Unrivalled

He was calling about the audition. She’d put her whole heart and soul into it, and clearly it had worked. “This is about the commercial, right? When do they want me to start?” Before Jerry could answer, she was envisioning how she’d break the news to her parents.

They were in Dubai for the summer, but she’d still have to tell them, and they were going to freak. She’d dreamed of becoming a world-famous actress since she was a kid, always begging her mom to take her on auditions, but her parents had other ideas. From the moment that first ultrasound revealed Aster was a girl, she was groomed to meet a set of expectations that seemed simple enough: be pretty, be sweet, get good grades, and keep her legs firmly crossed until she married the Perfect Persian Boy of her parents’ choosing the day after she graduated college, only to start producing Perfect Persian Babies a respectable ten months later.

While Aster had nothing against marriage and babies, she was committed to delaying those dream stallers for as long as she could. And now that her big break had arrived, she was determined to dive in headfirst.

“This isn’t about the commercial.”

Aster blinked, clutched the phone tighter, sure she’d misheard.

“They decided to go another way.”

Aster’s mind raced back to that day. Hadn’t she convinced the director that completely foul cereal was the best-tasting thing she’d ever put in her mouth?

“They’re going ethnic.”

“But I’m ethnic!”

“A different ethnic. Aster, listen, I’m sorry, but these things happen.”

“Do they? Or do they just happen to me? I’m either too ethnic, or the wrong ethnic, or—remember that time they said I was too pretty? As if there was such a thing.”

“There will be plenty of auditions,” he said. “Remember what I told you about Sugar Mills?”

Aster rolled her eyes. Sugar Mills was her agent’s most successful client. A no-talent pseudo celebrity discovered on Instagram thanks to the staggering number of people with nothing better to do than follow the daily adventures of Sugar’s Photoshopped body parts. Because of it, she’d snagged some high-profile commercial eating a big sloppy burger while wearing a tiny bikini, which inexplicably led to a role in an upcoming movie playing some old guy’s wildly inappropriate much younger girlfriend. Just thinking about it made Aster simultaneously sick and insanely jealous.

“I assume you’ve heard of Ira Redman?” Jerry said, breaking the silence.

Aster frowned and lowered herself back into the water, until the bubbles rose up to her shoulders. “Who hasn’t?” she snapped, feeling more than a little annoyed at a system that celebrated girls like Sugar Mills and wouldn’t give Aster a chance, even though she was a much classier act. “But unless Ira’s decided to get in on the movie biz—”

“Ira isn’t making movies. Or at least not yet.” Jerry spoke like he knew Ira personally, when Aster was willing to bet that he didn’t. “Though he is running a contest for club promoters.”

She closed her eyes. This was bad. Very bad. She braced herself for whatever came next.

“If you make the cut, you’ll spend the summer promoting one of Ira’s clubs. Which, as you probably know, are frequented by some of Hollywood’s biggest players. The exposure will be great, and there’s money in it for the winner.” He paused, allowing the words to sink in, while Aster fought to keep her disappointment in check.

She climbed out of the Jacuzzi. The heat of the water combined with the heat of her humiliation was unbearable. Preferring to finish the call barefoot, wet, and shivering, she said, “It sounds shady. And sleazy. And low class. And desperate. And just overall beneath me.”

She gazed toward her house—an over-the-top, sprawling Mediterranean-style monument to her family’s wealth with its tennis courts, covered loggias, big cherub-adorned fountains, and rolling manicured lawns. Wealth that would one day be hers and her brother Javen’s, provided they followed her parents’ strict and uninspiring plans for their lives.

She was tired of the way they tried to leverage her inheritance. Tired of the emotional turmoil they caused by insisting she choose between pleasing them and living her dreams. Well, screw it. She was done pretending. She wanted what she wanted and her parents would just have to deal. And if Jerry thought this was a good career move, then clearly it was time to cut ties and move on. There had to be another way. Someone to better guide her career. Problem was, Jerry had been the only agent out of a very long list who’d been willing to meet with her.

