Wicked Fortune (Wicked Nights #5)

Chapter 2

TWO

“Help?” Bree’s expression tightens as she glares at me. “What the fuck, Ari? That’s a horrible thing to say.” Tears fill her eyes as she struggles to speak. “We sh—should have been helping her before she killed herself.”

“That’s my point,” I say, forcing the words out past a clog of my own tears. “I don’t think it was suicide.”

A slideshow of emotions passes over her face. “What are you talking about?”

“She asked me to help her. Don’t you get it? She didn’t kill herself.”

“Ari …”

“But—”

“It was just a dream,” she snaps. “You’re sad and upset. I am, too. But?—”

“ Dammit, no . It was more than a dream.” I’m certain of it. But I can see the doubt all over Bree’s face. “Please.” I taste the salt from an errant tear. “ Please. We can’t just ignore her. She needs our help.”

“Ari …”

“ Listen to me . Jenny wouldn’t kill herself. Plus, hello, she told me she didn’t.”

“In your dream.” Her voice is flat. She’s talking to me with the kind of voice she might use to tell a little kid that why, yes, of course fairies are real.

I’m about to say exactly that, but she cuts me off with, “Come on, Ari. You know that you?—”

“I am a little bit psychic,” I insist as I go into the kitchen, yank out the carafe, then pour our coffees, my back to her.

“Ari … I want to believe you,” she says, as I slide the coffees onto the bar. “You have to know that. I hate that something was so terrible she felt like the only way out was to kill herself. But she’s gone now. And we?—”

“I can prove it.” I’m staring her down, and she’s holding her own right back at me. Weirdly, the familiar back and forth gives me a warm feeling in my belly. This is my total BFF. There’s no one else in the world I could have this argument with, because there’s no one else who gets me the way she does.

Which is why I’m not even remotely surprised when she leans back in her stool, her whole body telling me that she’s surrendering even before she says, “Fine. You say you can prove it? Then prove it.”

“Done.” I race into the bedroom, her “What the hell?” still echoing when I return seconds later bearing a deck of Tarot cards.

I see the grin that tugs at the corner of her mouth before she says, “Why am I not surprised?”

I shrug, fighting my own smile. She’s not surprised because she’s Bree and we know each other as well as we know ourselves. Not only were our mom’s besties, too, but they were pregnant at the same time, and—hello freaky universe—they gave birth on the same day. To say Bree and I are close is like saying there are a lot of stars in the sky. Yeah, duh .

I take the Tarot cards out of the box, then hold the deck out to her. “Draw.”

She takes one, then lays it on the bar. The Hermit.

I wave at the card, feeling more than a little smug. “See? See?”

“See what? It’s an old guy with a staff.”

“Forgive my poor, ignorant friend,” I say, looking up toward the heavens. Then I look directly at her with a small shake of my head. “Girl, that’s the Hermit. And everyone knows he bridges the gap between the known and the unknown. He’s like a guide.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He’s a messenger. Don’t you get it? Jenny’s asking us to look closer.”

“It’s a twelve-dollar deck of cards you got at the Beverly Center a few years ago.”

“Twenty dollars.” I hop back on my stool, then hold out the deck again. “Pick another.”

“Ari—”

“ Dammit, Bree ,” I snap, surprising both of us. “Jenny wouldn’t kill herself. Fuck the cards,” I add, tossing them across the room, then watching them flutter down to the carpet. “We both know she’d never do that.”

I can tell by her face that she wants to argue, but before I can open my mouth to parry, her shoulders drop. “Fine. You win.”

I exhale in relief. “The cards know what they know.”

“Not the cards,” she says. “Me. It’s not only that I can’t imagine her killing herself, it’s that I can’t imagine her killing herself like that.”

“Exactly,” I say, but softer. Now that she agrees with me, the persuasive oomph has left my voice, replaced by lingering sadness for our friend, now dead for just over two weeks.

