Blacklist Read online

  In another three hours they’d all be gone, edged out by after-work warriors willing to look past the faint smell of burnt popcorn and the antiquated jukebox playing a steady stream of deep tracks in their search for cheap drinks, willing women, and any other vice with the promise to numb them.

  While Tommy wasn’t exactly living the dream, at least he’d managed to avoid that particular brand of nine-to-five hell.

  He settled onto the red vinyl cushion and ordered a beer from the waitress who’d flashed him a flirty look he didn’t return. A month ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated to flaunt the heartbreaker grin that had made him a legend back at his Oklahoma high school. But ever since Madison Brooks disappeared and the tabloids turned their focus to him for the small walk-on part that he’d played, Tommy’s go-to response to a pretty girl flirting was to avert his gaze and wait for her to move away.

  It wreaked hell on his love life. Never mind his nonexistent sex life.

  Like the rest of LA, he was eager for the dry spell to end.

  He centered his gaze on the entrance, not wanting to miss the moment Layla arrived. Though they texted often, it’d been a week since he’d seen her. A week since LA was in flames and they watched their friend get hauled away for first-degree murder.

  A few moments later, when the door swung open and Layla appeared as a small, black-clad figure in a circle of light, Tommy took one look at her platinum-blond hair, gray-blue eyes, and pale lovely face, and realized he wasn’t even close to being over her.

  Though she was definitely over him.

  Not that there was anything to be over exactly. The kiss they’d shared had been a one-time thing; not to mention, last he’d checked, Layla had a boyfriend. Still, the memory had managed to stick no matter how hard he tried to forget.

  She paused in the entry, scanning the room. She’d find him eventually, though no thanks to him. It wasn’t often Tommy got a chance to observe her unaware—looking just the slightest bit lost and unsure as opposed to her usual sarcasm and swagger—and he planned to enjoy it for as long as he could.

  “Way to pick a venue, Tommy.” Layla flung her bag into the booth and slid in beside it, as Tommy tried not to notice the way her dress hitched up her thighs. If she caught him staring, she’d eat him alive. “Isn’t this where they found that actress’s body parts chopped into bits and stored in plastic containers in the fridge?”

  “That was back in the sixties. They’ve remodeled the kitchen since then,” Tommy said, not the least bit disturbed by the bar’s grisly past.

  Layla took a dubious look all around. “Looks like that’s the only thing that’s been remodeled.”

  The waitress arrived with his beer and Layla ordered a coffee, black. As the server walked away, Layla turned to Tommy and said, “Did she just roll her eyes at me?”

  “They depend on their tips.” Tommy shrugged. “Besides, haven’t you reached your caffeine quota by now?”

  Layla checked her phone and placed it on the table before her. “I didn’t call you to discuss my need for coffee rehab.”

  Tommy bit back a grin and took a slow sip of beer. Layla had no patience for small talk. He’d learned that the first day they’d met, when he’d made the mistake of trying to engage the cute blonde who’d rolled up to the Unrivaled Nightlife interview on an electric-blue Kawasaki. That first meeting hadn’t gone well, but back then Layla had hated Aster too. And yet, here she was, determined to find some way to save her.

  Tommy pressed his forearms to the table and leaned toward her. It was time he stopped fantasizing about a relationship that would never be and focused on the real point of the meeting.

  “Still can’t get in to see Aster.” Layla sighed. “Who knew county jail was tougher to breach than the VIP list at Ira’s clubs?” She frowned. “Not to mention how I’m pretty sure Trena knows more than she’s letting on. But every time I bring it up, she insists on talking around it. It’s like she’s determined to block me and I can’t figure out why. After all, I’m the one who fed her the clue about Ryan Hawthorne. Maybe she needs a reminder.”

  “She’s protecting her intel. Doesn’t want you to scoop her, or whatever you journalists call it.” Tommy watched as Layla absentmindedly drew invisible circles on the tabletop using the tip of a blue-painted nail. Trena wasn’t the only one talking around it; Layla was holding back too. On the phone, she’d been urgent, insisting he drop everything and meet right away. But now that they were face-to-face, she was acting like she regretted her choice, or worse—debating whether or not she could trust him.

