Ira stared without blinking, then went on to say, “RED is no ordinary nightclub—it’s an experience, an event. I’ve poured a great deal of money into it, more than any of my other clubs combined. It’s going to be highly unique. The first of its kind.”
Layla tried to look as though she was following, but so far it felt like a hard sell for a place she had no plans to frequent. She wished he’d just get to the point.
“There’s nothing else like it . . . ,” he continued.
She fought hard not to roll her eyes. First of its kind! Nothing else like it! And the most recent accolade: It defies description! To her ears, it all added up to nothing more than a bunch of nonsensical hype.
“I envision it as a sort of performance space.”
Layla frowned. “You mean like for weddings and stuff? Like you plan to rent it out?” Did Ira want her to be a wedding planner? Because she couldn’t think of a job she’d be worse suited for.
His gaze darkened. He preferred to be the one talking. “Performance space in the most literal sense.”
She continued sipping her coffee and fought to smile with her eyes, though she doubted her ability to feign such a look.
“The space is all white—like an empty canvas, a blank slate in which to design your own night and write your own ending.”
Layla continued to fake interest, but Ira was veering toward the surreal. It was beginning to feel more like the late-night ramblings of a stoner after too many bong hits than a conversation with a world-famous tycoon. The way the fluorescent lights overhead illuminated the pale yellow walls of the employee break room seemed to reinforce the bizarre, dreamlike feel.
“Picture a series of long hallways with multiple doors to choose from. Some of the rooms will offer a mostly auditory experience, while others will be more visually driven, where you’re entering a performance in progress—maybe as a participant, maybe just an observer—to be determined. The idea is for the experience to be so seamless that the line between fiction and reality is blurred.” He paused, clearly demanding a response from her.
“Wow. That sounds . . .” Layla stalled. She had a hard time imagining any of it, much less attaching a label to his vision. “Ambitious.” She nodded firmly. It was the best she could offer under such scrutiny.
Ira’s gaze drifted. “It is. And that’s where you come in.” He leveled his focus on her. “I’m planning a soft opening of sorts. We’re still building out the space, so it’s not yet ready for the public. But Trena Moretti has agreed to devote an entire show to me and the business I’ve built, and we’ve decided to include some of the before shots of RED. I’d like you to be a part of that.”
On the outside, Layla nodded uncertainly. Inside, she wondered what she could possibly add.
“What I’m offering is the chance of a lifetime. I’m asking you to join a small, exclusive group hand-selected by me to represent what I hope will become the crown jewel of my brand. All I ask from you is to keep an open mind. You never know what you’re capable of until you’re put to the test. Also, dress appropriately. You will be filmed.”
Layla froze. The part about being put to the test was similar to what Trena had said at Lake Shrine. And while there was nothing unusual about the statement itself, it did strike her as odd to hear the same advice twice in the course of a week.
“So, when is this happening?”
“Tomorrow night, seven sharp. Are we in agreement?”
What she wanted to say was, No, we are definitely not! Then flee as fast and far as her legs would carry her. She’d known Ira since the start of the summer and it was probably the longest conversation they’d ever had, and it gave her the creeps.
Instead, she forced what she hoped was an amiable expression and said, “I’d be honored.”
“Great,” he said, already turning away. “Tomorrow night then. And don’t mention this to anyone. You know how upset people get when they don’t make the list.”
THIRTY-ONEI TOOK A PILL IN IBIZA
Madison Brooks was restless. Aimlessly roaming the expanse of Tommy’s apartment, she rifled through his extensive vinyl collection and picked up random framed photos before setting them back down again with barely so much as a glance. She felt edgy. Fidgety. Once again she was counting the minutes until she could make her escape.
So far, Tommy had been nothing but generous, and to Madison’s chagrin, a perfect gentleman. He’d made up a room for her, given her free run of the place, and had even stocked his fridge according to the long, detailed list she gave him. It was the most luxury she’d enjoyed in a very long while, and yet, she still felt as trapped as she had when she’d been locked up in the cinder-block cell.
It was surprising how easily she’d been able to sway them all to her side. At the time, she thought for sure Ryan, Aster, and Layla would cut her off halfway through her story and put a call in to Larsen. Somehow, against all odds, she’d managed to convince them to delay alerting the authorities just a little bit longer. Which was why she felt so bad about her plan to betray them.
She paused by the breakfast bar and ran a finger across the stack of newspapers and magazines Tommy had left for her to read. People was on top, and yet again, Madison’s face
