Hollywood Hot Mess (22 page)

What happened to the awful rumors that chased me back to set? What happened to the world hating me because they think I’m some home-wrecking whore tearing HeaVon apart? Devon said this was a blip on the radar. A throwaway story no one would care about today. But I didn’t believe him.

And now I’m torn. Right down the middle like I’m some damned paper doll. The half of me that craves Devon like hard drugs is willing to do anything to keep him...anything. But the half that is fascinated by my image in a glossy magazine photo with a flattering caption is willing to do whatever it takes to make America love me again. A great divide. One great enough to make the fake life Devon’s willing to live a little more understandable.

Oh, how I would love to be back at the top of Hollywood’s A-list again. And how I would love to have Devon at my side. A selfish little voice tells me I can have it all if I play my cards right. Who is Heather Troy these days, anyway? She’s nothing without Devon. But I’m Carly Klein!

Feeling every bit the Hollywood starlet once again, a first-class diva overly deserving of the man she wants, I fire off a daring text.

what the fuck?!? #IntercontinentalBootyCalls?

I don’t get a response until I wake up the next morning, because I still haven’t figured out this damn time difference.

Worth. Every. Mile.

* * *

The following Monday I’m a nervous wreck arriving on set. My nails are chewed to nubs. I feel like I’ve smoked every cigarette in a hundred-mile radius and the assistants are waiting on tenterhooks around me, fearing the next unprovoked attack I might unleash on them.

He’s arriving today. I know he is. I’ve tracked the tail number of his jet since it took off from LAX hours ago. Stalk much
?
And if he isn’t on set already, he will be by the time shooting starts. He has to be.

The heavens seem to open with a hallelujah chorus when I round the corner to the row of gleaming metal trailers in the morning sunshine. I swear there is a beam of sunlight shining directly on him like an angel. Trying to conceal our secret at this moment is the furthest thing from my mind, and I shrug the huge parka from my shoulders and run like a maniac across the open lot to him. Devon’s back is to me, surrounded by the entourage that normally accompanies him.

I close my eyes, a goofy smile stamped over my face, and launch myself in his direction. He’ll catch me. I know he will.

An instant later I slam against a body and wrap my arms tightly around it, holding it so close I’m finding it hard to breathe. But something’s not right. It doesn’t feel like Devon. It’s too short, the shoulder not nearly broad enough, and rigid as if our proximity makes him uncomfortable.

Ernest’s wary gaze bores holes into me when I finally break away and look at the man wrapped in my arms.

“Carly...” He drags out my name like he’s trying to think of what to say next, obviously more concerned with the audience my stunt has drawn than me. My face goes blank and I slide off him, frantically composing myself.

“Ernest.” I toe the ground, mortified when a crew member to my left snaps a photo with his phone and sneaks it in his pocket. What the hell was I thinking? Devon is going to be pissed. “I’ve missed you, Ernest,” I offer weakly, and awkwardly pat him on the shoulder. He repays the welcome, but the smile goes no further than his lips. I glance at Devon, who’s standing safely behind Tiny, the bodyguard slash driver from our trip to the island. His attention never once turns my way.

He doesn’t even sneak a peek when Tiny holds the trailer door open and he disappears inside.

“You better get ready for set, Carly. I’ll see you later,” Ernest offers, and turns to leave. Base camp is silent, everyone waiting to see what I’ll do next. The thought of crawling under Devon’s trailer to die is appealing.

But, I’m an actress.

“Goodbye, Ernest!” I call after him like he’s a long-lost friend. “I’m so glad you’re back!” I smile sweetly to further sell the charade. Devon who? I employ my method-actor training as I walk away, scooping up my parka and brandishing my fakest smile at anyone who’s stupid enough to stare.

* * *

Thank god this isn’t a love scene we’re about to shoot because Devon would probably kick me out of his bed over my last stunt. I’m dressed in a gray and white dress that weighs as much as I do, with black velvet ribbons tied at my neck, in my hair and over my wrist.

I linger in the doorway between the king’s bedchamber and anteroom, watching Devon acquaint himself with the space and run lines with Ernest one last time. Crew members shuffle around him, making last-minute adjustments to the set and repositioning the lighting. I’m afraid to approach him. Afraid of what he’s going to say to me. But I don’t have a choice. I punch my chin in the air, square my shoulders and boldly make my way to the enormous carved mahogany desk fit for a king.

