Kitabı oku: «Blacklist», sayfa 2

THREE
THIS SUMMER’S GONNA HURT LIKE A MOTHER F****R

Aster Amirpour shuffled into the room and took the only chair available to her—the one bolted into the floor. Despite hating every moment of being locked in her cell, she’d come to dread leaving it as well, and for that she had her parents to thank. They meant well, she knew. But every visit from them and her attorneys left her feeling progressively worse, depleted of hope and resenting the freak show her life had become.

It was strange to think how just a few months earlier she’d graduated high school fully convinced she was standing on the precipice of a bright and shiny future, only to end up arrested for an A-list celebrity’s murder.

All her life she’d dreamed of being famous—the face on every magazine cover, the name on everyone’s lips. Never once had she imagined she’d achieve all those things in the absolute worst, most inconceivable way.

She’d been in lockup less than a week and she already missed absolutely everything having to do with her former life. She missed her little brother Javen so much it was like a physical ache. She missed the feel of the hot California sun on her skin and spontaneous trips to the beach with her friends. She missed shopping sprees at Barneys, her large collection of designer handbags and shoes, as well as her weekly salon appointments for manis, pedis, and blowouts. And after the revolting, carb-heavy, jail-issued meals she was forced to gag down, she could honestly say she even missed green juice. Basically every aspect of her daily existence she’d once taken for granted she found herself missing with the kind of intensity most people reserved for loved ones or pets. If she was lucky enough to get out, she swore to express a lot more gratitude for the luxurious life she’d been given.

But for the moment, locked behind bars and clothed in an orange jail-issued jumpsuit, there was little to be grateful for. Her parents refused to let Javen visit, claiming they didn’t want Aster to traumatize him any more than she already had. Just when she was sure she’d reached rock bottom, their comment made her realize there were still several more layers of hell left to explore.

Then there were the shackles her jailers insisted she wear on her ankles and wrists, which were not only humiliating but completely unnecessary. Aster wasn’t violent, and she certainly didn’t pose a threat to anyone, but she’d failed to convince them of that.

It was hardly her fault that within minutes of being locked into the overcrowded holding cell she’d been dragged into a brawl. One moment she was eyeballing the filthy exposed toilet set smack in the center of the cell, wondering how long she could hold out before she’d have no choice but to use it, and the next, some crazy chick was whaling on her with both fists, leaving Aster no choice but to use the moves she’d learned in kickboxing class. Even though she’d acted in self-defense, there was no explaining that to the powers that be.

In the end, the incident had gained her a black eye, a split lip, the distrust of her jailers, and her very own cell, which was meant as a punishment but felt more like a win.

She slumped toward the edge of her seat and waited for her attorneys to enter, hoping they’d finally agreed to post bail. Her parents could’ve handled it days ago, but they wanted to teach Aster a lesson. As though the first-degree murder charge she was facing wasn’t lesson enough.

And yet, as desperate as she was to get out—as much as she hated the food, the filthy mattress, the lack of privacy, the disgusting smells, the hideous orange jumpsuit she was forced to wear, and pretty much everything else—the idea of returning home to live with her parents was its own kind of prison. Sure, the environment was incomparably luxurious, but the house rules were just as stringent. Though at the moment, it was the only option she had.

The door swooshed open behind her and Aster closed her eyes, wanting to savor a few moments to herself before she took in her mother’s impeccably coiffed hair and expertly made-up face, which only seemed to emphasize the judgmental look in her eyes. Though as tough as it was facing her mother, seeing her father was worse. He could barely bring himself to look at her, and when he did, it left Aster wishing he hadn’t bothered. His grief was so profound Aster swore she could see it emanating from him like exhaust from a car. She’d been a daddy’s girl for as long as she could remember, but now that she’d done the unthinkable, now that she’d disappointed him and brought shame on the family, she was sure there was nothing she could ever do to regain his favor.

It was a childish game, refusing to look. She’d done the same thing as a kid whenever she was faced with something she didn’t want to deal with. Of course it never worked, but that didn’t stop her from trying. Still, maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time she’d wake from the nightmare and rewind her life to the day her agent called with news of Ira Redman’s contest. Only this time, armed with the foresight she lacked then, she’d refuse the offer and spend the rest of the summer like any other normal eighteen-year-old—shopping, sunning, flirting with cute boys, and waiting for her first semester of college classes to begin.