  Layla started to speak, then paused as the waitress dropped off her coffee. The moment the server moved out of earshot, she looked at Tommy and said, “I told her I’m no longer writing about it. I’m taking a break from the subject, and believe me when I say my numbers have plummeted because of it. My advertisers are bailing, and I’m taking a major money hit. Still, I can’t in good conscience continue to write about it. Not when I’m sure Aster’s innocent.” She regarded her coffee with a regretful stare. “I never should’ve posted those pics of her and Ryan kissing. I put the cops right on her trail, and once there, they were too lazy to look anywhere else.”

  Tommy could hardly believe what he’d just heard. “And what about the pics you posted of me?”

  If he was expecting an apology, clearly it wasn’t forthcoming. He watched as Layla shot back against the vinyl upholstery, folded her arms at her chest, and centered a steely gaze right on his. “Way I remember it, you didn’t hesitate to claim your fifteen minutes of fame.”

  Tommy felt flush with anger. No one ever triggered him quite like she could. After a few moments of edgy silence, he’d calmed enough to concede that what she’d said was in many ways true. Though he’d be damned if he’d admit it to her.

  “So why not write in her defense?” he said, hoping to move on before Layla stormed out, or worse. The solution seemed obvious enough to him. If he had a blog, that was what he’d do. It’s certainly the stance he’d taken whenever he granted an interview, which was less often these days.

  Having moved to LA with dreams of breaking into the music industry, Tommy had soon discovered it wasn’t going to be nearly as easy as he’d hoped. The good looks and talent that had made him a standout in his small Oklahoma town barely registered in a place where virtually everyone was ridiculously beautiful and well on their way to fortune and fame. So when news of Madison’s disappearance first broke, Tommy didn’t hesitate to claim a piece of the spotlight. At the time, he was sure Madison was merely lying low and would surface soon enough. What he hadn’t counted on was the discovery of her blood on the Night for Night terrace, much less Aster’s stained dress linking her to the crime.

  Layla unfolded her arms and sipped from her coffee. After crinkling her nose in distaste, she went back for more. “Clearly you don’t read my blog.” She returned the cup to its saucer. “Otherwise you’d know that the one time I dared write a piece in Aster’s defense, it resulted in death threats.” She shook her head at the memory.

  “Everyone loves an easy target.” Tommy studied her, watching an array of emotions play across her delicate features as she reluctantly nodded in agreement.

  “Unfortunately for Aster, she’s easy to hate. She’s young, rich, gorgeous, a little on the prissy side. . . .”

  “A little?” Tommy felt ashamed the moment he said it. With everything Aster was facing, it didn’t seem right to poke fun, no matter how true the accusation. “Though actually, the same goes for you. Anytime you dare to put yourself out there, or worse, put yourself out there in a way that honors your convictions, you can expect to be dog piled.”

  “Speaking from experience?” Layla quirked a brow as her gaze moved over him.

  Tommy shrugged and sipped his beer, remembering the backlash he’d faced—the slew of hate tweets, his car tires getting slashed—all because he’d been the last known person to be seen with Madison. The internet was the most terrifying court of all. It was mob
mentality at its worst—rife with torch-wielding armchair judges ready to convict on mere hearsay alone. Luckily for Tommy, the furor had eventually died down, but only because the haters had found a new target in Aster.

  “Look,” Layla said. “As the former president of the I Hate Aster Amirpour Club, I get it. But now I just want to help her. For one thing, Aster’s innocent. For another, it’s the right thing to do.”

  Tommy studied her closely. She was acting odd, cagey, purposely avoiding whatever she’d come to discuss. And while part of him wished the whole thing had been an excuse just to see him, he knew better. Layla was simply not the flirty, coy type. She was the most straightforward girl he’d ever met, or at least, usually. At the moment, she clearly needed a nudge, even though she was the one who’d called for the meeting.

