“Oh, Layla, you’re back. Tell me, did you enjoy your day off?”
Layla stared at the coffeepot, waiting for it to finish brewing so she could get away from Emerson and back to her cubicle. She should’ve stopped by Intelligentsia to secure her caffeine fix on the way over like she usually did, but she’d woken up late and this was the price for hitting the snooze button multiple times. As if bitter break-room coffee wasn’t punishment enough, she was now forced to deal with Emerson and whatever patronizing point he insisted on making.
“You do realize we work full days around here?”
She pressed her lips together, grasped the mug by its handle, and turned to leave.
“Since you didn’t return yesterday, I thought maybe you were in need of some guidance, someone to explain all the rules.”
He stood just before her, blocking the doorway. Short of plowing through him and knocking him flat to the ground, there was no way out. And his formidable six-foot-four-inch frame with its considerable muscle mass pretty much rendered that impossible. With looks like his, she was surprised he’d settled for a job in marketing when he could’ve just as easily been starring in some cheesy prime-time soap that required him to film most of his scenes shirtless with his pants unbuttoned just so . . .
The thought was enough to make a flush rise to her cheeks, and she fought to recover by narrowing her gaze on his and speaking through gritted teeth. “Unless you plan on reciting the Unrivaled Employee Handbook, I really need to get back to my desk. We have a party to plan, in case you’ve forgotten.”
He leaned against the door frame, regarding her with his deep-topaz stare. “Do you have the final list of confirmed vendors?”
The urge to roll her eyes was strong, but she somehow resisted. Of course she had the list. She’d stayed up half the night working on the event to make up for blowing off the better part of the workday to hang with Tommy. She nodded curtly, sipped from her coffee, and waited for him to move out of her way.
“Good. Then that means you can sort through the boxes of gift suite contenders I placed on your desk.”
Layla fought to keep her face neutral. She hadn’t bothered to stop by her desk, since her first priority was to secure a large mug of coffee. She could only imagine the mess she’d find once she got there.
“It should take you the better part of the day, so no cutting out early, I’m afraid.” Emerson grinned in a way that highlighted just how good-looking he was, which only served to annoy Layla more. Before Mateo, Layla had made it a point to avoid the overly pretty types, determining that they were too vain, too narcissistic, and took themselves far too seriously to be any fun. But Mateo was different. Even though he was stop-and-stare gorgeous, most of the time he seemed entirely unaware of the fuss that surrounded him.
Just thinking about Mateo left Layla glum. Mateo was practically perfect, and yet he still hadn’t been enough for her. Maybe Layla didn’t know how to be happy. Maybe she was one of those people, like her mom, living a bottomless life—always seeking, always consuming, but never filling up or seeing the value in what they’d left behind. Not that she was currently speaking to her mom, but the description certainly fit, and from what she’d heard, there was trouble in paradise. Husband number two was still wealthy as ever (which was what attracted her mom in the first place), but apparently he had a wandering eye. Which came as no surprise, seeing as how he was married when the two of them met. If they’ll do it with you, they’ll do it to you was the thought that first sprang to mind. But when Layla applied it to her own life, she was no longer feeling so smug.
“Anything else?” She forced her face into an expression she hoped could be read as both amenable and dismissive.
“Just so we’re clear, you’re accountable here. There’s a hundred other people—people who are far more qualified than you—who would kill to have your job, and who also, I’m not gonna lie, are far more deserving of the position.”
Layla blinked and sipped, sipped and blinked. She wouldn’t give him the benefit of a reply.
“What I’m wondering is how exactly you ended up here when you’re so clearly out of your league.”
“I slept with Ira,” she said without irony.
When Emerson rolled his eyes, Layla didn’t know whether to be relieved or offended by how easily he’d dismissed the idea. “Just know that I’m watching you,” he snapped.
“Then I’ll try to be at my most entertaining.” Layla smirked.
