Unrivaled by Alyson Noel
Aster pressed against the door, her heart beating frantically. “Ryan Hawthorne,” she whispered, waiting for the girl’s friend to confirm it.
“Ryan Hawthorne?”
“Yes, and he’s right downstairs. Probably buying something for Madison.”
“If his show gets axed, that’ll be his last gift to her in a while.”
They both laughed.
“You have to see him. He’s even cuter in person.”
“On it. I don’t want these jeans anyway. They give me mom butt.”
Before Aster could hear any more, she was slipping out of her dressing room wearing the sexiest of the three dresses and heading downstairs. Unfortunately, the girl had failed to mention where Ryan was, but if he really was shopping for Madison, then he was either in cosmetics, handbags, or jewelry . . . which made for a lot of square footage to search.
She crept past the fragrance counter, made a detour past a pile of Prada bags, and was just veering toward a display case of statement necklaces when she realized the girl must’ve been wrong. With his signature tousled blond hair, tanned skin, and green eyes, Ryan Hawthorne was impossible to miss, and from what Aster could see, there wasn’t a single guy in the store who could nail Ryan’s golden-boy look. Though there were plenty who tried.
It was too good to be true. She cast a last look toward the jewelry counter as she made her way toward shoes, spotting a guy about Ryan’s height with Ryan’s tight build, wearing a black beanie and dark sunglasses. Of course Ryan wouldn’t head out without some sort of disguise. Even in a store that was used to dealing with celebrities, there were bound to be a few tourists who wouldn’t think twice about mobbing him. And yet, despite his attempt to go incognito, the longer Aster watched, the more she grew convinced it was him.
Even from a distance she could tell he really was cuter in person. But more important, he was wrapping up the transaction, which meant he could leave at any second. She had to act fast.
Grabbing the first Manolos within reach, she slid one onto her foot and stood before the mirror, angling her leg in a way that inched the dress higher, as she waited for Ryan Hawthorne to breeze past.
Only he didn’t breeze past.
He stopped in his tracks and lifted his sunglasses high onto his head to admire the view. Not exactly a cool move for a guy who was known to be dating Hollywood’s It Girl, but for Aster, it was a sign as good as any that she was on the right track.
The job, the dress, the shoes, it was all about to lead somewhere good. Ryan’s blatant look of unadulterated male appreciation was enough for Aster to screw up enough courage to say, “Should I buy them?” She inched the dress higher.
“They’ve got my vote.” Ryan’s voice was throaty and tight, as he lost the battle to stifle the grin that took over his perfectly chiseled face.
She moved her gaze over his famously ripped and cut body, currently clad in jeans and a T-shirt. Her pulse thrummed, her hands started to shake, yet she still managed to look into the mirror and say, “Mmm . . . I don’t know . . .” She swiveled her hips from side to side, all too aware of Ryan grinning like a fool who needed to move on but was completely unable to do so.
“I feel like I can’t go until I see how this ends,” he said, oblivious to the swarm of salespeople and shoppers beginning to gather, instinctively drawn to the scent of a scandal in the making.
The last thing she wanted was to get Ryan in trouble with the press, much less Madison, who she desperately needed and pretty much worshipped. Still, she wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip. Fate had put Ryan into her path; it was up to her to make the most of it.
“Well, you could always swing by Night for Night tomorrow night and see what I decide. If I buy them, I’ll wear them. . . .” She swiveled again, flashed him her most seductive head-shot grin. Deciding it was better to leave him wanting more, she shot one last flirtatious look over her shoulder and headed for her dressing room. So taken by the excitement of what just occurred she could barely contain herself. It wasn’t her first celebrity encounter, but it was the first one that mattered.
If she knew anything about men, especially spoiled, entitled men (and wasn’t she practically an expert, having spent an entire lifetime surrounded by them?), she knew for a fact that theirs was an encounter he would not soon forget.
It was just a matter of time before he came to the club, and if he showed up with Madison, even better. Either way, victory was about to be hers.
SIXTEEN
BLURRED LINES
Madison Brooks lay curled on her side, sheltered by the shade of a large umbrella, enjoying the view of her infinity pool and the way it seemed to drop straight into the canyon beyond. After her luxurious closet, her backyard was her second favorite place on her property. As a child growing up thousands of miles from any piece of land capable of supporting a palm tree, her tropical paradise was yet another symbol of how far she’d come.
It was her first free day in . . . well, it’d been so long she couldn’t remember when she’d last enjoyed a Saturday without at least one meeting, fitting, or script to read. But with the day stretching out before her like a delectable buffet with unlimited offerings, she was content to remain right there on the chaise, reveling in the fact that she had absolutely nothing to do and nowhere to be.
“Hey, babe.”
At the sound of Ryan’s voice, Blue, who’d been sleeping beside her, lifted his head, pinned back his ears, and let out a teeth-baring growl that had Madison toying with the idea of commanding him to attack. Of course she wouldn’t do it, but that wasn’t to say she wasn’t tempted.
