Wicked Fortune (Wicked Nights #5)

Chapter 25

TWENTY-FIVE

I’m snuggled into the leather seat as Clive’s convertible purrs to a stop in front of the temporary valet stand that Hardline has set up. Tonight’s venue is Tacos & Tequila, a Valley favorite known for its variety of tequilas and beers, not to mention its incredible soft shell tacos.

It’s a complete dive with a huge patio for outdoor dining, bare lightbulbs strung across the open space for lighting, and mismatched metal chairs and tables, most of which wobble on the uneven stone floor.

I come here all the time for lunch, and I kind of love that this is the place where Hardline is hosting meet-and-greet. I’d assumed all the venues were as fancy as Masque, just with more clothes. The fact that this is so far in the opposite direction completely charms me.

A valet opens the car door for me, and I meet Clive on the sidewalk. He’d warned me the dress code was casual, so I’m in black jeans paired with a black tank under a sheer white blouse. My shoes are boots with two-inch heels that show off my ass. If someone assumes I’m talent, then I look like I’ve dressed for attention, even while keeping it casual. And if someone recognizes me as Matthew’s PA, well, I also look professional. Albeit a little sexy. My plan is to mingle, after all. And the best way to do that is to be seen.

Easy enough to do if I stay on Clive’s arm. Seriously, the man is a god. He’s also the one who actually picked out my outfit—so I’m in his debt tonight.

“Find me a cute hunk and get me laid,” he’d said, “and I’ll be Robin to your Batman until we figure out what happened to Jenny.”

“Deal,” I’d said, even though I knew he’d be my loyal sidekick whether I found him a guy or not. That’s just who Clive is.

There’s a short line to get in, and I’m deleting spam from my email as we wait. I’ve just trashed a half-dozen ads for a brand of makeup I never wear when a text alert pops up. I tap it, thinking it might be Matthew, then almost drop my phone.

“What?” Clive says, and I realize that while my phone is still in my hand, I’d both jumped and squeaked.

I step closer so no one can see, then show him the screen, my hand shaking so badly he has to hold it still. It’s a photo of me and Jenny, our arms around each other as we strike a goofy pose beside the jaguar statue in front of our high school. I haven’t seen that photo in years, and as far as I know, the only place it now exists is in the yearbook from my senior year.

But it’s not just the picture. There’s a message, too. Be careful. He Knows You’re Snooping.

“Shit, girl. Who sent that?”

I can only look up into Clive’s eyes and shake my head. “I have no idea.”

We’ve reached the front of the line, and Clive cocks his head. I’ve known him long enough to translate the gesture: Going or staying?

In response, I smile at the woman taking names, though my smile is rather forced and probably looks a bit grim. She checks Clive off the list, adds my name as his plus-one, and ushers us in.

Easy-squeezy.

Although now that I’m inside, I can’t help but wonder if turning around and going back home would have been the better choice. Especially when Clive bends down to whisper in my ear, “What do we do now?”

That, of course, is a very good question. “Drinks,” I say. “I think we should get drinks.”

“Tacos, too?”

“Why not? Go big or go home, right?”

His grin matches mine, and despite the potential danger, I’m glad he came with me. “You willing to do the food and beverage run?” I ask. “I’m going to mingle.”

He frowns. “You think that’s safe?”

I shrug. “I don’t think we’re in an episode of Sopranos, if that’s what you mean. No one’s going to put a bullet in me out on the patio or toss a bag over my head and throw me on a plane to Algiers, wherever the hell that is. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll avoid dark corners.”

Honestly, it’ll make me feel better, too.

He hesitates, going only when I shoo him away and make him promise to bring back a very large margarita along with many, many tacos. Then I look around the patio, hoping to see a familiar face, but knowing it’s probably hopeless. I don’t know that many aspiring actors. Just a handful I met through Jenny, none of which seem to be here.

I already know Matthew rarely comes to the meet-and-greets since that has the unfortunate side effect of making the already nervous wannabes even more nervous. As for Elias Trent and Joel Carradine, I stupidly didn’t think about pulling up their corporate IDs until Clive mentioned it in the car. And Hardline’s IT department hasn’t yet installed the app on my phone that allows me to access the corporate database remotely.

