“Where you headed?”
Tommy froze in his tracks and stared longingly at the door. He’d been so close—just a handful of steps from freedom—only to get caught checking out early. He waited a beat, sucked in a breath, then turned to face Ira.
“Uh, I’ve got a meeting, so . . .” He jabbed a thumb toward the door as though Ira hadn’t realized that was his intended destination. As though his sole purpose for interrupting him hadn’t been to stop him from leaving.
Ira eased around the bar and came to stand before him. Between the expensive designer clothes he wore like armor, and his usual unreadable expression, he was intimidating as hell, and pretty much the last person Tommy wanted to displease. Though he guessed it was too late for that.
“And this meeting of yours—does it happen to be work related?”
Not really, Tommy thought. What he said was, “Of course.”
Ira looked him over. “VIP room’s shaping up nicely,” he finally said. “You been up there lately?”
Tommy shook his head. Though Ira’s tone seemed friendly enough, it was never a good idea to relax around him. Like any fierce predator, it was impossible to tell when he might strike.
“Don’t you think you should take a look? Seeing as it’s your job to promote it.”
Tommy shrugged, raked a hand through his hair. “Just trying to give the artist some privacy. Besides, pretty sure the room will promote itself once it’s ready.”
“So what am I paying you for?” Ira’s features sharpened.
Tommy stood before him, doing his best not to cringe or display any visible signs of weakness. There was something so primal about dealing with Ira—it was all about survival of the most cunning and fittest, though unfortunately, Tommy had just unwittingly rolled onto his back and displayed his soft white belly.
Still, it was a good question—one that Tommy often wondered himself. While he hadn’t exactly hesitated to take the job, the last few days he’d found himself with so little to do while the room was being readied he figured he might as well work on promoting his music career. Though sharing that with Ira was the quickest route to getting canned.
“Not sure how you want me to answer,” Tommy said, realizing immediately after that it was the absolute worst thing he could’ve said. Still, Ira had a way of wearing him down with little to no effort on his part.
“Pretty sure I warned you a long time ago about ever trying to second-guess me, or tell me what you assume I want to hear, because I guarantee you will always be wrong. In the future, when I ask you a question, do yourself a favor and answer honestly, regardless of how you think I’ll respond.”
Tommy nodded. There, he’d been properly chastised, maybe now Ira would allow him to leave. Unfortunately, Ira’s challenging gaze told him a quick escape was out of the question.
“So . . . you’re telling me I should ignore the sign on the door and go take a look?”
“How can you possibly promote something you’ve never seen?” Ira asked, allowing no time for Tommy to respond before he turned on his heel and started walking away. It was a moment before Tommy realized Ira expected him to follow.
After climbing the narrow set of stairs, Ira unceremoniously threw open the door and impatiently motioned Tommy inside, all the while studying him for his reaction. But the sight had rendered Tommy gobsmacked.
On the surface, the room was a mess of paint-spattered floor coverings and shrouded furniture piled high and shoved against walls, while the speakers blared an old Rolling Stones song Tommy hadn’t heard in a while, but that he instantly vowed to add to his playlist. The walls featured a riot of color that was impossible to take in at one glance, and at the center of it all stood Layla’s dad. Paintbrush in hand, he seemed totally unaware of their presence as he created a mural that was so vibrant, so full of life, so massively impressive, it was impossible to define.
Tommy let out a low whistle—the sound giving voice to the words he was unable to speak.
“He doesn’t come cheap, but he’s worth every penny.” Ira nodded toward the masterpiece in the making. “Do you know how much money these walls will be worth when it’s finished? And it will only increase from there.”
Tommy had no idea how much they’d be worth. The whims of the art world completely eluded him. Though he was captivated by the story unfolding—every brushstroke adding yet another layer to the history of rock and roll—the origins of the world—the soul’s journey—the almost supernatural ability of music to inspire, heal, and connect seemingly disparate people from all over the world. It was all there, and it was magnificent to behold.
Tommy had always been biased enough to believe music was the highest art form, but watching Layla’s dad illustrate what it was music did best, he had to admit that in the hands of the right artist, an artist who truly loved and understood his subject, maybe no one medium was better than the other. Maybe they were never meant to compete, but rather exist separately but equally.
“H.D.,” Ira called, displaying no qualms about disturbing what appeared to be the artist’s deeply meditative state. “I want to introduce you to Tommy Phillips.”
When H.D. swung around, Tommy once again was struck by the resemblance to Layla. He also saw that H.D. clearly remembered the last time they’d met.
“Good to see you.” H.D. offered a paint-crusted hand, and Tommy didn’t hesitate to clasp it in his.