“You’re wrong about Ira,” he said. “He’s a class act, and his clubs attract the cream of the crop. You ever been to one?”

“I just turned eighteen.” She was annoyed at having to remind him. As her agent, he should’ve known that.

“Yeah.” He laughed. “As if that ever stopped anyone. C’mon, Aster, I know you’re not as innocent as you like to pretend.”

She frowned, unable to establish whether he’d just said something completely inappropriate, or if he was just calling it like he saw it. She was used to the way men reacted to her. Even much older men, men who should know better. But apparently it would take more than smooth skin, long legs, and the kind of blessed bone structure that photographed well to earn her a SAG card.

“So, you’re seriously trying to convince me that being a nightclub hostess will help my career as an actress?”

“Club promoter. For Ira Redman, no less.”

“Why not just take pictures of my butt and post them on Instagram? It worked for Sugar.”

“Aster.” For the first time since the conversation began, Jerry was running out of patience.

Well, he wasn’t the only one. But Aster was smart enough, and just desperate enough, to know when to fold.

“So, how does this work? You going to claim ten percent?”

“What? No!” He barked, like she’d said something crazy. As though that wasn’t an agent’s main role. “I know how tough it is to catch a break, and I really think you’ve got something, which is the only reason I signed you. This gig with Ira will get you in front of more influential people in one night than twenty auditions put together. If you truly believe the road to fame is beneath you, then maybe you don’t want it as much as you claim.”

She wanted it. She plucked a towel from a nearby lounge chair and wrapped it loosely around her. And while it clearly wasn’t the same as scoring the lead role (or any role), she had to start somewhere.

Besides, Jerry was right; everyone knew Ira’s clubs attracted loads of Hollywood types, and in a town full of gorgeous young girls, all of them fueled on the same dream of fortune and fame, this could be just the thing Aster needed to help her get noticed for the find that she was.

Trying to drum up a modicum of enthusiasm she didn’t yet feel, she headed for the pool house and said, “Let me grab a pen so I can jot down the details.”

FOUR CELEBRITY SKIN (#ulink_0052f37f-b67f-5a46-a8a4-4400a1e92d84)

Madison Brooks sprawled across the plush velvet chaise tucked into the corner of her massive walk-in closet, sipping the freshly pressed green juice her assistant, Emily, delivered and wrinkling her nose at the dresses her stylist, Christina, pulled from an assortment of garment bags bearing the names of LA’s most exclusive boutiques.

It was one of her favorite activities, in one of her favorite places—her closet serving as a sort of sanctuary from the incessant demands of her life. Every item—from the mirrored chests, to the soft woven rugs underfoot, to the crystal chandeliers dangling overhead, to the hand-painted silk wallpaper—was carefully chosen to exude feelings of unbridled luxury, comfort, and peace. The only thing even remotely out of place was Blue lying asleep at her feet.

While other starlets preferred their precious purse-size purebreds, for Madison, her scraggly mutt of indeterminate origins was everything a dog should be—solid, tough, no-nonsense, and a little rough around the edges. It was how she preferred her boyfriends too—or at least back when she was allowed to choose them herself.

If there was anything that surprised Madison about the inner workings of Hollywood, it was the approach to relationships as just another commodity—something to be bartered and arranged by a team of managers, publicists, and agents, or sometimes, the celebrities themselves.

The right pairing could raise an actor’s profile in ways that were otherwise hard to achieve, ensuring endless publicity, a permanent place in the tabloids, and, more unfortunate, the annoyingly cutesy phenomenon of name blending. Problem was, most actors were so used to delving into character they’d actually start to believe they’d found the person they could not live without. The one who completed them. Or whatever movie line they’d been spoon-fed since they were a kid.

“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 assistant—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 sex. The public canoodling had dragged on long enough. It was time for RyMad to die. Though it was important to time it just right.