Beautiful and outgoing, Jenny was the girl who landed the lead in every single play and musical in high school. Everyone in our graduating class knew she was going to leave New York for La La Land five seconds after she tossed her cap. Bree and I always figured we’d see her on TV the very next season, because how could Hollywood ignore her?

With a sigh, Bree grabs our mugs and moves to the lumpy couch. I take my untouched bagel and follow. “We should have been better friends,” Bree says the second I sit down.

“She was usually the one who blew us off,” I remind her, probably to assuage my own guilt. “I swear she went to acting class more than she ever went to chemistry.”

“Can you blame her?”

I trail my fingertip through the cream cheese, then shrug. “Really can’t.”

Bree nods. “And once that guy at Hardline started inviting her to those parties?—”

“She called them meet-and-greets.”

Bree shrugs. “Like I said—parties. When she started going to those it seemed like she was busy every weekend.”

“I always figured it was more about the guy that invited her than the work.” I suck the cream cheese off my finger, then slide my plate onto the coffee table, realizing I’m not hungry at all.

“I don’t think there was a guy involved,” Bree says. “She always said those parties were opportunities.”

I take a sip of coffee, hoping my brain will kick into gear and what she just said will magically make sense.

Nope. “Opportunity for what?” I ask.

“Hardline’s Talent Relations department throws those parties for aspiring actors,” Bree explains. “I guess the parties are meant to be a kind of pre-audition. Which is why she went to everyone she could.” She shrugs. “That’s how Jenny explained it to me, anyway. And then Matthew pretty much said the same thing.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Slow down.” I shift on the couch to see her better, one foot tucked under me. “Matthew Holt? The Matthew Holt? He told you that? Why would he tell you that?”

Holt is the CEO of Hardline Entertainment—the company that sponsors the meet-and-greets. He also has the starring role in my various nighttime fantasies.

Or he did until Jenny died. Now, he’s got a big, red, Jenny-sized question mark above his head.

Which is why he is very, very firmly in my crosshairs.

“I know him,” Bree says, and I remind myself of the circles she now travels in. “You’ve met him, too, remember? At that party at the Starks’ house?”

Bree used to work as a nanny for Damien Stark—a billionaire force of nature—and his wife Nikki. Now she’s married to Damien’s son, Ashton. So she’s been to a lot of parties at the Starks’ Malibu estate. I, however, have only been to a few. Usually as Bree’s plus-one.

“I’m sure I introduced you,” she adds. “You were waiting for a drink.”

I shrug, totally nonchalant. “I barely remember him.” I’m trying to sound casual. The truth is, I remember only too well.

The party had been a celebration because Nikki’s best friend, Jamie, and her husband, Ryan, had a new baby. I’d said my congrats, then got in the drink line.

That’s when I caught the familiar scent of his cologne. I turned to look behind me, then almost melted from the force of pure, animal pleasure.

I’d seen his picture before, but the camera didn’t do him justice. He seemed more god than man, with that chiseled face and perfect body. And his smile … that smile was like the glow of a full moon. Bright. Sensual. But somehow full of secrets.

Bree had been passing by, and she paused to introduce us. He met my eyes, and my insides had melted away. It was as if I was looking at myself from some other dimension, and I saw my whole life spread out in the warmth of his embrace.

The moment had been wonderful and terrifying and very, very strange.

The second Bree moved away, I made up some excuse to get out of line, abandoning my desperate need for a drink. Then I scurried to the far side of the pool and avoided looking at him until I finally had to just leave the party.

But I looked back once before I slipped through the gate. And there he was, his eyes on mine. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been watching me ever since the bar.

That should have been the end of it, but he’d lingered in my thoughts. And starred in some very, very vivid fantasies.

With a hard mental shove, I force myself back on track and turn my focus back to Bree. “Why was Holt talking to you about Jenny’s parties?”

“Oh, he wasn’t. I was kind of eavesdropping.”

I grin. “Do tell.”

She glares . “I’m trying to.”

I mime zipping my lips. She smirks but continues. “This was about a year ago. I wasn’t living at the Starks’ place anymore, but I’d come over to babysit. The kids wanted to swim, and I didn’t realize that Holt and Damien were having cigars on the patio when I agreed to the pool.”