“You two know each other?” For whatever reason, Ira looked more interested than Tommy thought the situation warranted. But maybe that was just because Ira was a control freak who prided himself on knowing things long before they had a chance to occur.
Tommy hesitated, unwilling to share the story of how he’d taken Layla home the night she’d overindulged in Ira’s top-shelf tequila.
“Tommy stopped by the house once.” H.D. cracked a knowing smile that sent a riot of creases around his blue eyes.
Ira’s calculating gaze moved between them. “Well, we don’t want to keep you. Just wanted Tommy here to get a sneak peek, since it’s his job to make this room profitable once it’s ready.”
“It’s amazing,” Tommy said, feeling humbled and in awe and a little guilty for the way he’d recently blown off Layla.
H.D. nodded, wiped his hands on the sides of his jeans, and went back to work, as Ira led Tommy out of the room and back down the stairs.
“Since I’m going to be stuck here for a while,” Ira said, “and since I’m clearly not keeping you busy enough, I’ve got an errand you can run.”
Tommy stood in the doorway of Ira’s office and tried to look amenable, but he was running seriously late for his meeting with Malina, and she was not the type to keep waiting.
Then again, neither was Ira.
Ira retrieved something from a drawer and was circling around to hand it to Tommy when his hip inadvertently brushed the edge of his desk and sent a handful of papers scattering to the floor.
Tommy watched the papers flutter and land, his gaze catching sight of one in particular with a picture of a cartoon cat bearing what looked to be some serious injuries.
Before he could get a better look, Ira took another step forward and covered the image with his black Gucci loafer.
Had he done it on purpose?
And what was it about the image that seemed oddly familiar?
Tommy searched Ira’s face, but his gaze was impassive and gave nothing away. “Drop this by Night for Night on your way out and give it to James. No one else, just James.”
Ira handed Tommy a thick envelope that was most likely filled with cash. Having once been on the receiving end of one of Ira’s donations, he recognized the signs. Though he couldn’t help but wonder what James had done to earn it, or would be doing soon.
Tommy glanced between the envelope and the gleaming gold horse bit on Ira’s shoes, still unable to define exactly what was nagging at him.
“You don’t want to be late for your meeting,” Ira said, by way of dismissal.
Tommy nodded, slipped the envelope under his arm, and headed outside, steeling himself against yet another scorcher of a day. It wasn’t until he was climbing into his car that he flashed on Layla’s fearful look as she’d told him about the card she’d received along with Madison’s diary entry.
But you haven’t even read the card yet! There was a card that came with it—it had a cartoon picture of a seriously messed-up cat, and—
Only he’d cut her off before she could finish.
Was it the same cat he saw?
And if so, did that mean Ira was involved?
He adjusted his rearview mirror and looked back toward the Vesper, wondering if he should find a way to get inside Ira’s office and find that paper so he could bring it to Layla. His guilt over blowing her off was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. And what about her dad? Was H.D. getting sucked into this mess without even realizing?
Tommy knew Layla’s dad was short on cash and desperate for work, which was how Ira found most of his employees. It was certainly how he’d found Layla, and Tommy grudgingly included himself as well. And while it wasn’t exactly true for Aster, moments after she accepted Ira’s offer to stay on as a Night for Night promoter, she’d been arrested for first-degree murder as Ira . . . Tommy thought hard on the best way to describe it. While he couldn’t definitively say Ira had been expecting Larsen to show up at the Vesper with an arrest warrant, at the time, Ira had handled the detective’s sudden appearance with such calm calculation it bordered on eerie. And now, from what Tommy had heard, Ira had taken on the role of Aster’s only hope for salvation.
While it was no secret that Ira was a control freak who liked to surround himself with people who were wholly dependent on him, the question was why?
Was it so he could keep a team of loyal minions on call?
Or did it go much deeper and darker than that?
And now that Ira had succeeded at snaring them all in his web, would they ever be able to find their way out again?
He sank deeper into his seat, thinking he should call Layla and relay his suspicions. But a moment later, Malina texted, demanding to know where he was. And just like that, Tommy was reminded of his earlier vow to get serious about his future and stay away from problems that weren’t his to solve.
If Tommy was ever going to fulfill his dream of not only leaving Ira’s employ, but confronting him with the truth of their connection once and for all, then he needed to do whatever it took to launch a successful music career.
Besides, they were all adults, and they’d made their own choices. And as Layla liked to remind him, LA was an ambitious place where friends were in short supply.
Without another thought, he jerked the mirror back into place, pulled away from the curb, and headed for the recording studio.