Unrivalled

“Easy for you to say, Mr. Zen Master.” It was one of her many nicknames for him. “Let’s go to my place. It’s free of little sisters, and even if my dad’s in the studio, it’s not like he’ll bother us. He’s really into his newest series of paintings, not that I’ve seen them. I’m just glad he’s working. It’s been forever since he last sold a piece.”

Mateo cringed. Obviously he still wanted to be with her, but all it took was the mention of her dad for his own enthusiasm to wane.

“I can’t get used to that.” He busied himself with packing their stuff, pulling the umbrella apart, and sliding it into its bag. “It’s too weird.”

“Only for you. Don’t forget Dad’s a self-described open-minded bohemian who believes in free expression. And more important, he trusts me. And he likes you. Thinks you’re a calming influence.”

She cracked a smile. It was undeniably true. Then, tossing her bag over her shoulder, she headed for Mateo’s black Jeep, where she plucked a flyer from under his wiper blades and read: Promote with Ira Redman’s Unrivaled Nightlife Company this summer for a chance to win an unbelievable cash prize.

Her interest was instantly piqued.

She’d had her sights on journalism school in New York since her junior year of high school, and while she was thrilled to have been accepted, there was no chance of attending when the staggering tuition, not to mention the high cost of city living, was like a brick wall blocking her way. And with her dad’s current financial slump lasting longer than usual, asking him for help was out of the question.

While her mom could easily provide whatever amount Layla might need (correction: her mom’s wealthy husband could provide; Layla’s mom was just another Santa Monica zombie shuffling between Soul Cycle and Drybar), the fact was Layla and her mom hadn’t spoken for years, and Layla had no plans to start.

As for Mateo—his job as a surf butler at some of the pricier beachfront hotels didn’t pay much (not that Layla would accept his help if it did). Not to mention she’d yet to fill him in on that particular goal—mostly because he’d insist on joining her, and as nice as it would be to have him around, he’d only end up distracting her. Mateo didn’t share her ambition, and sweet as he was, Layla refused to be yet another female who let a cute boy keep her from achieving her dreams.

She scanned the flyer again—a job like that could be just what she needed. The exposure to the Hollywood club scene would give her way better material, and who knew where it could lead?

Mateo leaned past her shoulder and tugged the flyer from her hands. “Tell me you’re not interested in this.” He swung around to better see her, his brown eyes narrowed as Layla bit her lip in response, unwilling to admit it was the most exciting thing to happen all day (other than that kiss on the beach). “Babe, trust me, you don’t want to get involved in this.” His voice was stern in a way she rarely heard. “The club scene is sketchy at best. You remember what happened to Carlos.”

She dropped her gaze to her sand-covered feet. She was overcome with shame at having forgotten about Mateo’s older brother, who’d OD’d right outside a club on Sunset Boulevard, not unlike River Phoenix collapsing in front of the Viper Room, except for the fact that nobody built a shrine in his honor. Aside from his immediate family, no one had even stopped to mourn. By the time Carlos died, he was so far gone the only friends he had left were drug dealers—none of whom bothered to go to his funeral. It was the greatest tragedy of Mateo’s life. As a kid, he’d totally idolized his brother.

But what if this was the perfect way to honor Carlos—maybe even vindicate him?

She reached for Mateo, her fingers grazing his arm before falling back to her side. “What happened to Carlos was the worst kind of tragedy, because it could’ve been avoided,” she said. “But maybe the best way to draw attention to Carlos and other kids like him is to expose what really goes on in that world. A gig like this would allow me to do that.”

Mateo frowned. She was going to have to try harder than that.

She stared at the flyer still clutched in his hands, knowing in her gut she was right. Mateo’s resistance only made her more determined. “I hate our celebrity-worshipping culture as much as you do. And I totally agree the whole club scene is one major sleaze fest. But wouldn’t you rather I do something to shine a light on all that? Doesn’t that beat sitting around and complaining?”

While he didn’t necessarily agree, he wasn’t arguing either. A small victory she was happy to claim.