Which means I’m flying blind.

Very blind since not one single person looks familiar. And even though I don’t expect anyone to tackle me here on the patio, I can’t deny that my nerves are frayed, and I’m seriously considering finding Clive, blowing off the party, and chilling on the couch with a movie. Preferably something ridiculously stupid and funny, with nary a suspense plot at all.

I’m trying to decide what flick would fit the bill when a camera flash and a woman’s giggle catches my attention. I shift toward the light, wondering if an actual celebrity is here, then laugh with delight when I see Wyatt Royce, a photographer I did some freelance work for a few years ago—both modeling and acting as his camera assistant, handing him lenses and all the rest that goes with being a photographer’s right hand.

He notices me at the same time that I see him, and his smile soothes my nerves. I head his direction, we meet halfway, and he sweeps me into a hug.

“Aria Parker. Don’t tell me you’re acting now?”

“Hardly. I told you about the time I was an extra.” I shudder. “Not my thing.”

“Then what are you?—”

“I’m working at Hardline now,” I tell him. “I’m Matthew Holt’s assistant.”

“Yeah? Good for you. Matthew’s a solid guy. How long have you been at Hardline?”

I glance at my watch.

He laughs. “That long?”

“A few days, actually. You know Matthew?” I add, circling back to what I consider the most salient point of the conversation.

“Hard not to in my family.”

It takes me a second, and then I remember. Wyatt’s gained his own fame as a photographer, but he changed his name to do it, not wanting to ride on the coattails of his famous family. His grandmother was Anika Segal, a legend in Hollywood on the same par as Vivien Lorainne.

“So what do you think of him?” I ask.

“He’s a great guy,” Wyatt says. “Kelsey’s worked with Hardline on a few music vids,” he adds, referring to his wife, a dancer. “We’ve gotten to know him pretty well. Why?”

I shrug. “I’m, uh, still new at the job and getting a feel.”

His eyes narrow. “Oh, hell no.”

I take a step back, unnerved by the cocky grin that lights those golden-brown eyes. “What?”

“You. Oh, this is truly rich.”

“Dammit, Wyatt,” I say. “What are you talking about?”

Clive walks up with food, which he plunks down on a nearby table. Then he passes me a margarita. “Well, hello,” he says, clearly interested. I’m not surprised. With his gorgeous face and long, lean body, Wyatt is definitely Clive’s type. Just not his type.

“Down, boy,” I say, and Wyatt laughs.

“I’m flattered,” Wyatt says, “but the wife keeps me all to herself.”

“Pity,” Clive says, then extends his hand. “Clive Sterling. Undercover hetero and this one’s fake date,” he adds, tossing a nod my way.

“And a conversation hog.” I point at Wyatt. “You. Back on topic. What were you about to say?”

“I really shouldn’t.”

I cross my arms and stare him down. “You know I have Kelsey on speed dial.”

“Fine.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “It’s just that I was talking to Matthew this morning. He was driving to San Bernardino County, and we were just shooting the breeze. He might have mentioned he was seeing someone. Sounded pretty happy about it, too.”

“Oh.” Despite the smile that immediately attacks my face, I regret saying anything about Matthew. Plus, I have to fight the very teenage-ish urge to beg Wyatt to tell me Every Single Thing including tone of voice. And bummer about the phone call, because facial expressions would have been nice, too.

“Too early for congrats?”

“I really like him,” I admit, in what I have to confess is an understatement. “It’s just—no one at work knows, and I’m here, and?—”

He nods, then presses a finger to his lips. “Your secret is safe with me. And good luck. Kelsey calls him a complicated guy, but I’d say he’s worth it.” He holds up his camera. “Technically, I’m on duty.”

“Right. Tell Kelsey we need to have lunch. It was great bumping into you.”

“You, too,” he says, then motions for me to stand next to Clive. We do, and he clicks off a few frames before raising the camera again in a wave.

“Wait,” I call.

He turns back, brows raised in question.

“Do you trust him?”

“Matthew?” He looks at me as if I asked if the moon is up in the sky. “Honestly, Ari? I’d trust him with my life. More important, I’d trust him with Kelsey’s.”