  “So what’s this evidence you found?” He pressed back against the cushion and waited for her to fess up.

  With a resigned sigh, she sank a hand into her bag, retrieved a package, and pushed it across the table toward him.

  Tommy glanced between Layla and the heart-shaped box, then settled in to read.

  March 14, 2012

  Today at school I almost gave myself away. Or, actually, I did give myself away, but since it was only in front of Dalton, it’s not exactly the emergency it could’ve been, since everyone knows that Dalton doesn’t really count as a person who matters enough for other people to actually listen to.

  Still, I can hardly believe that after all the hard work I’ve done to successfully erase any and all traces of my former hillbilly accent, watching countless old movies so I’d sound sorta British, or, at the very least, like I could be from just about anywhere but WV, I was stupid careless enough to totally out myself for the hick that I am.

  Anyway, it all started when I spilled a can of paint all over my smock during art class and let out a stream of curses that normally wouldn’t be any big thing unless a teacher overheard (which luckily didn’t happen, since Mr. Castillo was too busy updating his Tinder profile to pay attention to me), but quickly became a VERY BIG DEAL when Dalton overheard and I realized I’d ACCIDENTALLY USED MY OLD ACCENT!!!!!

  Ugh.

  I can’t even. ☹

  The second I realized what I’d done, well, I just stood there like an idiot. I swear, I could hardly even breathe!! And when Dalton’s eyes met mine, I sincerely thought I would die right then and there. It felt like my whole life was rewinding—flashing right before my eyes. It was like I was literally watching all my dreams—everything I’ve been working toward—vanish in one horrible moment.

  Or at least that’s how it seemed at first.

  But after a few seconds ticked past, I pulled it together enough to realize that if I wanted to undo the damage, then I needed to own what I did.

  So, while Dalton was busy standing there gawking as though he was trying to process how best to handle this juicy bit of intel, I looked right at him and forced myself to smile as I said, “Tell me the truth—did that sound authentic?”

  Dalton just stood there, mouth gaping like a fish at feedin’ time.

  So I smiled wider and said, “I’m auditioning for a TV commercial this weekend, and I’m working on my accent.”

  He stared at me for so long I actually started to sweat. It was like I could see his mind processing the quickest way to use my mistake to leapfrog his way to instant popularity.

  “There’s a kissing part too,” I added, before I could fully think it through. Still, desperate times call for desperate measures, and all that. . . .

  I inched closer, so close we were nearly touching, and said, “And I should probably work on that too. Maybe you can help me rehearse after school?”

  Whatever he’d been thinking of doing to me before, well, he was now thinking of doing something entirely different. And even though I was reluctant to go through with it, now that I’d put it out there, I had no choice but to commit.

  He waited for me after school, and I let him walk me home. Luckily, the parents were at work, so we had the whole house to ourselves. And even though I only planned to let him kiss me for no more than ten minutes max, surprisingly, kissing Dalton wasn’t so bad, so I decided to bring him up to my room and go a little longer (and a little further!) than planned.

  By this time tomorrow, Dalton will be popular (I’ll make sure of it) and my secret will be safe. I just hope he doesn’t expect me to be his girlfriend or anything, because while he may be a decent kisser, I can’t risk getting close to him.

  Can’t risk getting close to anyone, ever.

  I was just lucky it was Dalton and not Emma or Jessa or someone who wouldn’t be quite so easy to manipulate distract.

  In the end, I guess it wasn’t too bad. If nothing else, it served as an important reminder of how I can’t afford to let my guard down.

  How I can never stop acting like the shiny new version of myself.

  How I can never stop acting, period.

  The diary entry was so full of contradictions it was hard to process. The proliferation of hearts, flowers, and stars was definitely the mark of a romantic, dreamy-eyed teen. But the actual content displayed the kind of ambition, maturity, and determination rarely found in someone that age. Tommy studied the xeroxed copy, having no doubt Madison had written it. And judging by the date at the top, she’d been around fourteen at the time.

