Alyson Noel - Unrivalled

But what if this was the perfect way to honor Carlos—maybe even vindicate him?

She reached for Mateo, her fingers grazing his arm before falling back to her side. “What happened to Carlos was the worst kind of tragedy, because it could’ve been avoided,” she said. “But maybe the best way to draw attention to Carlos and other kids like him is to expose what really goes on in that world. A gig like this would allow me to do that.”

Mateo frowned. She was going to have to try harder than that.

She stared at the flyer still clutched in his hands, knowing in her gut she was right. Mateo’s resistance only made her more determined. “I hate our celebrity-worshipping culture as much as you do. And I totally agree the whole club scene is one major sleaze fest. But wouldn’t you rather I do something to shine a light on all that? Doesn’t that beat sitting around and complaining?”

While he didn’t necessarily agree, he wasn’t arguing either. A small victory she was happy to claim.

“I have no illusions I’ll win the competition. Hell, I don’t even care about that. But if I can just get in on the game, I’ll have all the necessary ammo to reveal that world for the fraud that it is. If I can get just one kid to stop hero-worshipping those shallow, needy, undeserving assholes—if I can convince just one teen that the club scene is seedy, dangerous, and better avoided—then my job will be done.”

Mateo gazed at the ocean, studying the horizon for a long while. Something about seeing him in profile, shadowed by the fading rays of the sun, softened her heart. He loved her. He only wanted what was best for her, including keeping her far from the world that had claimed his brother. But as much as she loved him, she would not let him win.

He lingered on the postcard-perfect view of the sun dipping toward the ocean before turning to face her. “I can’t stand the thought of you getting mixed up in all that.” He clenched his fist, causing the flyer to crumple loudly. “That whole world’s a lie, and Ira has a well-earned reputation as the worst kind of scumbag who doesn’t give a shit about the kids who’ve made him rich. He only cares about himself. They dumped Carlos outside and let him die on the street so they wouldn’t have to call the ambulance and shut down the club for the night. Though you can bet they didn’t hesitate to benefit from the scandal.”

“But that wasn’t Ira’s club.”

“It’s all the same. Carlos was a smart kid, and look what happened to him. I can’t let that to happen to you.”

“I’m not Carlos.” The instant she said it, she was filled with regret. She’d do anything to pull the words back from the ether and swallow them whole.

“Meaning?”

She paused, not entirely sure how to explain without offending him further. “I’m going in with a purpose, a goal—”

“There are other, better ways to do that.”

“Name one.” She tilted her chin, hoping to convey with a look that she loved him but they’d reached a dead end.

Mateo tossed the flyer into the nearest can and propped the passenger door open as though that was the end of it.

But it wasn’t.

Not even close.

She’d already memorized the website and phone number.

She inched closer. She hated when they argued, and besides, there was really no point. She’d already made her decision. The less he knew about it going forward, the better.

Knowing exactly how to distract him, she ran her hands up the length of his thigh. Refusing to stop until his lids dropped, his breath deepened, and he’d forgotten she was ever interested in promoting Ira Redman’s clubs.

“C’mon, bro—you gotta weigh in. We won’t leave until you do.”

Tommy glanced up from the copy of Rolling Stone he’d been reading and shot a bored glance at the two garage-band wannabes standing before him. Four and a half hours into his eight-hour shift and he’d yet to sell so much as a single guitar pick. Unfortunately, these two wouldn’t change that.

“Electric or acoustic?” they asked, voices overlapping.

Tommy lingered on a pic of Taylor Swift’s mile-long legs before flipping the page and devoting equal time to Beyoncé. “There’s no right or wrong,” he finally said.

“That’s what you always say.” The one in the beanie eyed him suspiciously.

“And yet, you keep asking.” Tommy frowned, wondering how long they’d persist before they moved on.

“Dude—you are like seriously the worst salesperson ever.” This came from the one wearing the Green Day Dookie T-shirt, who might’ve been named Ethan, but Tommy couldn’t be sure.

Tommy pushed the magazine aside. “How would you know? You’ve never once tried to buy anything.”

The two friends stood side by side, both of them rolling their eyes.

“Is commission the only thing you care about?”

“Are you really that big of a capitalist?”

Tommy shrugged. “When the rent’s due, everyone’s a capitalist.”

“You gotta have a preference,” Beanie Boy said, unwilling to let it go.

Tommy glanced between them, wondering how much longer he could put them off. They dropped in at least once a week, and though Tommy always acted like their incessant questions and attention-seeking antics annoyed him, most days they provided the only entertainment in an otherwise boring job.

But he was serious about the rent. Which meant he had no patience for bored little punks wasting his time, only to leave without buying so much as a single sheet of music.

The gig was commission based, and if he wasn’t actively selling, Tommy figured his time was better spent either thumbing through unsold copies of Rolling Stone and dreaming of the day he’d grace the cover, or scouring the web for gigs—minimum effort for minimum wage, seemed fair to him.

“Electric,” he finally said, surprised by the stunned silence that followed.

“Yes!” Dookie Boy pumped his fist as though Tommy’s opinion mattered.

It was unnerving the way they looked up to him. Especially when he wasn’t exactly living a life worth admiring.

“Why?” Beanie Boy demanded, clearly offended.

Tommy reached for the acoustic the kid was holding and strummed the opening riff of Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water.”

“Hear that?”

The kid nodded cautiously.

Tommy returned the guitar and reached for the electric twelve-string he’d been eyeing from the moment he started working at Farrington’s. The one he’d be a lot closer to owning if one of these punks ever decided to make themselves useful and actually buy something.

He played the same piece as the kids leaned toward him. “It’s louder, fuller, brighter. But that’s just me. Don’t go acting like it’s gospel or anything.”

“That was good, bro. You should think about joining our band.”

Tommy laughed, ran an appreciative hand over the neck of the guitar before returning it to its hook. “So, which one you gonna buy?” He glanced between them.

“All of ‘em!” Dookie Boy grinned. He reminded Tommy of himself at that age—a lethal mix of insecure and cocky.

“Yeah, as soon as he sells his MILF porn collection on eBay!” Beanie Boy laughed and ran for the door as his friend gave chase, shouting insults that weren’t nearly as good as the one he’d been served.

Tommy watched them exit, the small silver bell attached to the handle jangling behind them, relieved to finally have some time to himself.

Not that he disliked his customers—Farrington’s Vintage Guitar was known for attracting a pretty specific, music-obsessed crowd, but it wasn’t exactly the job he’d envisioned when he first arrived in LA. He had some serious skills, all of which were going to waste. If things didn’t pick up, he’d have no choice but to track those kids down and beg for an audition.