I nod, relief flooding my body. Because that’s an assessment that means a hell of a lot.

I take Clive’s arm and turn, intending to tug him into the crowd and let the mingling begin. But all I manage is the turn, because my path is blocked by a tall man with broad shoulders, honey-blond hair, and an expression on his chiseled face that makes perfectly clear he’s a man who expects to be both listened to and obeyed.

“Ariadne Parker,” he says, his green eyes hard on me. “I’m Joel Carradine. I think we need to talk.”

“I—” I try to get an actual word out, but my mouth has gone completely dry. I take a quick sip of my margarita, then try again. “Mr. Carradine. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Please call me Ari. I’m Mr. Holt’s new PA.”

The words come out steady and firm, and I haven’t bolted in terror. After a sketchy start, I consider this a total victory.

He glances down, then slowly skims his gaze up until he’s looking straight into my eyes. “His PA? I think you’re more than that. And,” he adds, gesturing toward an exit off the patio that presumably leads to an alley, “I think we ought to have a chat.”

I glance toward Clive, who’s not only moved closer, but has hooked his arm around my waist. He tightens it now, and I take some comfort in the fact that he has my back.

Carradine takes a single step toward the exit, his focus still on me. “Shall we?” When I don’t move, he turns his attention to Clive. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring her right back.”

“I really shouldn’t,” I say. “I made plans to meet Mr. Trent tonight, and I need to find him before?—”

“No.”

I lift my chin, giving him my most bitchy glare. “Excuse me?”

“No, you didn’t make plans.” His mouth curves into the tightest of smiles. “I’m Mr. Trent’s right hand. Managing his calendar is the least of my duties.”

I clear my throat. “I meant that I planned to introduce myself.”

“I see.” He slips his hands into his jacket pockets, and I can’t help but wonder what might be in there. A knife? A small gun? A miniature nuclear weapon?

I squeeze Clive’s hand hard, trying to ward off hysteria. “So, if you’ll just excuse me, I’m going to go find him.” I start to turn away, but Joel takes two long steps and parks himself right in front of me. “That’s not happening.”

Beside me, Clive stiffens, but I squeeze his hand and try to telepathically order him to just stay chill. Surely this scary badass won’t pull anything here. The place is overrun with potential witnesses. Granted, no one seems to be paying any attention to us at the moment, but surely if he slit my throat, someone would notice. Wouldn’t they?

I lift my chin. “Look, I get that you’re Trent’s guard dog, but I am going to go find him. So deal with it.” I start to walk away, but he grabs my elbow. “Hey!”

“Mr. Trent isn’t here.”

“Oh.” I frown. “I was under the impression he always attended these events.”

Once again, he points to the exit. “We should talk in private.”

“I’d rather talk here.”

That smile is back. “I’m afraid I have to insist.”

I glance at Clive, who shakes his head.

“Please, Ms. Parker.”

I look at Clive. The truth is, I doubt the guy’s going to kill me in an alley. I open my phone, then text Carradine’s resume to Clive. “That’s got this freak’s name, address, all that info. If anything happens to me…”

“I’m not going to kill you in a back alley,” Carradine says. “No matter how tempting the thought might be.”

He sounds so exasperated that I actually have to fight a grin. So, okay. Maybe this isn’t the scene in the movie where the girl does a stupid thing and gets her throat slit.

I draw a breath, meet Clive’s eyes, then nod at Carradine. “Let’s go.”

I’m right about the gate leading to an alley, but what I didn’t expect was the sleek, black limo idling in the trash-strewn road. I whip around to face Carradine. “There is no way in hell I’m getting into that car with you.”

“Just a short ride and an informative talk.” He reaches for my arm. I knee him in the balls. Or I try. Apparently, the moves from the self-defense class I took in college haven’t stuck with me.

I start to run, managing to pull my arm out of Carradine’s grip. I’m just about to yank open the gate when a familiar voice calls my name.

“Aria! Stop!”

I whirl around to see the back window of the limo descending to reveal Matthew’s face even as the door is pushed open. He extends a hand, his eyes hard on mine. “Get in.”