My heels ring out on the cold gray stone as I prance forward, grabbing everyone’s attention but his. He doesn’t bother to look at me. I hit my mark and hold position. A crew member steps forward to test my lighting. I stand still and allow him to do his job, barely keeping an unaffected expression on my face when he blocks my view of Devon. A stylist arrives seconds later to touch up the lipstick I smeared drinking water as I walked to set.

Today I’m consoling the king over the queen’s attempted suicide. It’s an intense scene. He’s angry. I’m terrified. And I can’t help but shake my head at the irony of it all.

“What?” He finally acknowledges me, sitting down in his chair and arranging his massive robes. The snowdrifts outside my hotel window seem warmer than him right now. Have I ruined everything with my impulsive outburst?

“I’m so sorry.” My words are low and clipped, muffled by tightly frozen lips so that no one can decipher what I’m saying. Following his lead, I avoid eye contact, too.

“Don’t,” he answers in the exact same way. “Later,” he fumes like a snake, and my chest gets tight and achy. I have to fight back tears because I fear “later” won’t be good. Oh, what have I done?

But I have to swallow my emotion, or use it somehow, and make it through this scene.

And I do, miraculously. I pull it together because he wants me to. When “Cut!” rings through the room I’ve turned in a performance that is so 180 degrees from what I’ve been doing lately, Gavin and the crew are stunned.

Take after take, scene after scene, my performances are so spot-on Gavin doesn’t want me to change a thing.

“Where has this actress been hiding, Carly?” Gavin gushes, and even pats my back when he wraps the crew for the day. It’s like swallowing a gallon of sewage, but I smile at him because Devon is still within earshot.

“Just finding my stride, I guess.” I dismiss his compliments and head for my trailer.

Chapter Twenty-One

My wardrobe and style assistants eagerly accept the offer to leave early as soon as they help me out of my huge gown. I’m wiping gallons of liner from my eyes in a semi-darkened trailer when someone knocks on the door. I jump and jerk my head toward the sound so quickly I get a crick in my neck. No way. He wouldn’t show up here. Not now. Would he?

“Come in,” I call out shakily from my chair.

“Miss Klein?” The door opens and Ernest steps into the den area. My heart sinks. Has Devon sent Ernest to do his dirty work?

“Ernest.” I turn back to the mirror to continue wiping away the day.

“For you, Miss Klein.” Ernest walks over and hands me a large manila envelope. Oh, great. What the hell is this?

Prying up the metal brads, I open the folder and empty its contents in my lap. A fancy, shiny smartphone exactly like Devon’s falls out. It’s the highest-tech gadget I’ve ever held, seeming way more luxury watch than phone with its sapphire crystal screen and sleek titanium case. You can’t simply walk into a store and buy a phone like this. Even I know that.

I tear open the folder, looking for something else, but it’s empty. Once again I’m completely confused by Devon’s mood swings when it comes to our relationship. Ernest clears his throat and I jump in my skin, forgetting he’s still in my trailer. With a kid-on-Christmas-morning smile, I beam at him. This seems to please him, and he helps himself to a seat on my couch.

“Mr. Hayes must really like you.” Ernest nods toward the sleek device I can’t stop running my fingers over.

“Do you think?”

“I’ve never seen him give anybody one of those.” Ernest’s head nods at my new toy and then shakes in disbelief. He’s meaning it as a compliment, but all I can think about is all the other women who have played this game before me. Played this game and obviously lost. I frown and turn back to the mirror.

“Anybody?” I snort and roll my eyes, because we both know who
anybody
is. Ernest frowns and bites his inner cheek.

“Mr. Hayes is a complicated man. His life is not really his own.” His words are so unexpected I stop wiping makeup midstroke, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” My mouth is still hanging open when Ernest rises from the couch and comes to stand beside me. He points at my hairbrush and I nod, placing it in his hand. Slowly, he brushes the blond tangles.

“Handle him gently. He’s got plenty of scars. They’re just hidden a little deeper than most.”

Dumbly I stumble through his words, trying to imagine what kind of scars Devon could have, and why Ernest has decided that I’m suddenly worthy of secrets Devon obviously hasn’t cared to share himself. Before I realize it, Ernest has taken my hair and parted it to the opposite side, pulling up the ends of it so it appears to be only shoulder length. He nods at my new appearance like I’m a happy memory.

