Читать книгу Blacklist - Alyson Noel, Alyson Noel - Страница 13

Aster stood in the middle of what could only be described as a construction zone and looked all around. Though Ira had assured her that the former souvenir shop was well on its way to its latest incarnation as his newest, chicest, most exclusive nightclub to date, at the moment it more closely resembled a serial killer’s lair with its plastic-draped walls and floors and the constant background hum of power drills and saws.

It was eerie, creepy, and the look Ira’s assistant had flashed her as Aster entered the space left her feeling unsettled.

Was this how it was going to be from now on? People giving her the side-eye as they quickly backed away?

She swiped a bead of sweat from her brow and sipped from the bottle of water Ira’s driver had given her on the ride over. Outside, the temperature soared into the triple digits—inside, it seemed even hotter.

Though she’d choose the heat, the incessant construction clatter, and the pervasive smell of freshly poured cement over the harsh environs of jail any day, she’d been more than a little taken aback when Ira insisted on stopping by the new club before dropping her at her place at the W.

“So, what do you think?” he asked, his face free of expression, though somehow she knew it was praise that he wanted.

“Well . . .” She bumped the water bottle against her chin, struggling to find something positive to say, when one of Ira’s pencil-skirt-wearing assistants carefully picked her way through the debris in her red-soled designer heels and began apprising him on the number of urgent calls he needed to make and scheduled meetings he’d missed. Aster watched in guilt-ridden silence, knowing she was to blame for his falling so far behind on his day.

“Also, Trena Moretti just arrived. She’s waiting by the back door,” the redhead told him.

Ira stared blankly, not making a move.

“You’re scheduled for an interview. It’s been booked for weeks.” Her grin was deferential, but her gaze flashed in a way that had Aster wondering if they were sleeping together.

With his good looks, power, and wealth—an LA trifecta of sorts—Ira was considered one of the city’s most eligible bachelors. And though the tabloids were always trying to decode his love life, other than an endless string of rumored conquests that included an impressive number of Victoria’s Secret models, A-list actresses, and a couple of infamous socialites, Ira remained maddeningly elusive—eternally linked to everyone and no one.

Ira’s curt nod gave nothing away. He simply turned to Aster and said, “Why don’t you wait in my office? I’m afraid it’s not much at the moment, but if this runs too long, I can always recruit James to drive you home.”

Aster buried her frown and forced herself to nod goodnaturedly instead. She longed to return to her luxury condo, but she owed Ira. Big-time. And at least he hadn’t brought her to Night for Night. Just because she’d agreed to return to her old job as the club’s promoter didn’t mean she was ready to see it quite yet.

For some, the VIP cabanas in the Riad—the area reserved for Night for Night’s A-list clientele—were considered the height of sought-after nightlife luxury, but for her they served as a painful reminder of the night her life took a turn for the worse, leaving her to wonder if she’d ever be able to view the sexy Moroccan-style surroundings as anything other than the infamous crime scene they were.

Not only had Madison’s blood been discovered on the terrace, but according to the cops, a group of eyewitnesses reported seeing Aster leaving the club with a strange male they’d yet to ID. Unfortunately, Aster still couldn’t remember any of that. Though the fact that she’d been seen leaving should count for something, or at least that was what she thought until her lawyer reminded her that Madison was also seen leaving and yet her blood had ended up both on the terrace and the dress Aster had been wearing. People left places, people returned to places. What they really needed was for Aster to identify where she’d spent the night, but she wasn’t willing to share that just yet.

All Aster knew for sure was that she’d woken the next morning to a wicked hangover in a strange apartment and an empty bed, filled with regret for having wasted her virginity on someone who couldn’t bother to stick around long enough to brew her a cup of coffee.

Later, when a DVD was delivered to her apartment, Aster had gaped in horror at the grainy footage of her stripping and dancing before she quickly turned it off, unable to watch any more. At the time, she thought it the single worst thing that had ever happened to her. But that was before she’d been arrested for first-degree murder.

From the moment she’d joined Ira’s contest, her life had taken a turn for the worse, and yet here she was with both hands out, accepting his help and getting sucked further and further into his debt.

“Hey, you okay?” Ira regarded her with such concern that Aster fiercely shook the thought away and returned to the present. She knew how busy he was, and yet he’d still seen fit to sacrifice the better part of his day in order to help her. All of which made her feel bad for what she was about to say, but she said it anyway. “Trena Moretti?” She narrowed her gaze. “The reporter for the LA Times? The one responsible for the headline ‘Was It Murder?’”