I’ve never been jealous of Bree’s job as Damien and Nikki Stark’s nanny, but for a while, she actually lived in the guest house at Stark Mansion, which was almost the same as living like a billionaire in Malibu. Now that she’s married to Ash, she hangs out at the mansion all the time.

Nope. Not jealous at all.

Then again, if she hadn’t taken the nanny job, she never would have been kidnapped or blackmailed. So … yeah … not jealous at all.

She tilts her head, her mouth curved into a frown, as if she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Considering this is Bree—who knows me better than anyone—she probably does.

“Sorry,” I say, then clear my throat. “Mind wandering. Please continue.”

She does a massive eye roll but complies. “Matthew and Damien were talking business, so I was only half-listening. But then they mentioned those parties. Jenny had been to one or two back then, so I listened.”

“And?” I twirl my hand when she pauses to take another sip of coffee.

“I don’t remember exactly, but Damien was asking about the cost/benefit, and Matthew said the parties were worth the cost. That the value lay in community involvement, brand loyalty, and all that.”

“That’s it?”

“And that they usually pull a dozen or so guests for screen tests. I got the feeling the parties populated a nice roster of extras, but rarely found a star.”

“Sounds like a lot of work and money for little return,” I say.

“I know, right? But Matthew’s worth almost as much as Damien, so I figure he knows what he’s doing.”

“Guess so.” I frown, thinking. “I wonder how Jenny got invited. For that matter, I wonder what goes on at the parties themselves.”

“Oh, I know all that,” Bree says. “I remember her first one. It was right after she did that play in West Hollywood. Someone from Hardline saw her in the show and gave her an invitation.”

I nod. “Oh, yeah. I do remember that.”

“And she loved the parties from the get-go. Said they were a great place to meet other actors and learn about casting calls and acting coaches and all that stuff. I know she got some work as a background actor at Hardline and somewhere else. Disney, maybe? And she landed lots of auditions. And the alien guy said she might be right for some roles they were casting in London.”

“Alien guy?”

Bree shrugs. “I just remember his initials. E.T.”

I laugh. “Who says mnemonics don’t work? Oh!” I add, remembering. “She also landed the lead in that other play. No connection to Hardline, but she met someone at one of the parties who knew the director, and she landed the part.”

“It was all about the networking,” Bree says.

“Except it never really went anywhere, did it?” I draw in a breath, then let it out slowly. “I mean, she really worked those parties. Talked to folks, made connections. If the world was fair, I would have thought she’d be Margot Robbie by now.”

Bree frowns, then stares down into her coffee before saying, “Maybe that’s why she did it. Jumped, I mean. Because she wasn’t Margot.”

Margot . There’s a casualness to her voice, and I gape at her. “Oh. My. God. You know Margot Robbie.”

A slow blush rises up her cheeks. “Matthew and Carson and I took her to brunch when we were casting Reveries at Dusk .”

“Oh, well, of course you did.” Bree’s first book was optioned by Carson Donnelly, a producer/director who then took the project to Hardline. To say my life is becoming less and less like Bree’s by the minute is an understatement.

Bree waves her hand as if her success is so much fluff. I’m tempted to lecture her—again—about how she needs to stop with the it’s nothing attitude, because it is so not nothing. But right now it’s All About Jenny time, not All About Bree.

“I think you’re right in a way,” Bree continues. “The slog was getting to her. She was expecting high school all over again. Instant stardom.”

“I get it. She really did think she’d be Margot Robbie. And she was expecting it to happen overnight.”

“That’s my take,” Bree says. “If she really believed it would come so easily, then maybe she snapped and?—”

“No,” I blurt. “No matter how much she wanted it, she didn’t melt down. I already told you. Someone from one of those parties killed her.”

Bree groans, then pulls her bare feet up onto the sofa and hugs her knees. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s say you’re right. Who? And why?”

