Unrivalled

“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 sexy about it. There was also nothing sexy 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 hoarse.

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-rehearsed 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 competitiveness 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 sex (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 competition 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 Hermès 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-class seat on an overbooked flight.

The right VIP pass 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, assuming 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 (#ulink_13c85292-1e10-5c5b-bc60-5a49f3293b37)

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 space that had just opened, when, seemingly out of nowhere, a white C-Class 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 hell?” 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 space!” she shouted in outrage. In a place where street parking was scarce, space snatching was a serious breach of common decency.

The girl anchored her sunglasses onto her forehead and glared dismissively. “How can it be your space 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 space, 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 glass window, hoping her gray V-neck tee, shrunken black blazer, and tight leather leggings looked more rocker chick than Hell’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 assistant 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 competitive 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.