“Aster. Aster—you okay?”

The voice was familiar, but it wasn’t the one she’d expected. She blinked her eyes open to find Ira Redman sitting before her, wearing a crisp cotton shirt folded at the cuffs, the better to showcase his sporty Breguet watch. Beside him sat the attorney she’d met with before, back when she was first called in for questioning and had no idea just how much trouble she’d soon be facing.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I still represent you.” The lawyer centered his gaze on hers.

Aster nodded and picked at her jail-issued jumpsuit, which drained her complexion and made her look as close to death as she currently felt. It was strange to see the two powerful men sitting before her. It was so opposite of what she’d expected it took a few moments to process.

“I would’ve come sooner, but you forgot to put us on the list.” Ira shot her a pointed look that told her they both knew it wasn’t exactly an oversight.

She squinted between the attorney and Ira. The two men were probably around the same age, but Ira was clearly the one wielding the power. In a place like LA, a bespoke suit and designer silk tie was the uniform of those who answered to a higher authority. Whereas Ira’s dark designer jeans and untucked shirt indicated he answered to no one.

“We want to help you. If you’ll let us, that is.”

Aster stared at the dull green wall just past his shoulder, the shade forever imprinted on her mind as the color of misery, despair, and lost hope. She clenched her hands in her lap, unsure which of the two evils was worse, being in her parents’ debt or Ira Redman’s. God knew she needed help. Her parents’ idea of support was to swap one jail for another by putting her under house arrest. Not that she actually had anywhere to go outside of the family manse. She was the most reviled person in LA. The safest place for her would be tucked away in her family’s massive gated Beverly Hills estate, where no one could reach her.

Yet Aster refused to play it safe. Refused to admit she’d messed up her life so badly she needed her parents’ strictest guidance to get back on track. She was just stubborn enough that she could not, absolutely would not, surrender to their will. But mostly, she’d do whatever was necessary to shield them from the mess and keep their involvement to a minimum. Accepting Ira’s help was a sure way to do that.

She’d made so many stupid mistakes—falling for Ryan Hawthorne was at the top of the list. She’d let her ego take over and fooled herself into believing Ryan when he said he cared about her, that he’d always be there for her. It was all lies, of course.

What had Ira said? Never trust an actor, Aster. They’re always acting; they have no off switch. It was only now that she could see the truth of those words.

All she knew for sure was that she didn’t harm Madison Brooks. She was 100 percent innocent of any wrongdoing—despite the abundance of evidence the state of California was holding against her.

“We’re prepared to post your bail.”

Aster glanced at them between wet, clumpy lashes, unaware she’d been crying. She did that a lot lately.

“And what do you want in return?”

Ira and the attorney exchanged a loaded glance, before Ira switched his focus to her. “Nothing.”

“You know I can never repay you.” She frowned at her chipped nails and ragged cuticles. Her hair was matted and dirty, her skin broken out, and she was probably rocking a major case of unibrow, but she was too depressed to care about any of that. It wasn’t like she was posting selfies from her jail cell.

“You going to flee the country?”

She frowned. “Where would I go?”

Ira shrugged. “Then it looks like neither of us has anything to worry about.”

“And so you bail me out . . . and then what?”

“You return to your normally scheduled life. Your suite at the W is waiting.”

She inched lower still on the hard plastic chair. It was embarrassing to keep taking from him. It needed to stop. She needed to stand on her own two feet. Though at the moment, she was so far gone, so in need of a savior, she had no idea where to start.

“And how am I supposed to live?” Aster mumbled the words. “How am I supposed to support myself? Who would be crazy enough to hire me?”

Ira laughed. Actually threw his head back and laughed as though she’d said something funny. When he finally quieted down, he looked at her and said, “Call me crazy, but I distinctly remember offering you a job, and I seem to remember you accepting.”

“Yeah, and then five seconds later I was cuffed as someone read me my Miranda rights.” She shook her head and refused to look at him. “I’m no good to you now.”