Though he let her have the last word, his gaze held hers for so long Layla struggled not to fidget or be the first to look away. It was a play for dominance if she’d ever seen one. Emerson was determined to prove himself as the office alpha. As far as she was concerned, he could have it. Layla wasn’t looking to climb the Unrivaled corporate ladder. It was her first week on the job, and she could honestly say she pretty much hated marketing and all it entailed.
Emerson was right: she was unqualified, inexperienced, and she probably didn’t deserve to be taking up space and collecting a paycheck. But for whatever reason, Ira had hired her and she had accepted, and now that she was there, her goal was the same as it ever was—to save enough money to move to New York and enroll in journalism school. She was one year away from her dream, and with the way things were going, that day would not come soon enough.
She returned to a desk that was practically sagging under the weight of so many boxes of gift suite hopefuls she stared in dismay, wondering how she could possibly get through it all in the course of a single workday. Like any good capitalist, Ira had decided to exploit all the drama and attention surrounding Madison’s disappearance and the connection to his clubs to promote his latest venture into top-shelf tequila by moving the launch date up several months. Which essentially meant that Layla had arrived in the marketing department at the very worst, most frenzied time.
It also went a long way toward explaining how Ira had come to hire her in the first place. Ira was always working an angle. There were no accidents where he was concerned. Not only did he need all the help he could get to make the party a success, but Layla also had to admit, however reluctantly, that Tommy had been right all along—the popularity of her blog played a big part in Ira’s decision to keep her around long after he should’ve fired her.
Resigned, she sank onto her chair, grabbed a pair of scissors, and started opening boxes stuffed with generous offerings of expensive designer fragrances, scented candles, wireless headphones, gift certificates offering sessions with personal trainers and house calls from nutritionists. It was her job to determine if the celebrity guests who were allowed access to the gift suite would be more excited over the offer for free laser skin resurfacing or the exclusive, all-expenses-paid Mexican Riviera getaway. It was ridiculous how much free stuff was showered on the very people who could most afford it, while their legions of fans went into crippling credit card debt in an effort to emulate them.
She opened another box and stared in dismay at a package of gluten-free, paleo-diet-approved, organic pet food, wondering if it was cool enough, chic enough, and covetable enough to excite the spoiled VIPs the gift bags were destined for. Probably not, she decided, tossing it onto the pile of things that would end up in the break room for all the marketing department employees to fight over. As far as Layla was concerned, they could have them. She’d yet to see a single thing she actually wanted.
Already bored, she sliced into the next box, dove through several inches of packing popcorn, and gaped at the sight of the envelope with her name written in curlicue script with another card featuring a picture of a cartoon cat. Only this time in addition to the noose around its neck, it had suffered a gruesome shotgun blast to the head.
This is round two
I’m still waiting on you
So much is at stake
And this is no fake
I’m hoping my gift might make your day
And hopefully even convince you to play.
Layla frowned and studied the sheet of paper folded inside. One glance at the flowering vines and hearts trailing the margins, along with the large loopy scrawl, told her it was another of Madison’s photocopied diary entries.
She glanced all around, ensured no one was looking, and examined the box. Like the last time, it was addressed to her, though there was no sign of where it had come from.
After another look over her shoulder, she smoothed the paper flat on her lap and began to read.
March 19, 2012
So, I’m seriously considering keeping Dalton around even though the original plan was to dump him after a week. But the more I think about it, the more I’m starting to believe I should maybe hang in for a while longer and not be in such a big hurry to break up with him.
Reasons to keep him:
Now that he’s popular (thanks to me) everyone thinks he’s way cooler than he is, and that reflects well on me.
Dalton is cute and presentable and smart enough so that he doesn’t completely bore me or embarrass me.
Good kisser.
Easy to control = does whatever I tell him to do.
The parents approve.
Parental approval makes it easier to use Dalton as a cover for when I’m really hooking up with X, who they definitely wouldn’t approve of.
Being Dalton’s girlfriend is like playing a role, which is good practice for my future acting career.
Won’t be long before I get the hell out of here, so I may as well hang in there.
