Читать книгу Infamous: the page-turning thriller from New York Times bestselling author Alyson Noël - Alyson Noel, Alyson Noel - Страница 15

Tommy Phillips stood in the entry of his luxury apartment and looked all around. After nearly a week in jail, he could hardly believe his good fortune to land in such a place. But with the way things were going, he couldn’t help but wonder how long he’d get to stay.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge and headed out to the balcony, where he pressed against the glass banister and gazed at the flickering LA skyline beyond. For most of his life he’d dreamed of that view. He’d driven all the way from Oklahoma in a piece-of-shit car with a cracked windshield in pursuit of it. Just another small-town hotshot with dreams of making it big—yet another LA cliché to add to the heap.

Funny how the city ended up being everything he’d thought, and nothing like he’d hoped.

When he first arrived, he got the impression that while LA wasn’t exactly welcoming, it was still full of possibility for those who worked hard and refused to give up.

Now it reminded him of one of those flaky internet life coaches the city churned out by the dozen. The kind who seduced you into confessing your wildest dreams, only to sell them back to you at a price you never saw coming.

Tommy had dreamed of fame and he’d scored. There wasn’t a tabloid out there that hadn’t featured his face on the cover. As the last person to see and kiss Madison, he’d been the headline on trash rags all over the world, though his record label warned that as a walking, talking PR crisis, they needed to find a way to cut through the noise and persuade people to give him a chance.

Malina had even dreamed up a strategy she laughingly referred to as Project Ghost. The idea was to pay a big-name director to create a video scored by one of Tommy’s songs without ever actually featuring Tommy. The video would be so beautiful, the song so irresistible, it would immediately go viral and only later, after it had hit number one on iTunes, would they reveal that Tommy was the voice behind it.

It sounded gimmicky, disingenuous, and Tommy instinctively hated everything about it.

But he also realized that in the current climate, it might be the only way he’d ever get a fair shot.

He closed his eyes and took a long swig of beer. The last few days had been rough. He’d used his one phone call to talk to his mom, wanting her to learn the bad news from him instead of one of her tabloid-reading friends. It was the toughest call he’d ever made. She’d spent most of it crying and pleading with him to come home.

“I told you not to work for Ira Redman,” she’d said, her voice choked with tears.

Tommy had gripped the phone tightly, waiting for her to finally put a reason to the refrain she’d been repeating since he moved to LA. To finally admit that the man she pretended was his father didn’t exist, though his real dad, Ira Redman, did.

The long, dark hours in jail had been spent wondering where he’d be if Ira Redman had never walked into Farrington’s Guitar, spotted him behind the counter, and passed him the flyer advertising the Unrivaled Nightlife contest. He guessed he would still have the job, since Ira was a big part of why he’d lost it. He would’ve struggled to get gigs, meet a girl he could truly connect with, and make friends in a new city that wasn’t nearly as friendly or inclusive as it pretended to be.

Despite Tommy’s growing list of regrets, despite everything bad that had happened to him because of his involvement in Ira’s competition, it had also played an integral role in propelling him out of his former shithole apartment and into his current luxurious digs.

It was also largely responsible for scoring him the deal with Elixir Records. Malina might complain about his notoriety being a burden, but Tommy suspected his infamy was one of the main reasons she’d signed him.

And, of course, if it weren’t for Ira and the contest, Tommy probably never would’ve met Layla.

Still, there was no denying Tommy was better off now than he had been at the start of the summer.

He’d arrived in LA with two goals—become a rock star, and finally confront the dad who didn’t even know he existed.

If he ended up in jail for a crime he didn’t commit, neither of those things would happen.

And if it turned out his dad was responsible for landing him in prison, well, what then?

The more Tommy thought about it, the more he grew convinced Ira was somehow involved.

Layla had received a stream of messages—strangely worded rhymes—always accompanied with a creepy cartoon cat suffering a multitude of injuries: black eyes, gunshot wounds to the head. There was even one that featured a noose around its neck.

Tommy had seen that same cartoon cat on a piece of paper in Ira’s office. The paper had slid off his desk and fallen to the floor, but before Tommy could get a closer look, Ira had stepped on the image, effectively hiding it from view.

Had he done so on purpose?

Possibly.

Probably.

Worst-case scenario: his dad was a murderer.