“On the contrary.” He was quick to counter. “This is Hollywood, Aster, not the Republican primary. In the nightclub biz, scandal is currency. Even so, if you decide you’re not interested in my offer, there’s still the matter of the prize money you won.”

Aster wondered if she looked as surprised as she felt. Her last memory of the prize money was the moment Ira plucked the check from her fingers and slid it into his pocket. For safekeeping, he’d said, though the expression he wore had convinced her she’d never see it again. Seconds later, she was shoved into the back of a squad car and hauled away, and she’d pretty much forgotten about it until now. Had she really been so wrong about him?

“You earned it fair and square. It’s yours for the taking. I deposited it in a trust account under your name.”

“Keep it.” She dismissed the offer with a quick wave of her hand. She might be desperate and broke, but it was the right thing to do. “Put it toward the attorney’s fees and bail.” She glanced briefly at the lawyer sitting opposite her and ran a series of quick calculations in her head. Though the prizewinning check bore an impressive number of zeros, it was merely a start. A good defense team would plow through it in no time. It would be spent well before they even made it to trial.

She dropped her chin to her chest and scrubbed her hands through her hair. She’d moved one step forward, only to find herself right back where she’d started. She had nowhere to live and no good way of supporting herself. As a high school grad with no real skills and a mug shot that had gone viral, she was untouchable, unemployable. The independence she’d longed for came at a price she could not afford.

“I’m serious about the job offer as well,” Ira said, as though reading her mind.

“The job was as a promoter. How am I supposed to bring people in? I’m a social pariah!”

Ira remained undeterred. “If you want to change public opinion, you need to put yourself out there and prove you have nothing to hide. I wouldn’t make the offer if I didn’t think you were capable. Remember the promise I made at the start of the contest?”

She looked at him, her head spinning with all that he’d said, all that remained unsaid.

“I promised that working for me would amount to the sort of real-life experience you can’t get at school, and I’m pretty sure I delivered, no?”

This time, when a rush of tears coursed down her cheeks, Aster did nothing to stop them. It marked the second time Ira had stepped in to help her in a way her parents refused to do. But more importantly, unlike her parents, Ira didn’t judge her. Didn’t try to keep her feeling diminished and small. His belief in her potential was relentless, and he encouraged her to believe in herself relentlessly too.

She wondered why he did it—why he even bothered. He’d never asked for anything in return other than for her to succeed at her job. For someone who always seemed to be working an angle, she’d yet to figure out what angle he was working with her.

While she loved her family, the thought of returning home to the watchful glare of Nanny Mitra and her parents was too much to bear. She hated the fact that she needed rescuing, but was grateful to have someone other than her parents to save her from drowning.

“Thank you,” she said, her throat so constricted she nearly choked on the words.

Ira smiled and stood. A second later the lawyer stood too, saying, “It may take a few hours to process your bail, but you’ll be out of here soon.”

Aster watched as the guard opened the door and the two men filed out of the room.

“And Aster,” Ira called over his shoulder. “Don’t worry so much. It’s all going to fall into place. I promise you that.”

As the guard led her back to her cell, Aster clung to Ira’s words like the life preserver they were.

FOUR
WHY’D YOU COME IN HERE LOOKIN’ LIKE THAT

Tommy Phillips arrived five minutes later than planned, but still early enough to claim the darkest, most secluded booth in the nearly empty bar. In a city fueled by ambitious overachievers who equated success with an inflated level of busyness, the only other patrons were tourists looking to boost their Instagram accounts with a grim piece of Hollywood lore, and the daytime regulars who bore the soft, defeated look of those who’d not only forfeited the race, but had chosen never to run.

In another three hours they’d all be gone, edged out by after-work warriors willing to look past the faint smell of burnt popcorn and the antiquated jukebox playing a steady stream of deep tracks in their search for cheap drinks, willing women, and any other vice with the promise to numb them.

While Tommy wasn’t exactly living the dream, at least he’d managed to avoid that particular brand of nine-to-five hell.

He settled onto the red vinyl cushion and ordered a beer from the waitress who’d flashed him a flirty look he didn’t return. A month ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated to flaunt the heartbreaker grin that had made him a legend back at his Oklahoma high school. But ever since Madison Brooks disappeared and the tabloids turned their focus to him for the small walk-on part that he’d played, Tommy’s go-to response to a pretty girl flirting was to avert his gaze and wait for her to move away.

