. Sheesh. Is everyone vying for a SAG card? No wonder it's so tough to book a job.