Reasons to dump him:
The whole thing is based on a lie.
Even though he’s a decent kisser, I’d rather be kissing X.
???
So, I guess it’s decided. Dalton stays.
At least for now anyway . . .
Layla set the note aside and clicked on her keyboard, unconsciously gnawing the inside of her cheek as she watched her Beautiful Idols landing page fill up the screen. Though her post about Aster’s arrest had been her last, a quick peek at the comments section revealed that people were still actively reading it, though their responses mostly bordered on deranged and illiterate.
She sighed, unsure what to do. Part of her was tempted to delete the site and walk away while she could. While another part, a less emotional, practical part saw an opportunity that was so far untapped.
Last time she’d checked, her number of subscribers had drastically fallen, so Layla was surprised to find the count spiking again. Then again, there was nothing like a little controversy to incite the trolls into action. She imagined an army of passive-aggressive, socially maladapted, vitamin D–deprived misfits hunched before their computer screens, just waiting for her to write something unpopular so they could all pounce—the comments section being their only source of power in an otherwise powerless life.
While writing about Aster was off-limits—she wouldn’t stoop to that level, nor would she risk harming her any more than she already had—she wondered if maybe she should take the bait and use her blog to share the diary entries she’d been sent.
Then again, if she attributed the posts to Madison and it turned out they were fake, then Madison’s team could go after her for libel. The last thing she needed was for Madison’s pasty-faced, Dockers-wearing attorney to track her down and nail her for defamation of character, in addition to the restraining order he’d already served her.
Her phone chimed with an incoming text, and when she glanced at the display, she was surprised to see Aster’s name.
I’m out & I need your help. Meet me 2nite?
Aster was out? It was the first Layla had heard of it, and she’d been keeping close tabs on the news for any and everything Aster related. How she had managed to elude the press when there was a crowd of paparazzi permanently camped outside the jail was anyone’s guess. Though she’d be willing to bet Ira had something to do with it. Aster’s family was rich and powerful in their own way, but only Ira had the kind of connections that could keep such a newsworthy piece under wraps.
If anyone was sleeping with Ira, it was Aster. And yet, while there was an undeniable, indefinable something between them, Layla still couldn’t imagine it. While Layla didn’t know Aster all that well, she just didn’t seem like the sugar-daddy-seeking type. For one thing, Aster was already rich. For another, the ick factor was just too high to contemplate.
Layla shook free of the thought and responded.
Welcome home. Tell me when/where & I’m there.
She stared at the screen, waiting for Aster’s reply.
Et tu, Tommy?
At seeing his name, Layla frowned. She hadn’t realized it was a group text until then, but she didn’t expect Tommy to respond anytime soon. He’d stated his feelings on the subject loud and clear.
After a few moments of silence, Aster wrote:
Tommy I’m counting on you for keys/Layla=DVD
Layla was pretty sure Aster couldn’t count on Tommy for much of anything, including a reply, so she typed:
Forget T—I’ll bring everything.
Layla stared at the three dots on the screen, until Aster’s reply appeared.
Fine. Whatever. Address to follow.
Layla pushed her phone aside, shoved the latest diary entry into her bag alongside the first one she’d received, and stowed it safely under her desk. Since anything she posted about Madison could end up backfiring on all of them, she figured she should probably consult Aster before she made a decision.
Aware of someone watching, Layla glanced over to find Emerson standing off to the side, chatting with a fellow coworker, while pretending to ignore her. Though she’d felt the weight of his gaze on her the whole time.
Was he somehow connected to the diary entries?
When he’d handed her the first one, he’d claimed it had been accidentally delivered to him—but was that even true? And hadn’t he just mentioned how he was the one who put all the goodie-bag boxes on her desk? Did that include the box containing the note?
While she couldn’t say for sure, there was definitely something off about him that set her on edge.
When her eye caught his, she flashed him the brightest grin she could manage, added a little wave for good measure, then turned back toward her desk and busied herself with opening boxes and judging the contents.