It wreaked hell on his love life. Never mind his nonexistent sex life.

Like the rest of LA, he was eager for the dry spell to end.

He centered his gaze on the entrance, not wanting to miss the moment Layla arrived. Though they texted often, it’d been a week since he’d seen her. A week since LA was in flames and they watched their friend get hauled away for first-degree murder.

A few moments later, when the door swung open and Layla appeared as a small, black-clad figure in a circle of light, Tommy took one look at her platinum-blond hair, gray-blue eyes, and pale lovely face, and realized he wasn’t even close to being over her.

Though she was definitely over him.

Not that there was anything to be over exactly. The kiss they’d shared had been a one-time thing; not to mention, last he’d checked, Layla had a boyfriend. Still, the memory had managed to stick no matter how hard he tried to forget.

She paused in the entry, scanning the room. She’d find him eventually, though no thanks to him. It wasn’t often Tommy got a chance to observe her unaware—looking just the slightest bit lost and unsure as opposed to her usual sarcasm and swagger—and he planned to enjoy it for as long as he could.

“Way to pick a venue, Tommy.” Layla flung her bag into the booth and slid in beside it, as Tommy tried not to notice the way her dress hitched up her thighs. If she caught him staring, she’d eat him alive. “Isn’t this where they found that actress’s body parts chopped into bits and stored in plastic containers in the fridge?”

“That was back in the sixties. They’ve remodeled the kitchen since then,” Tommy said, not the least bit disturbed by the bar’s grisly past.

Layla took a dubious look all around. “Looks like that’s the only thing that’s been remodeled.”

The waitress arrived with his beer and Layla ordered a coffee, black. As the server walked away, Layla turned to Tommy and said, “Did she just roll her eyes at me?”

“They depend on their tips.” Tommy shrugged. “Besides, haven’t you reached your caffeine quota by now?”

Layla checked her phone and placed it on the table before her. “I didn’t call you to discuss my need for coffee rehab.”

Tommy bit back a grin and took a slow sip of beer. Layla had no patience for small talk. He’d learned that the first day they’d met, when he’d made the mistake of trying to engage the cute blonde who’d rolled up to the Unrivaled Nightlife interview on an electric-blue Kawasaki. That first meeting hadn’t gone well, but back then Layla had hated Aster too. And yet, here she was, determined to find some way to save her.

Tommy pressed his forearms to the table and leaned toward her. It was time he stopped fantasizing about a relationship that would never be and focused on the real point of the meeting.

“Still can’t get in to see Aster.” Layla sighed. “Who knew county jail was tougher to breach than the VIP list at Ira’s clubs?” She frowned. “Not to mention how I’m pretty sure Trena knows more than she’s letting on. But every time I bring it up, she insists on talking around it. It’s like she’s determined to block me and I can’t figure out why. After all, I’m the one who fed her the clue about Ryan Hawthorne. Maybe she needs a reminder.”

“She’s protecting her intel. Doesn’t want you to scoop her, or whatever you journalists call it.” Tommy watched as Layla absentmindedly drew invisible circles on the tabletop using the tip of a blue-painted nail. Trena wasn’t the only one talking around it; Layla was holding back too. On the phone, she’d been urgent, insisting he drop everything and meet right away. But now that they were face-to-face, she was acting like she regretted her choice, or worse—debating whether or not she could trust him.

Layla started to speak, then paused as the waitress dropped off her coffee. The moment the server moved out of earshot, she looked at Tommy and said, “I told her I’m no longer writing about it. I’m taking a break from the subject, and believe me when I say my numbers have plummeted because of it. My advertisers are bailing, and I’m taking a major money hit. Still, I can’t in good conscience continue to write about it. Not when I’m sure Aster’s innocent.” She regarded her coffee with a regretful stare. “I never should’ve posted those pics of her and Ryan kissing. I put the cops right on her trail, and once there, they were too lazy to look anywhere else.”

Tommy could hardly believe what he’d just heard. “And what about the pics you posted of me?”