Ira cocked his head, but otherwise gave nothing away.

“This interview isn’t about me, is it?”

He broke into a grin. His sexy grin. His charming grin. His shark grin. Like a Rorschach test, it depended entirely on the perception of whoever was on the receiving end. Aster viewed it as a mix of all three.

“Relax,” he said in a tone that was meant to be reassuring. “It’s a profile piece on me. She’s been trying to nail this down long before that headline.”

Aster’s shoulders sank in relief, leaving her feeling more than a little embarrassed for assuming the worst. Still, it was just a matter of time before word spread that she’d been sprung from jail and every journalist in the world came begging for an exclusive. Should she sit down with Oprah, Diane Sawyer, or Katie Couric? She had no idea, though eventually she’d have to decide.

Ira studied her with a speculative expression as he absently rubbed a thumb against the squared edge of his chin. And just like that, Aster grew tense all over again.

“Though now that you mention it . . .”

She did not like where this was heading. Not. At. All.

“No.” She was already shaking her head long before he could finish the thought. “I’m not ready. I mean, seriously, look at me! My hair is greasy, my face is a crime scene, and even though you’re too polite to mention it, I happen to know how bad I smell, since I haven’t had a proper shower in nearly a week.”

Ira dismissed her excuses with a quick wave of his hand. “All of which makes you even more perfect. Aster, think about it—sure, you’re not looking your best, but who would expect you to? You’re fresh from the can, which makes you vulnerable, authentic, and real.”

“None of which is good when you’re about to be interviewed for the role you played in a celebrity’s murder.”

“On the contrary.” Ira held firm. “You’ll come off as raw, fresh, and completely unrehearsed, which will only work in your favor, since your usual high-end look can be intimidating. Look, last thing I want is to push you into a situation you’re not prepared for, and if it makes you feel any better, I’ll be there the whole time. I won’t let her take advantage, I promise you that.”

Aster’s first instinct was to say no. Or rather, hell no—a thousand times no—absolutely, 100 percent no! But she couldn’t bring herself to form the words.

Ira seemed so convinced it would work, and despite his many flaws, Aster greatly admired his numerous achievements in life. Ira came from humble origins, and like most people who’d made the trip west, he’d arrived in LA with a dream. Unlike most people, in just a few years’ time he’d managed to turn that dream into an empire. It was pretty much the opposite of Aster’s story. Having been born and bred in Beverly Hills, a Persian Princess in an extremely wealthy family, she’d had every advantage handed to her, only to make a complete mess of her life and end up in jail at the age of eighteen.

Clearly her instincts couldn’t be trusted. So maybe it was time to let someone else call the shots for a while.

Next thing she knew, he was ushering her into his makeshift office and settling her in front of a fan that provided little relief against the unbearable heat. A few moments later, she heard his voice rising over the din of hammers and saws.

“And when it’s ready, this will be our VIP area,” he said.

Aster took a steadying breath and faced the woman with the gorgeous mane of wild bronze curls. Though they’d never met, Aster recognized Trena immediately. It was Trena who’d convinced the cops to question Ryan Hawthorne, though admittedly, that hadn’t exactly turned out as Aster had hoped. While Aster had no idea what Ryan had told the police, she had no doubt he was solely to blame for turning their attention to her and planting the blood-covered dress that was the most damning piece of evidence being used against her.

If nothing else, his actions proved Ryan was guilty. Why else would he bother setting her up and framing her for the crime unless he had something serious to hide?

Maybe Ira was right. Maybe talking to Trena was exactly what she needed. While she wasn’t sure where Trena stood, it couldn’t hurt to befriend her, or at the very least talk to her. If public opinion was truly ruled by headlines and sound bites, then it would serve Aster well to author a few that might turn the tide in her favor.

Trena had an agenda; everyone did. And while Aster had no idea what it might be, now that Trena was standing before her, giving Aster an appraising look while Ira acted like he hadn’t actually planned the whole thing, she had no choice but to play along and hope it wouldn’t come back to bite her.

“Aster Amirpour, meet Trena Moretti.” Ira presented the two women to each other.

“Well, this is certainly a surprise. Or at least it is for me.” Trena shook Aster’s hand and shot Ira a look like she recognized a setup when she saw one.

