“The little pop singer?” Neil blinked. “The blond? With the jugs?”
“That’s the rumor,” Consuela said, twisting one of her rings. “Granted, I don’t know if it’s true. But Idoknow that anyone who messes with her gets fucked. Remember Dalton Preston over at Sony? He ran around on his wife, some British designer, for years, with no consequences. Then the wife becomes friends with Scout, and next thing you know, the FBI is investigating him for tax fraud.”
“He’s sitting in prison as we speak,” Jessica said ruefully. “One of our clients, and there was nothing I could do to save him. Though I did hear the wife didn’t care about the cheating. She was pissed he was hiding money from her.”
Rosie’s brain whirred a mile a minute. This was entirely unexpected. A group of women actually clearing the board of men when they stepped out of line? She pictured it: feeding Neil’s name to a circle of cloaked figures, the hammer coming down one night when he made his way alone to his parked car. A delicious warmth spread up her spine.
“What bullshit,” growled Neil, beckoning Rosie for more scotch. She obliged, and he continued to speak around the curve of her ass. “We don’t make business decisions out of fear. Especially over some boogeyman who probably doesn’t exist.” He waved a hand. “My apologies—boogeywoman.”
“God forbid I agree with Neil,” said Anisha, “but for all we know, the rumors are part of some viral marketing campaign for Scout’s next tour. Though I do agree,” she added, nodding at Consuela, “that signing a contract with Knox could make some of our more outspoken clients unhappy. We’d have to keep a tight lid on it.”
“I’m hearing a yes, as long as we’re careful?” Jessica looked between her three partners. “We agree to back Knox’s campaign?”
One by one the partners confirmed, and as dusk turned to darkness outside the top-floor windows, talk turned to boring subjectslike the rate of return on Gerson’s stock portfolio. Rosie tuned it out. Their earlier conversation was more than enough.
She was certain her anonymous source’s accusation was true, and if she kept digging, she’d eventually find what she needed to prove it. Butthisstory—a group of women haunting the power brokers of Hollywood with the threat of vigilante justice—nowthatwas fresh. And unsettling, if she was being completely honest. It suggested there was a new generation of women who refused victimhood so profoundly they’d rather take the only other route available to them, and become villains.
Rosie could feel in her bones that this was something people would care about. But there was something else here, too, a bigger question. In J-school, one of Rosie’s professors had showed them a famous quote by Margaret Atwood that read: “All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel.” It had stuck with her as a sort of journalistic ethos over the years:Always follow the wolves. The thing was, this supposed Hot Girl Murder Club—these women didn’t strike her as wolves, not in the traditional sense.
She had no idea what to call this new creature.
Chapter 15Juliet, the Model
PRESENT DAY
Juliet cracked open the door and found the man who’d made her life a living hell waiting outside. Danny Peterson had dressed up for the occasion, as she’d known he would. He was short—the phrase “Napoleon complex” had been invented for him—with close-shorn hair he’d bleached a few years ago, back when it was cool, and no one had bothered to tell him the trend had ended. He wore his version of a suit, a Canadian tuxedo in dark wash denim, so loose and baggy that it toed the line of cultural appropriation.
Juliet was relieved he’d come as himself. She’d been worried he’d put on airs and the other girls wouldn’t get to see how ridiculous he truly was.
“Juliet, my girl.” Danny whistled appreciatively, sticking his sunglasses in his jacket pocket. “I thought I was going to roll up here and you’d tell me this was a prank.”
“No prank.” She took a step back and opened the door. “Come in.”
“Damn.” Danny swaggered past her into the Santa Monica mansion. “How the hell did you become friends with Cybele Laurent? No offense, but I didn’t think you had that kind of hustle. I underestimated your game, girl.”
“She’s actually very nice. Despite her reputation.” Juliet followed behind him, her bare feet silent against the cool ceramic tiles. She hoped Cybele couldn’t hear her, because she was pretty sure the model would be insulted by the idea that she wasn’t as intimidating as she appeared.
“How’d you convince her to take a meeting with me?” Danny might be addressing her, but his eyes were fixed on the art hangingon the walls. Cybele had a taste for modern paintings: bold colors, provocative lines, and unsettlingly abstract representations of figures.
Juliet worked to keep her tone neutral. If she drenched it in derision like she wanted, or showed any sign that this meeting wasn’t what Danny thought it was, she’d ruin the plan. “Cybele’s thinking of leaving IMG. She wants a smaller, more bespoke agency.” She stopped and faced Danny. “I figured bringing her to you might help me work off some of my debt.”
He nodded in a way Juliet knew, after four years of working with him, meant he was bullshitting. “Oh, for sure. If Cybele signs with me, I’d say that’s worth a cool grand knocked off your debt. Finder’s fee.”
The commission Danny would make off Cybele Laurent’s rising career was worth much more than that, but Juliet gritted her teeth and said nothing.
“So where is she, anyway? This house is hella nice, but—”
“Hello, Danny.”
Juliet and Danny both spun. She had to hand it to Cybele—the woman knew how to make an entrance. She trailed down the minimalist staircase in the corner of the room like a queen, wearing ripped-up jeans and a simple white T-shirt, her dark hair long and loose, the epitome of off-duty model. Behind her, Scout skipped down the stairs, wrapped in a hot-pink fuzzy jacket despite the warm weather, like some sort of jester sidekick. Juliet wondered if they’d been playing dress-up in Cybele’s closet before this.
“Oh damn.” Danny pressed a hand to his heart. Juliet worried he’d bow. “Cybele and—I know you, you’re a singer. Man, I didn’t realize—it’s an honor to be in the presence of such greatness.”
Really laying it on thick, Danny.
“Why don’t you take a seat?” Cybele gestured to her sitting room, which was decorated in a vintage rose motif. A collection of dolls lined the bookshelves. Juliet wasn’t sure if Cybele’s style was normally creepy-doll avant-garde, or if she’d created the set for Danny’s benefit, but either way, it was effective. His eyes were glued to the unblinking doll faces as they settled in their seats.
“Thanks for meeting me,” Danny said, finally tearing his eyes away. “I know your time is precious, so let’s jump to it.” He leanedforward in the dainty rose-patterned armchair. “I hear you’re leaving IMG, and I want to put my hat in the ring. I can get you mad business, take your career to the next level.”