“I have no illusions I’ll win the competition. Hell, I don’t even care about that. But if I can just get in on the game, I’ll have all the necessary ammo to reveal that world for the fraud that it is. If I can get just one kid to stop hero-worshipping those shallow, needy, undeserving assholes—if I can convince just one teen that the club scene is seedy, dangerous, and better avoided—then my job will be done.”

Mateo gazed at the ocean, studying the horizon for a long while. Something about seeing him in profile, shadowed by the fading rays of the sun, softened her heart. He loved her. He only wanted what was best for her, including keeping her far from the world that had claimed his brother. But as much as she loved him, she would not let him win.

He lingered on the postcard-perfect view of the sun dipping toward the ocean before turning to face her. “I can’t stand the thought of you getting mixed up in all that.” He clenched his fist, causing the flyer to crumple loudly. “That whole world’s a lie, and Ira has a well-earned reputation as the worst kind of scumbag who doesn’t give a shit about the kids who’ve made him rich. He only cares about himself. They dumped Carlos outside and let him die on the street so they wouldn’t have to call the ambulance and shut down the club for the night. Though you can bet they didn’t hesitate to benefit from the scandal.”

“But that wasn’t Ira’s club.”

“It’s all the same. Carlos was a smart kid, and look what happened to him. I can’t let that to happen to you.”

“I’m not Carlos.” The instant she said it, she was filled with regret. She’d do anything to pull the words back from the ether and swallow them whole.

“Meaning?”

She paused, not entirely sure how to explain without offending him further. “I’m going in with a purpose, a goal—”

“There are other, better ways to do that.”

“Name one.” She tilted her chin, hoping to convey with a look that she loved him but they’d reached a dead end.

Mateo tossed the flyer into the nearest can and propped the passenger door open as though that was the end of it.

But it wasn’t.

Not even close.

She’d already memorized the website and phone number.

She inched closer. She hated when they argued, and besides, there was really no point. She’d already made her decision. The less he knew about it going forward, the better.

Knowing exactly how to distract him, she ran her hands up the length of his thigh. Refusing to stop until his lids dropped, his breath deepened, and he’d forgotten she was ever interested in promoting Ira Redman’s clubs.

TWO WHILE MY GUITAR GENTLY WEEPS (#ulink_4a70cf4f-e669-519b-830b-6463a251c9de)

“C’mon, bro—you gotta weigh in. We won’t leave until you do.”

Tommy glanced up from the copy of Rolling Stone he’d been reading and shot a bored glance at the two garage-band wannabes standing before him. Four and a half hours into his eight-hour shift and he’d yet to sell so much as a single guitar pick. Unfortunately, these two wouldn’t change that.

“Electric or acoustic?” they asked, voices overlapping.

Tommy lingered on a pic of Taylor Swift’s mile-long legs before flipping the page and devoting equal time to Beyoncé. “There’s no right or wrong,” he finally said.

“That’s what you always say.” The one in the beanie eyed him suspiciously.

“And yet, you keep asking.” Tommy frowned, wondering how long they’d persist before they moved on.

“Dude—you are like seriously the worst salesperson ever.” This came from the one wearing the Green Day Dookie T-shirt, who might’ve been named Ethan, but Tommy couldn’t be sure.

Tommy pushed the magazine aside. “How would you know? You’ve never once tried to buy anything.”

The two friends stood side by side, both of them rolling their eyes.

“Is commission the only thing you care about?”

“Are you really that big of a capitalist?”

Tommy shrugged. “When the rent’s due, everyone’s a capitalist.”

“You gotta have a preference,” Beanie Boy said, unwilling to let it go.

Tommy glanced between them, wondering how much longer he could put them off. They dropped in at least once a week, and though Tommy always acted like their incessant questions and attention-seeking antics annoyed him, most days they provided the only entertainment in an otherwise boring job.

But he was serious about the rent. Which meant he had no patience for bored little punks wasting his time, only to leave without buying so much as a single sheet of music.

The gig was commission based, and if he wasn’t actively selling, Tommy figured his time was better spent either thumbing through unsold copies of Rolling Stone and dreaming of the day he’d grace the cover, or scouring the web for gigs—minimum effort for minimum wage, seemed fair to him.