Second-worst-case scenario: his dad had set them all up so he could get tons of PR for his clubs.

Either way, it didn’t look good.

Tommy took one last look at the view and headed inside. His friends didn’t know about his connection to Ira, and he planned to keep it that way.

If a miracle was going to save them, then it would have to be one of their own making.

From inside his pocket, his phone chimed with an incoming text, and he immediately thought of Layla. He’d wanted to contact her the second he was sprung from jail, but he needed time to collect himself.

He and Layla had a deal. No strings. No complications. As though it were really that easy. But just the thought of her beautiful face with her lovely gray-blue eyes and inviting lips had him longing to kiss her.

He shook free of the thought and read the screen.

The battery was low. It could die at any second. But the text wasn’t from Layla. It came from Malina.

I know you’re out. We’ll talk soon. For now, get some rest. You have an interview in 2 days (Tues) w/Rolling Stone. LMK if u want me to send someone from our team to join you. If not, call me the second it’s over. Details TK.

Tommy knew that someone from our team was code for babysitter. Clearly Malina didn’t trust his ability to handle an important interview. He needed to prove he could do it on his own. His whole life he’d dreamed of a piece in Rolling Stone. Actually, he’d dreamed of landing the cover, but he’d take what he could get. Besides, he had two days to rest up and get his head together.

Got it. No worries. Talk soon.

He sent the reply and was in search of a phone charger when his doorbell rang.

Again, his first thought was Layla. Maybe she’d stopped by?

He opened the door to find a package placed just outside. His name was typed on a label affixed to the front, but there was no return address, and whoever had left it was already gone.

A second envelope tucked inside contained a series of black-and-white photos. The images were grainy, clearly taken from a surveillance camera, though there was no mistaking that the subject was Tommy.

What the—?

He gaped in disbelief. The photos were of him standing outside Night for Night. The time and date stamp showed they were taken the night Madison had gone missing, moments after she’d entered the building.

The photos slipped through his fingers as a wave of panic washed over him. It wasn’t what it looked like. He had only followed her because she’d accidentally left her keys with him and he wanted to return them and make sure she was okay. He’d never even made it inside.

Up until that moment, Tommy had been sure Ira was the only one who’d known about it. He’d even promised Tommy he’d erased the images in a move to protect him.

At the time, Tommy had felt conflicted. He was grateful Ira had spared him the grief of Detective Larsen ever learning of the surveillance footage, and outraged that Ira could think Tommy capable of harming anyone, much less Madison.

He swiped a trembling hand through his hair and fought to steady his breath. His pulse raced, his body sheened with sweat. He felt like a hunted animal, like he was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. Clearly Ira hadn’t really handled it, and if there were more photos out there . . .

Shit! Angrily, he paced the room. He was out of jail. He had an interview with Rolling Stone lined up, and now this. Just when things were finally looking up, the universe slapped him back down with something new to worry about.

He was scooping the photos into a pile when he noticed a note scrawled on the back of one of the pictures.

Only a few of us know these exist

They were taken moments after you and Madison kissed

It looks as though you could be to blame

But you’ll have nothing to fear if you agree to my game

The rules are easy to abide

If you follow them, you’ll have nothing to hide

Though I warn you not to let on to your friends

If you do, they’ll meet some very sad ends

Best if you do as I say

Otherwise there will be hell to pay.

The words were written in a thick, black felt marker. No cartoon cat or curlicue scrawl like on the notes Layla had received, but the tone was similar, and he knew he’d better take it seriously. Whoever had sent it had considerable power and reach, which only convinced Tommy that Ira was behind it.

Ira was a world-class manipulator and control freak. A game like this was right up his alley. This was his way of letting Tommy know he was willing to protect him, but only if Tommy did what he wanted. Clearly Ira had to be stopped before this went any further.

Still, Tommy needed to proceed with care. If Ira so much as sensed Tommy was onto him, he wouldn’t hesitate to make good on his word. Ira was way more powerful, connected, and immoral than Tommy and his friends combined.

For now, Tommy would play along, which meant steering clear of Layla. As much as he missed her, he wouldn’t risk putting her in any more danger than she already was.

He carried the pile of photos to the fireplace and spread them over the bed of fireglass. Then he stood back, clicked the remote, and watched the flames shoot up, licking away at the edges, leaving nothing but ashes behind.