From a purely physical perspective, Ryan was as dreamy as they come. What with the way his sandy-blond hair caught the glinting rays of the sun, making it appear as though it’d been sprinkled with gold dust, the way his well-muscled legs strode purposefully toward her, the way his biceps popped under the strain of an arm loaded with Neiman Marcus shopping bags—it was easy to see why he’d single-handedly fueled the fantasies of so many teen girls (and most of their moms).
“You bring me a gift?” She lowered her sunglasses back to her nose. Sure, she was tired of him, but gifts were always appreciated and rarely returned.
He grinned his dazzling Ryan Hawthorne grin—the moneymaker, as he sometimes referred to it—and sorted through his collection of bags until he found the right one. “Did he just growl at me?” He cast a wary eye on Blue.
Madison watched as Blue leaped from the chair and trotted toward the house. Then she sat up straighter, crossed her legs at the shins, and dug through layers of soft white tissue before she unearthed a small square jewelry box at the bottom.
Hoops. Yet another pair of gold hoops. Only these were far prettier than most in her collection, mostly due to the little turquoise bits that adorned them. Madison traced her finger around the rims, approving of them far more than she’d let on.
She leaned in to plant a perfunctory kiss on his cheek, only to have him turn his head at the very last moment, claiming the kiss.
His lips parted, his tongue darted forward, as his hand rose to the back of her head and he buried his fingers deep in her hair, angling her face closer to his. “I missed you, babe.” He breathed the words into her neck, her hair, before finding her lips once again.
He pulled her closer, and then closer still. And when his hand fell to her breast, his fingers about to ease beneath her bikini top, she pressed her palm firmly against his chest and pushed him away. “Easy, tiger.” She kept her tone playful as she summoned all her will not to wipe her mouth on her towel. It wasn’t that Ryan was a bad kisser, but every kiss was the wrong kiss when it came from a person you could just barely tolerate. “I want to try on my new earrings before you get carried away.” She was hoping to distract him long enough that he’d forget where they’d left off.
Madison was convinced Ryan’s heartthrob status was due solely to the fact that not a single member of his adoring public would ever guess at the weird groans and
Aside from a handful of Teflon-coated, A-list elite who could survive a series of flops and still hold their fan base, the general rule in Hollywood was that you were only as good as your last project. The public was fickle—claiming their undying love and devotion one moment, while simultaneously looking for the next new face to adore.
The time was right to end things with Ryan. If the point of their relationship was to boost each other’s images, then Ryan was about to become a serious detriment. She couldn’t see a single reason to delay the inevitable.
“Gorgeous.” His eyes appeared to sweep across her face, yet his attention clearly drifted. Like he was looking inward rather than outward, like someone else had claimed a place in his memory.
“So, what else did you get me?” She studied him carefully, knowing there was nothing more. She was more interested in how he’d reply. Ryan was the kind of actor who relied heavily on the script. Improvisation was not one of his strengths.
His brows merged as though he’d forgotten where he was—or maybe who he was with?
Was it possible Ryan had grown as tired of her as she’d grown of him?
For the first time in a long time, he intrigued her.
“Uh, nothing,” he said, his voice distracted as he struggled to return to the present. “The rest is just some basics I needed to replace. Been carrying ’em around in my car, figured I’d bring ’em inside in case I end up staying the night.”
She nodded like she understood, and she did, just not in the way he intended. Ryan was hiding something. And while there was a part of her that couldn’t care less, the other part, the part that kept a tight vigil on her image and anything that might threaten it, was on full, red-flag alert.
“I was thinking we should go out tonight.” He acted as though the “going out” was a rare event, when they both knew it was the basis of their relationship. Being seen was imperative.
Instead of readily agreeing like she normally would, she leaned back, slowly, languidly, curling an arm around the back of her head, making her cleavage swell in a way he usually couldn’t resist. When the move barely registered, she knew Ryan either had been, or was about to be, a very bad boy. “I don’t know. . . .” She dragged out each word. “What did you have in mind?”
He rubbed his chin as though thinking it over, but his jiggling knee betrayed him. “Dinner at Nobu Malibu? We haven’t been in a while.”
Madison squinted, having no idea where he was leading. But there was something about the way he broached it, something so furtive and guilty, she knew right then she wouldn’t end things today. For the first time in their relationship, she wondered if maybe she wasn’t the only one playing this game.
“Hmmm . . . maybe . . .” She purred the words like a cat, uncrossed her legs slowly, seductively, before crossing them again, allowing one perfect thigh to slide against the other. Surely he’d see that. Surely he’d react.
“Whatever you want, babe.” His voice adopted the deeper tone she knew all too well, as he trained his focus on her. “Dinner can wait—but this—” He traced the tip of his index finger over the peak of her ribs into the valley of her smooth, taut abdomen until it was nudging beneath the band of her bikini bottom. “This is all I can think about.” He bent his head toward hers, as Madison closed her eyes, thought of a boy from a faraway place, and returned the kiss with the kind of fervor that surprised them both.
SEVENTEEN
GO HARD OR GO HOME
“Bro, you gonna set us up, or what?”