Aster looked to Ira for guidance. Seeing his nod of encouragement, she faced Trena and said, “Ira was generous enough to post my bail.” She hoped it was okay to share. But Ira looked pleased, as she figured he would be. Most people loved taking credit for their good deeds.

“Ira? Not your parents?” Trena tilted her chin in a way that caused her shock of wild curls to spring across her forehead and dangle over her amazing blue-green eyes.

Aster shrugged. She was willing to talk, but she would not bash her family, no matter how conflicted she currently felt about them.

“And how are you doing?” Trena narrowed her gaze on Aster’s split lip and the enormous purple shiner surrounding her eye.

Aster forced a half grin; it was the best she could do. She knew her pathetic appearance could work in her favor, but that didn’t mean she felt comfortable looking so defeated, beaten, and unkempt that it served to provoke pity.

“Any chance I could get an in-depth with you? I’m sure that after a week of being locked up for a crime you didn’t commit, you’ll want to get your own story out into the world.”

“So you don’t think I’m guilty?” Aster had assumed Trena was out for her blood. But the warm smile she received instead nearly pushed Aster to tears. Someone in the press believed her. Someone powerful enough that people might actually listen to.

“Aster came directly from jail,” Ira said. “I made her swing by so I could take care of a few things, and she’s been waiting patiently for me to take her home. While I’m sure she wouldn’t mind answering a few questions, anything more will have to be scheduled for a later date. This isn’t exactly a comfortable venue—or at least not yet.”

Trena shot Ira a knowing look. Clearly she recognized the game he was playing. “I’ll want an exclusive,” she said.

Ira nodded. “But of course.”

Aster regarded them closely. The way they discussed her as though she was feeble and voiceless and not actually standing right there left her feeling simultaneously annoyed and relieved to let other people handle the weightier details of her life for a change.

Just for a little while, she promised herself. Just until I get a proper sleep, a shower, a professional blowout, an eyebrow wax, and get back on my game.

“You can film in any of the clubs—Night for Night, Jewel, the Vesper—up to you. I can give you exclusive access wherever you choose.” Ira inspected his nails like he wasn’t all that invested.

Aster noted the way Trena’s face lit up upon hearing the word film. It was so predictable—so Hollywood. Aster had yet to meet an ambitious person who didn’t secretly dream of being in front of the camera, and print journalists were no different. Still, it bugged her to see how willing Trena was to use Aster’s personal tragedy to elevate her own profile. staying true to the media’s motto: If it bleeds, it leads.

After only a moment’s hesitation, Trena reached forward to shake on it. Switching her focus to Aster, she said, “Do your friends know you’re out?”

Aster’s expression was blank. Her best friend, Safi, was no longer speaking to her; most people weren’t.

“Layla and Tommy,” Trena clarified.

Aster closed her eyes and sighed. More proof of just how much her life had gone off the rails. The two people she’d once written off as being completely beneath her were now the only true friends she had left in the world.

She opened her eyes and met Trena’s gaze. “No,” she finally said. Her voice sounding more timid than she liked, she cleared her throat and tried again. “Not yet. Just got my phone back and the battery’s dead. And so far, Ira’s managed to keep the news quiet.”

Trena considered the info. “We’ll want to move fast then. The one who leaks the story controls the story.”

Aster nodded gamely, though the truth was, she was growing annoyed. She knew Ira meant well, and maybe Trena did too. But she also knew better than to believe anyone ever acted purely out of goodwill. They were both working an angle, and while Aster had no idea what those angles might be, she knew it was time she stepped up her game and started working one too.

Ira had sprung her from jail, offered her a job, and given her a place to live, and for that she was grateful. But that didn’t mean he owned her. And it certainly didn’t mean he could use her as a means toward whatever endgame he was playing.

Or maybe it did mean exactly that.

Maybe Aster was in so deep, so indebted to him, he owned her completely.

All she knew for sure was that she needed a shower and a decent bed that didn’t reek of the bodily functions of the hundred or so people who had slept there before. She needed to take control of her life, and she needed to start now. Leave them with no doubt of who was ultimately calling the shots.

While it was nice having Ira steer for a while, truth was, Aster had always made a much better driver than passenger. Spotting James on the far side of the room, Aster stood before Ira and Trena and said, “Call me tomorrow. We’ll set something up. I’m sure Ira will be happy to pass on my number. But for now, I’ve got a date with a bubble bath, a carton of Ben & Jerry’s, and some much-needed z’s.”