Back in the safety of the motel room, Zoe was pacing. She had worn a track in the cheap carpet.
"Hamlin will sue us," Zoe said, her voice rising in pitch. "His dad owns half the town. We're dead. We're actually dead."
Avery sat on the bed, spreading papers from her portfolio on the orange bedspread. She was calm. Unnaturally calm.
"He won't sue," Avery said, not looking up. "He's too embarrassed. He got dropped by a girl in five seconds. He won't want that story getting out."
She picked up a casting sheet. It was crumpled and stained with coffee. She smoothed it out. Arnoldo Young.
Zoe stopped pacing. She looked at the paper. "The indie director? He's a recluse. He's ghosted all the major studios, dropped out of the industry circuit entirely. Nobody can find him."
"I know where he is," Avery said.
"How?"
"He hangs out at the 'Blue Velvet' jazz club on Tuesdays," Avery said. She tapped the paper. "He's looking for a pianist for his noir film. He wants authenticity."
Zoe looked skeptical. "You don't play piano, Avery. You play the radio. And you definitely don't play jazz."
Avery smiled. It was a small, mysterious smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I have hidden depths, Zoe."
She stood up and went to her suitcase. She pulled out a black dress. It was simple, backless, and elegant. It was the only thing she had saved that looked like armor.
"This isn't an audition," Avery said, holding the dress up. "It's an ambush."
Zoe sat down heavily on the other bed. She looked at Avery-really looked at her-for the first time since the morning. "You've changed. You're... scary."
"Survival is scary," Avery said softly.
They spent the afternoon prepping. Avery did her makeup in the dim bathroom light. Sharp winged eyeliner. Dark red lips. She hummed a melody as she worked-a complex, dissonant jazz scale that twisted and turned.
Zoe listened from the bedroom, a frown creasing her forehead. That wasn't a song from the radio.
"Where did you learn that?" Zoe asked through the open door.
"YouTube," Avery lied again. She checked her reflection. The woman staring back was ready for war.
Night fell over Los Angeles. They called a generic taxi to avoid tracking.
The Blue Velvet was in an alleyway downtown. It was the kind of place you only found if you knew where to look. There was no sign, just a heavy metal door and a bouncer who looked like he ate bricks for breakfast.
The bouncer crossed his massive arms as they approached. "List only."
Zoe opened her mouth to plead, but Avery stepped in front of her.
She looked at the bouncer. She looked at the faded tattoo on his forearm.
"Semper Fi, Sergeant," Avery said. Her voice was respectful. "First Division, right? The Old Breed."
The bouncer blinked. His scowl faltered. He looked at this girl in the expensive dress who knew his unit patch.
"My uncle served in Fallujah with the First," Avery lied smoothly, adding a detail she remembered from the novel's character bio. "He always said the jazz in Baghdad was terrible."
The bouncer cracked a grin. It transformed his face. "He wasn't wrong."
He unhooked the velvet rope. "Enjoy the music, ladies."
Zoe grabbed Avery's arm as they walked past him. Her grip was tight. "How did you know that?"
"Lucky guess," Avery whispered.
They stepped inside. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of expensive whiskey. A saxophone was wailing in the corner.
The hunt was on.