Tommy peered past the bouncer at the two punks he knew from Farrington’s. He’d been called to the door to deal with them, and all he could think was, How the hell did they find me?
“We need to be on that list, bro!” one of them shouted. Was it Ethan? Tommy could never remember their names. Much less tell them apart.
He gazed past them. The line was long, filled with more important, age-appropriate gets.
“You know them?” The bouncer shot Tommy an impatient look.
He nodded reluctantly, knowing if he didn’t, they’d make the kind of scene he couldn’t afford.
“They eighteen?”
“Twenty-one, yo!” Ethan added a fist pump to go with it that made him look anything but.
“Eighteen.” Tommy shot the kids a look of warning, knowing even that was a stretch.
“You say so.” The bouncer was dubious, but lifted the rope anyway and granted them access.
“Suh-weet!” They burst into the darkened club, nodding their heads as they took in the graffiti-covered walls, the large stage, the crowded bar, and all the good-looking girls.
“What the hell is this? You guys stalking me?” Tommy grabbed them each by the sleeve and hauled them back toward him. He’d always been fonder of them than he liked to admit, but at the moment, he was pretty annoyed they had shown up.
“You wish.” Ethan sneered and jerked out of his grasp. “This is so much better than your last gig,” he said. “Glad we kept in touch.”
“We didn’t.” Tommy shook his head, trying not to laugh. He didn’t want to encourage them any more than he had.
“So when you gonna set us up with some of those black wristbands so we can get this party started?” This came from the other one, crap, what was his name? Colpher. That was it—some kind of last-name-as-first-name kind of thing.
Tommy stared between them. “How’d you hear about that?”
“Word’s out, bro.” They grinned in anticipation, as Tommy ran a hand over his chin, trying to decide if that was good news or bad.
It was only the second night of the trial, and apparently news had already spread to guitar stores and skate parks. His liberal use of the black wristbands, usually reserved for the twenty-one-and-over crowd, had given his numbers an even bigger bump than he’d anticipated. While he saw no harm in aging up certain eighteen-year-olds eager to get a three-year jump on the party, these two couldn’t be more than fourteen tops, and Tommy refused to corrupt them any more than they already were.
“Listen—” He swiped a hand through his hair and looked toward the door, watching more of his gets filing in. “Hang out as long as you want. But don’t cause any trouble, and don’t even think about swiping a wristband.”
Tommy watched as their faces fell in the kind of disappointment that was almost comical to watch. “You are the worst club promoter ever,” Colpher said.
“Why you dissing us like that?” Ethan scowled.
“Yeah, yeah.” Tommy laughed and ushered them to a spot near the stage he normally saved for VIPs. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” he told them. “And pay attention to this next band—you might learn something. But remember, I’m watching you.” He illustrated the point by aiming V fingers from his eyes to theirs. “You act like idiots, I won’t hesitate to call your parents and tell them to come get you.”
He watched them settle in, clearly pleased with themselves; then, ensuring the rest of his team wasn’t looking, he slipped out the side door and made his way down the boulevard.
EIGHTEEN
THE POLITICS OF DANCING
In less than two hours the first week of competition would officially end. In less than twelve, Layla would be the first to get cut. She could only imagine the look on Queen Bitch Aster’s face when Ira inevitably called Layla’s name. She’d toss her glossy hair over her shoulder and cock a haughty brow in knowing disdain, watching from the plush seat of her throne as Layla left in disgrace, a metaphorical tail tucked between her legs.
The things that made her a su
Relying on her blog seemed sleazy and unprofessional, something that would ultimately work against her. But if by chance she got another week, she’d waste no time doing everything short of bribing her readers to get them to Jewel. Otherwise, there was no point continuing. Trying to balance her work at the club and her relationship with Mateo was stressing her out. While he didn’t hold a grudge, he didn’t exactly support her either. It felt like her world was split into two not-quite-equal jagged bits, neither one of them willing to adapt to the other.
Karly and Brandon walked by, slowing long enough to give her the stink eye, which she probably deserved, but it wasn’t like it was her fault she lacked the right friends to succeed at this stuff. It was high school all over again. She was out of her element, didn’t fit in. Only back then, she’d been a lot better at pretending not to care.
Screw it. Screw them. Screw Ira. Screw all of it. She headed for the bar, slipped around to the other side, and helped herself to a shot of top-shelf tequila. She’d failed in the most spectacular way—the least she could do was numb some of the pain.
“Last time I had one of those, I drank it straight out of a navel with a hit of lemon and salt, but I hear a glass is just as effective.”
Tommy stood before her, his navy-blue eyes glinting on hers.
Layla scowled, tossed her head back, and drained the tequila. “You shouldn’t be here.” She slammed the glass on the bar a little harder than intended. The alcohol was already slipping through her bloodstream, warming her from the inside and working its magic. The effect was so nice she reached for the bottle and poured herself another.
“You ever gonna cut me a break?” Tommy pressed his palms against the counter and leaned toward her, wearing a hopeful expression.