If he was expecting an apology, clearly it wasn’t forthcoming. He watched as Layla shot back against the vinyl upholstery, folded her arms at her chest, and centered a steely gaze right on his. “Way I remember it, you didn’t hesitate to claim your fifteen minutes of fame.”

Tommy felt flush with anger. No one ever triggered him quite like she could. After a few moments of edgy silence, he’d calmed enough to concede that what she’d said was in many ways true. Though he’d be damned if he’d admit it to her.

“So why not write in her defense?” he said, hoping to move on before Layla stormed out, or worse. The solution seemed obvious enough to him. If he had a blog, that was what he’d do. It’s certainly the stance he’d taken whenever he granted an interview, which was less often these days.

Having moved to LA with dreams of breaking into the music industry, Tommy had soon discovered it wasn’t going to be nearly as easy as he’d hoped. The good looks and talent that had made him a standout in his small Oklahoma town barely registered in a place where virtually everyone was ridiculously beautiful and well on their way to fortune and fame. So when news of Madison’s disappearance first broke, Tommy didn’t hesitate to claim a piece of the spotlight. At the time, he was sure Madison was merely lying low and would surface soon enough. What he hadn’t counted on was the discovery of her blood on the Night for Night terrace, much less Aster’s stained dress linking her to the crime.

Layla unfolded her arms and sipped from her coffee. After crinkling her nose in distaste, she went back for more. “Clearly you don’t read my blog.” She returned the cup to its saucer. “Otherwise you’d know that the one time I dared write a piece in Aster’s defense, it resulted in death threats.” She shook her head at the memory.

“Everyone loves an easy target.” Tommy studied her, watching an array of emotions play across her delicate features as she reluctantly nodded in agreement.

“Unfortunately for Aster, she’s easy to hate. She’s young, rich, gorgeous, a little on the prissy side. . . .”

“A little?” Tommy felt ashamed the moment he said it. With everything Aster was facing, it didn’t seem right to poke fun, no matter how true the accusation. “Though actually, the same goes for you. Anytime you dare to put yourself out there, or worse, put yourself out there in a way that honors your convictions, you can expect to be dog piled.”

“Speaking from experience?” Layla quirked a brow as her gaze moved over him.

Tommy shrugged and sipped his beer, remembering the backlash he’d faced—the slew of hate tweets, his car tires getting slashed—all because he’d been the last known person to be seen with Madison. The internet was the most terrifying court of all. It was mob mentality at its worst—rife with torch-wielding armchair judges ready to convict on mere hearsay alone. Luckily for Tommy, the furor had eventually died down, but only because the haters had found a new target in Aster.

“Look,” Layla said. “As the former president of the I Hate Aster Amirpour Club, I get it. But now I just want to help her. For one thing, Aster’s innocent. For another, it’s the right thing to do.”

Tommy studied her closely. She was acting odd, cagey, purposely avoiding whatever she’d come to discuss. And while part of him wished the whole thing had been an excuse just to see him, he knew better. Layla was simply not the flirty, coy type. She was the most straightforward girl he’d ever met, or at least, usually. At the moment, she clearly needed a nudge, even though she was the one who’d called for the meeting.

“So what’s this evidence you found?” He pressed back against the cushion and waited for her to fess up.

With a resigned sigh, she sank a hand into her bag, retrieved a package, and pushed it across the table toward him.

Tommy glanced between Layla and the heart-shaped box, then settled in to read.

March 14, 2012

Today at school I almost gave myself away. Or, actually, I did give myself away, but since it was only in front of Dalton, it’s not exactly the emergency it could’ve been, since everyone knows that Dalton doesn’t really count as a person who matters enough for other people to actually listen to.

Still, I can hardly believe that after all the hard work I’ve done to successfully erase any and all traces of my former hillbilly accent, watching countless old movies so I’d sound sorta British, or, at the very least, like I could be from just about anywhere but WV, I was stupid careless enough to totally out myself for the hick that I am.

Anyway, it all started when I spilled a can of paint all over my smock during art class and let out a stream of curses that normally wouldn’t be any big thing unless a teacher overheard (which luckily didn’t happen, since Mr. Castillo was too busy updating his Tinder profile to pay attention to me), but quickly became a VERY BIG DEAL when Dalton overheard and I realized I’d ACCIDENTALLY USED MY OLD ACCENT!!!!!