  He studied the picture again. Only one person had eyes like that, and the eyes never lied.

  While Tommy had no idea what it might mean, one thing was sure: Madison Brooks was not at all the person she pretended to be.

  The posh East Coast accent was a fake. And while the childhood she recounted in interviews might have been true for the latter part of her life, if the pic and diary entry were anything to go by, Madison’s earlier years were markedly different from the story she told. Her life as she’d described it was no more than an ingenious work of fiction.

  Clearly Madison had worked hard to bury her secrets, leaving Tommy to wonder if those same secrets were somehow responsible for what happened to her.

  Had the truth of her past come back to haunt her?

  “So . . . what do you think?” Layla leaned toward him. “It’s Madison, right?”

  Tommy swallowed. Not trusting his voice, he cleared his throat before he attempted to speak. “It’s definitely her.” He shook his head. It seemed so improbable, so unlikely, and yet, it made perfect sense. Their time together had been brief, but it left a lasting impression. And one thing was sure, the way she drank a beer, the way she kissed, and the way she’d let her accent slip left no doubt in his mind that there was more to Madison Brooks than there seemed. “Kind of creepy, though.” He glanced at Layla, who nodded in a way that encouraged him to go on. “I mean, she’s so cold and calculating the way she manipulated that Dalton kid into keeping her secret.” He shook his head and swiped a hand through his hair. “I mean, she was only fourteen and she was already trading sex for favors—or implied sex anyway.”

  “Never mind that part about how she’s always acting—can never stop acting.” Layla frowned. “I mean, if her whole life is make-believe, does that mean her disappearance is fake too?”

  Tommy took a moment to consider the question, though he had no good way to respond. “Who sent this?” He forced his gaze away from the pic and back on Layla.

  She shrugged. “My guardian angel, I guess.”

  Tommy held Layla’s gaze. “What about Ira?” He’d warned her about Ira before, or more accurately, his suspicions regarding Ira. Ira had played Layla all through the contest, always pretending to be this close to firing her and yet never quite managing to go through with it. Tommy was convinced it was all an act. Layla was never really in danger of being fired, not until the very end anyway, and for that, she had her blog to thank. The sensationalistic, gossip-fueled stories she posted on Beautiful Idols were good for Ira’s clubs, made them a bigger draw than they already were. At the time, Layla wouldn’t even consider Tommy’s theory. B
ut after watching the way Ira reacted toward Aster’s arrest, how he failed to display the slightest hint of emotion when he plucked the prizewinning check from her hands, he wondered if she’d finally woken up to see what was so glaringly obvious to him.

  Ira Redman was not to be trusted.

  Just because Ira happened to be Tommy’s biological dad, and just because Tommy was eager to clinch the sort of success that would allow him to confidently reveal their connection, didn’t mean Tommy liked him.

  “Ira’s more of a fallen angel than a guardian angel.” Layla reached for a raw sugar packet, inspected both sides, then returned it to where it came from. “Besides, why would he bother?”

  So you’ll blog about it, he thought, but refrained from actually saying it. Mostly because he wasn’t exactly sure what Ira could possibly gain from that, other than more exposure for his clubs, which seemed motivating enough, but still he just said, “I guess I thought maybe, since you and your dad are both working for him—”

  Layla cut him off before he could finish. “My dad and I haven’t seen much of each other. He’s mostly holed up at the Vesper all day working on the mural Ira hired him to paint. You probably see him more than me.”

  Tommy shrugged. “The new VIP room is strictly off-limits. Apparently the artist doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”

  “Believe me, it’s the same policy when he’s working at home.” Layla fell into silence as they both nursed their drinks.

  The sight of a pensive Layla sitting before him left Tommy with a primal longing to swoop her into his arms and protect her—that and so many other things he might do once he had her securely pressed up against him. . . .

  “We need to do something.”