Alyson Noel - Unrivalled

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.

Of course the girl who’d stolen her parking space (Aster, according to her name tag) was sitting front and center, and worse, she didn’t even blink or look away when Layla caught her openly staring. Her gaze remained focused, wide, and assured, and she brandished her startling beauty like a weapon meant to intimidate. So Layla did the only thing she could think of—she rolled her eyes and looked away, painfully aware she’d just time traveled straight back to junior high. Still, ignoring the mean girls was never an option. It hadn’t worked then, it wouldn’t work now. Girls like Aster had a loud bark, but Layla had a sharp, nasty bite. Aster would be a fool to underestimate her.

The rest of the crowd was pretty much a cross section of so many looks it reminded her of an American Idol casting call. There were goths, punks, metalheads, rappers, princessy blondes, a girl wearing pink cowboy boots and cutoffs so insanely short Layla wondered if she’d mistakenly wandered in looking for a bikini wax—all of them jockeying for attention. All of them completely clueless, in Layla’s estimation.

“Hey, you’re the girl with the bike, right?” There was enough of an accent to prove he wasn’t a native. “I saw you ride up.”

Layla’s gaze roamed past a pair of destroyed black leather motorcycle boots and frayed jeans slashed at the knee, before pausing on a vintage Jimmy Page T-shirt that looked so overly laundered she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d slept in it.

She shrugged in response. The weirdness with Aster had left her ready to hate on just about anyone who invaded her space, starting with this walking, talking indie-rocker cliché who’d probably never straddled a bike in his life.

“Mind if I sit here?”

“Whatever,” she mumbled, overcome with shame the second she said it. It wasn’t like her to act like such a snot. Still, she wasn’t there to make friends, and she definitely wasn’t there to make small talk with some LA transplant desperate for connection, and she couldn’t think of a better way to get those two points across.

He lowered himself into the seat, settling into such a major manspread, one of his knees bumped against hers.

She sighed loud enough for him to hear. She had graduated from a snot to a colossal bitch, but she just didn’t care.

“Sorry.” He drew his legs in, which was better, until his foot started to jiggle.

She focused hard on her cell, doing her best to ignore him, but there was no use.

“Can you just—”

He followed the tip of her pointing finger to his bouncing foot.

“Oh. Guess I’m a little nervous.” He laughed. “Which probably makes me sound really uncool, but there it is. So, how’d you hear about this?”

Completely out of patience, Layla turned to him and said, “Listen—can we not do this?”

“Do what?” His grin was slow, wide, and disarmingly open. And when her gaze met his, all she could manage was a sharp intake of breath. His eyes were the most intense shade of blue she’d ever seen.

She stole a quick glance at his name tag, Tommy , and fought to pull herself together. “Let’s not chitchat, make small talk, or pretend to be friends.” Her tone was harsh, way too harsh for the circumstance, but she was beginning to think she should’ve listened to Mateo and avoided this place.

“Your call.” Tommy shrugged. Dismissing her so easily she couldn’t help but feel a little incensed by that too. “Too bad, though. From what I’ve seen so far, friends are in short supply around here.”

His words settled around her. And while part of her wished she could lighten up, another part, the part that was frustrated, insecure, and woefully out of her league, said, “Yeah, well, welcome to Hollywood.”

Five minutes into the ordeal was all it took for Aster to dismiss everyone in the room as a possible competitor. Nightclubs thrived on glamour and beauty—the unattractive need not apply. That single requirement was enough to ensure that Aster secured the top spot.

Still, Layla (Lila? She had to squint to read the name tag) could pose a threat. She wasn’t nearly as pretty as Aster, but damn if she hadn’t hesitated to call her on that unfortunate parking space incident. Aster hadn’t even seen her until she was already climbing out of her car and Layla got up in her face. She’d been so agitated during the drive from Beverly Hills to Hollywood—alternating between you can do it! style pep talks and complete despair that she was fresh out of high school and had already sunk to this level—that when Layla went after her, Aster responded the only way she knew how—by acting like the worst, most haughty version of herself.

Everyone had a go-to defense. Some got angry, like Layla—some made jokes, like Aster’s brother, Javen—and some acted like stupid arrogant peacocks. Well, it was done now. There was no going back. Besides, Aster had a feeling that deep down, Layla wasn’t as tough as she seemed. As someone used to acting her way through most facets of life, Aster found it easy to recognize the trait in another. The game was equal parts illusion and distraction, but on Layla’s part, it was poorly played.

For one thing, her shoes were 100 percent not Louboutins. The red on the sole was way off. Never mind the heel height. And the way she’d stumbled into the room like a newborn colt testing its legs—clearly she hadn’t bothered to practice walking in them like Aster when she’d scored her first pair. Total rookie move. Even the biggest amateur knew you had to rehearse the role you wanted to play until you owned it so fully, you could no longer distinguish yourself from the fiction. Layla was out of her league. She might try to come off as strong and capable, but those sad knockoff shoes told the story of an imposter trying to inhabit a world she did not understand. And yet, clearly Layla was every bit as hungry and ruthless as Aster. Willing to play dirty if that was what it took, which was exactly why Aster focused on her.

Aster was an achiever, used to excelling at pretty much anything she set her mind to. Good grades, prom queen, class president—it had all been hers for the taking. But with her acting career failing to launch, she needed this job more than ever. The gig was sleazy, completely beneath her—but that was exactly the reason she needed to clinch it. If she couldn’t succeed as a lowly nightclub promoter, then what would that say about her?

Ira took his place at the podium, and Aster wasted no time crossing her legs in a way that significantly hiked up the hem of her Hervé Léger bandage dress, hoping to draw attention to a healthy expanse of tanned and toned thigh, while also sending the message she knew how to play this particular game.

Dressed in dark denim jeans and a black shirt, Ira somehow managed to look as tall, assured, and commanding as though he were standing behind the presidential podium wearing a bespoke suit.