Alyson Noel - Unrivalled

“You all share one thing in common,” he began. “You were drawn to the idea of an epic competition, access to the hottest clubs, and, let’s not forget, the promise of an enormous cash prize.”

His gaze swept the room, and when it met Aster’s, she could’ve sworn he held it just a little bit longer. Then again, it was entirely possible she’d imagined it. Ira was magnetic—time seemed to stop and start depending on where he directed his attention.

“Like you, I was young and hungry once.” Ira shot them a well-practiced grin. “Back then, I would’ve jumped at the kind of opportunity I’m offering you.”

Another dramatic pause. Sheesh. Is everyone vying for a SAG card? No wonder it’s so tough to book a job .

“The rules are simple. Those who make the cut will be assigned a club to promote. At first you’ll be working in teams, but don’t think for a moment you can slack off and let the others pull your weight. I’ll be watching. I’m always watching. I know everyone who walks through my doors, and I’ll know whose efforts reeled them in.” He reached for a bottle of water and took a slow, purposeful swig that seemed less about thirst and more about allowing time for his words to sink in. Ira was positioning himself as a sort of all-seeing, all-knowing sage, and judging by the sudden onset of shifting and throat clearing, it worked.

“Getting a good turnout at your club earns you points. And I’m not going to mince words, since we’re all adults….” Ira checked with his assistant. “They’re all adults, right? You checked IDs?” The assistant smiled coyly. “In the world of nightclubs, the younger, the hotter, and the more famous your gets , the more points they’re worth. The clubs are all eighteen and up—eighteen to party, twenty-one to drink. Obviously.” He quirked a brow, allowed enough time for people to laugh, which of course they did, then went on to say, “Each week, the promoter with the least number of points will be eliminated, while the promoter with the most points will earn cash to spend on marketing and party planning for their clubs. The promoter with the most points at the end of the summer wins. And by ‘wins,’ I mean the winner will walk away with half of all the cover charges collected by the clubs during the course of the summer .”

The words were spoken in italics. Or at least that was how Aster heard it.

“The harder everyone works, the bigger the prize. The profits could be huge and they’re for the winner to keep.”

Blah, blah, blah. Aster couldn’t care less about the cash. Sure it would be nice to buy her own Burberry bikinis, but it was the connections that truly interested her. Her agent was right—Ira’s clubs attracted Hollywood’s finest. She was beginning to wonder why she hadn’t thought of it herself.

“Any questions?” Ira’s tone made it clear that questions weren’t actually welcomed, but just as Aster was raising her hand, having no idea what she would ask but determined to be noticed, that damn Layla beat her to it.

“What about the first week?”

Ira squinted, fiddled with the cap on his water bottle. “What about it?”

“Will we be given a promotional allowance to get started?”

“Only twelve will make the cut. No use talking details that won’t apply to most.”

Layla nodded, then shot Aster a squinty look.

Clearly she didn’t give a shit about the answer. She just wanted the same thing Aster did, to get Ira to notice her in a sea of desperate wannabes too scared to speak up in his presence.

Yep. She was definitely one to watch.

Tommy followed Ira’s assistant into his office, trying not to stare too hard at the way her hips swayed in her little black skirt. From what he’d seen, all of Ira’s assistants were smokin’. His dad was clearly living the good life.

“Mr. Redman, Tommy Phillips is here.” Her voice was prim, but the intimate look that followed was all Tommy needed to know Ira was nailing her.

Well, at least someone in his family was having some fun. His mom had sworn off men long ago. Claimed to be perfectly happy keeping house with her bilingual parrot. And despite Tommy’s good looks, in a showy town like LA it hardly compensated for the crap car, the shithole apartment, and the nearly empty wallet.

Tommy sat before Ira, wishing he’d taken time to prepare. He knew the importance of rehearsing for a gig, but when it came to the most important interview of his life, he hadn’t so much as bothered to go over some possible responses to Ira’s inevitable questions. And yet, nothing could’ve prepared him for the intensity of going one-on-one with Ira in a closed room with a pack of hot, clipboard-toting assistants standing by.

Ira leaned back in his chair and pushed his sleeves up his forearms, allowing a glimpse of the bracelet of small round beads that reminded Tommy of the prayer beads his mom always wore. It seemed like an odd choice for a man like Ira. Then again, most LA moguls liked to feign a spiritual side, claiming to adhere to a rigorous schedule of yoga and meditation before heading out into the world and obliterating competitors, entire companies, and anything else that got in their way.

Just above the bracelet was an expensive gold watch, this one a Cartier, as opposed to the Rolex of the other day. Probably had a whole collection of ‘em—one for every day of the month—while Tommy relied on his cell phone to keep track of time. And if things didn’t pick up, he’d be forced to hawk it on Craigslist.

This was a mistake—one of his biggest in a very long list. He should’ve left that stupid flyer in the trash where he’d originally tossed it.

“So,” Ira said. “Tell me something about you that I don’t already know.”

Tommy hesitated, unsure what he meant. Did Ira recognize him from that day at Farrington’s?

He forced his gaze to meet Ira’s, wondering how he’d react if Tommy said, “Well, Dad , as it just so happens, I’m the long-lost son you abandoned.”

Would Ira lose his cool? Have him tossed from the room?

Wasn’t worth finding out. Or at least not today.

“Guess that depends on what you do know.” Tommy practically dared Ira to remind him of how he’d nearly cried when Ira bought his dream guitar out from under him. He was guessing Ira was enough of a douchebag sadist to do it.

“You’re hungry.” Ira steepled his fingers and held them under his chin. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Question is, what are you hungry for?”

Rent money, a shelf full of Grammys, to prove myself worthy and one day surpass your success in ways you never saw coming .

Tommy shrugged and looked around the room. It was sleek, modern, minimal but expensive. Even the requisite ego wall, covered floor to ceiling with framed photos of Ira’s various magazine covers, was tastefully done. “I like to win.” Tommy shifted in his seat, then instantly regretted it. It made him look nervous, unsure of himself. He was, but it wasn’t like he needed to show it.

“Who doesn’t?” Ira frowned, the steeple collapsed, and his hands fell to his lap, where he fiddled with the tiger’s-eye beads on his bracelet, as Tommy wondered if something from Ira’s brief dalliance with his mom had managed to stick.

Tommy’s mom was one of those new-age hippies (except she really hated that word—the beliefs dated back thousands of years, she would say). Not only did she believe in the healing power of crystals but also that everyone was guided by angels, that Love with a capital L could cure anything, along with a whole list of other stuff Tommy could never fully align with. She was the one who should’ve moved to LA. It would’ve been a better fit. Though if he remembered correctly, she might’ve said something about tiger’s-eye being protective, guarding against curses and the like. All Tommy knew was on his first day of high school she’d slipped a similar stone into his pocket. By the end of third period he’d already lost it, and yet he still managed to survive those four years mostly unscathed. Though it made sense that Ira would need that sort of protection. A guy like that came with a long list of enemies just waiting to attack.