I shrug. “Maybe something funky was going on. Drugs? Money laundering? And maybe she figured it out. That casting director doing something dirty? Or a producer? Hell, I don’t know. I saw a picture of her with Matthew Holt at one of those meet-and-greets. She told me he hardly ever goes to those—the team who actually put them together thinks having him there could intimidate the guests.”

Bree’s brows rise. “You’re saying Matthew went especially to one so he could kill Jenny? No way. Matthew’s cool,” she adds, offering an assessment that’s a long way from my very heated thoughts about the man. “He’s nice, too,” she tells me. “After you get past the hard outer shell, anyway. I’ll re-introduce you one of these days, and you’ll see. Besides, why would he do that?”

My mind is still on the I’ll re-introduce you part. Then I blink, as I realize I’ve totally lost the train of the conversation. “Why would he do what?”

She presses two fingers to her forehead, just above her nose. “Kill Jenny.”

Right. I clear my throat. “Sorry. I was thinking. But that’s the point. I don’t know. And I want to find out. And as for him being a nice guy, how many folks did you believe were perfectly nice, only to learn the truth in the worst possible way?”

Bree should know better than anyone that people aren’t always what they seem. But when I see her shudder, I immediately regret my words. “Oh, Bree, I’m so sorry. But just because you know and like him?—”

“Yes. Fine. Point made.” Her voice is as sharp as a blade. “He could be the devil himself and how the hell would I know?”

I wince, mentally kicking myself even harder. I know she’s fragile, and I went there anyway.

But I’m right.

“All I’m saying is that maybe she slept with him thinking he’d cast her, but he’s a cold, unfeeling son-of-a-bitch who tossed her aside, and she was going to go public.”

“Don’t bite my head off,” Bree says, “but I really don’t think Matthew’s that guy. Besides, that dude’s seen all kinds of scandal. I don’t think a threat from Jenny would rattle him.”

“How can you know that? The guy’s a machine.” Holt has his fingers in every form of media and entertainment, from local magazines to recording artists all the way to Oscar-winning films. And from what the gossip rags say, he is very hands on with all Hardline projects. “Even if he didn’t kill her, I bet he knows who did. And he’d keep it quiet to save his business.

“You know I’m right,” I add, meeting Bree’s dark eyes. “He’s a machine who has a billion-dollar industry to protect. How many machines do you know who have a conscience?”

She just shakes her head.

“The dude’s got power,” I say, laying out the understatement of the year. “He’s the kind of guy who has to be in control, everything set up exactly his way. And I bet he’s the kind of guy who has no trouble holding onto his secrets, too. The kind of guy who can put on the good face that everyone likes, but underneath, he’s rotten to the core.”

“Ari …”

Her voice is chiding, and I know what she’s going to say. I hold up a finger. “Don’t even go there.”

I watch her face, thinking that she’s totally going to go there.

He’s not The Cat, Ari. Not every man is The Cat. There are some men you can trust.

But she stays silent. She knows damn well that no matter what my personal issues might be, my read of Matthew Holt could very well be dead-on perfect.

Dead on.

I shiver, thinking about what I’d put in motion two days ago—and hoping I wasn’t about to make a huge, giant, gargantuan mistake.

I start to speak, intending to tell her the rest of it. But at the last minute I call back my breath and curve my lips into a silent smile.

It doesn’t fool her at all. That’s the downside of having a bestie. It’s really freaking hard to keep a secret.

“Spill it,” she says, cocking her head and crossing her arms. And when I hesitate, she lifts a single eyebrow and stares me down. It’s a trick we taught ourselves when we were eleven years old. We’d practiced in front of the mirror for weeks until we had it down. And we only pull out the one-brow raise when one of us means business.

“Fine,” I say, trying to make my voice sound matter-of-fact. “I’ve got an interview for a job as Holt’s personal assistant. I’m going to get that job,” I add. “And I’m going to learn the truth about those parties, about Hardline, and about Matthew Holt. I’m going to find out who killed Jenny,” I add. “And that’s a promise.”