Ugh.

I can’t even. ☹

The second I realized what I’d done, well, I just stood there like an idiot. I swear, I could hardly even breathe!! And when Dalton’s eyes met mine, I sincerely thought I would die right then and there. It felt like my whole life was rewinding—flashing right before my eyes. It was like I was literally watching all my dreams—everything I’ve been working toward—vanish in one horrible moment.

Or at least that’s how it seemed at first.

But after a few seconds ticked past, I pulled it together enough to realize that if I wanted to undo the damage, then I needed to own what I did.

So, while Dalton was busy standing there gawking as though he was trying to process how best to handle this juicy bit of intel, I looked right at him and forced myself to smile as I said, “Tell me the truth—did that sound authentic?”

Dalton just stood there, mouth gaping like a fish at feedin’ time.

So I smiled wider and said, “I’m auditioning for a TV commercial this weekend, and I’m working on my accent.”

He stared at me for so long I actually started to sweat. It was like I could see his mind processing the quickest way to use my mistake to leapfrog his way to instant popularity.

“There’s a kissing part too,” I added, before I could fully think it through. Still, desperate times call for desperate measures, and all that. . . .

I inched closer, so close we were nearly touching, and said, “And I should probably work on that too. Maybe you can help me rehearse after school?”

Whatever he’d been thinking of doing to me before, well, he was now thinking of doing something entirely different. And even though I was reluctant to go through with it, now that I’d put it out there, I had no choice but to commit.

He waited for me after school, and I let him walk me home. Luckily, the parents were at work, so we had the whole house to ourselves. And even though I only planned to let him kiss me for no more than ten minutes max, surprisingly, kissing Dalton wasn’t so bad, so I decided to bring him up to my room and go a little longer (and a little further!) than planned.

By this time tomorrow, Dalton will be popular (I’ll make sure of it) and my secret will be safe. I just hope he doesn’t expect me to be his girlfriend or anything, because while he may be a decent kisser, I can’t risk getting close to him.

Can’t risk getting close to anyone, ever.

I was just lucky it was Dalton and not Emma or Jessa or someone who wouldn’t be quite so easy to manipulate distract.

In the end, I guess it wasn’t too bad. If nothing else, it served as an important reminder of how I can’t afford to let my guard down.

How I can never stop acting like the shiny new version of myself.

How I can never stop acting, period.

The diary entry was so full of contradictions it was hard to process. The proliferation of hearts, flowers, and stars was definitely the mark of a romantic, dreamy-eyed teen. But the actual content displayed the kind of ambition, maturity, and determination rarely found in someone that age. Tommy studied the xeroxed copy, having no doubt Madison had written it. And judging by the date at the top, she’d been around fourteen at the time.

He studied the picture again. Only one person had eyes like that, and the eyes never lied.

While Tommy had no idea what it might mean, one thing was sure: Madison Brooks was not at all the person she pretended to be.

The posh East Coast accent was a fake. And while the childhood she recounted in interviews might have been true for the latter part of her life, if the pic and diary entry were anything to go by, Madison’s earlier years were markedly different from the story she told. Her life as she’d described it was no more than an ingenious work of fiction.

Clearly Madison had worked hard to bury her secrets, leaving Tommy to wonder if those same secrets were somehow responsible for what happened to her.

Had the truth of her past come back to haunt her?

“So . . . what do you think?” Layla leaned toward him. “It’s Madison, right?”

Tommy swallowed. Not trusting his voice, he cleared his throat before he attempted to speak. “It’s definitely her.” He shook his head. It seemed so improbable, so unlikely, and yet, it made perfect sense. Their time together had been brief, but it left a lasting impression. And one thing was sure, the way she drank a beer, the way she kissed, and the way she’d let her accent slip left no doubt in his mind that there was more to Madison Brooks than there seemed. “Kind of creepy, though.” He glanced at Layla, who nodded in a way that encouraged him to go on. “I mean, she’s so cold and calculating the way she manipulated that Dalton kid into keeping her secret.” He shook his head and swiped a hand through his hair. “I mean, she was only fourteen and she was already trading sex for favors—or implied sex anyway.”