“Ernest, who’s Dylan?” I ask, remembering his odd comment that night on the plane. His face falls and he drops my hair, finger combing it back into place.

“Devon’s high school sweetheart. They moved to Hollywood right after graduation,” he says in a tight voice, and turns to gather his bag, all but running to the door. My mind explodes with this revelation.

“I look like her?” My voice is shallow and shaky, not really understanding what this means.

Ernest freezes, his hand on the doorknob. Reluctantly, he looks over his shoulder, biting his inner cheek to stall, obviously regretting the can of worms he’s opened. His expression softens when he sees me wrestling with the bombshell he’s just dropped on my happy world, and he turns back to me, placing his bag back on the sofa.

“Not exactly, but there is something about you that reminds me of her.”

“You knew her?” I’m shocked. How long has Ernest been with Devon? Ernest nods his head.

“I met them the first week they were in L.A., at an underground party. They needed a place to stay. I needed a roommate.” He leans against my makeup table, his back to the mirror I’m facing. His expression travels back in time, searching for a memory that pleases him when he finally finds it.

“Is she still in L.A.?” Something about Ernest’s demeanor makes me fear the love Devon has for this ghost from his past way more than the fake family he’s living with now.

“No.” The pleasure is immediately stolen from Ernest’s face when he answers. “She wasn’t tough enough for L.A. It chewed her up and spit her out.” Ernest shrugs off the table with more force than is necessary and stalks to the door. “Goodnight, Carly,” he says without looking in my direction, and is gone.

The phone in my hand beeps, startling me from my thoughts, and I press an illuminated button. The screen comes to life. Waiting in the messages folder is a single line from an unknown number. I select it and text fills the screen.

This phone cannot be hacked or traced. Never use yours to contact me again.

I’m so unnerved by Ernest’s revelation, I eagerly lose myself in the knowledge that not only does Devon still want me, he wants me badly enough to go to some extreme lengths to hide our affair. If you can call “cheating” on a fake wife you don’t care for an affair. I don’t bother myself worrying over the details, and tuck Ernest’s little tidbit away with all the other things I refuse to think about. I’m an old pro at avoidance.

Welcoming a distraction, I hit Reply.

does this mean we can have phone sex now

I giggle because I’m hilarious, and walk into the bedroom to get my street clothes. The cloud that’s hung heavily over my shoulders all day melts away. The phone buzzes and I run back to get it.

I’ve never let distance stop me from getting what I want. You know this.

Oh! He wants me
.
He actually said it...or typed it. I have proof, and I dance around my trailer because I’m so damn happy. Retrieving my old piece of shit phone from my parka pocket, I call the set driver and request a pickup.

Thirty minutes later the black town car pulls into my hotel parking lot. It’s so warm and cozy inside the car, I’m about to fall asleep. God it’s been a long few days. But I have more script changes to learn tonight. And a rendezvous with Devon if I’m lucky.

I step from the backseat and immediately my unsuspecting world explodes into chaos. A barrage of bright white lights flash in my face, blinding and disorienting me. I fall backward into the car, fighting to get my feet under me.

“Fuck!” I cry out, nearly breaking a finger attempting to catch myself.

I hide my face in my hands and realize I’m living every celeb’s worst nightmare. They’ve found us. The story didn’t disappear like we’d hoped. Instead it’s mushroomed into the biggest payday a paparazzi could ask for. So big, the European paps—the same assholes who killed Princess Diana—have joined in the hunt. They would love nothing more than to destroy us.

I shield my eyes from the cameras and focus on the slushy ground at my feet. I’m squeezed in a crush of cameras and bodies, wanting me, searching me, yelling at me in accents I can’t understand. Panic sets in and I can’t even figure out how to put one foot in front of the other.

The paps block my path when I try to step forward and getting back in the car isn’t an option. It sped away the moment I closed the door. Nope, I’m all alone, facing these cruel idiots by myself. It seems I take two steps back for every one step forward. After fighting the crowd for a few minutes I’m no closer to the hotel door than I was when I arrived.

What more do they want? They’re yelling questions and hurling insults at me, trying to get a reaction. Too bad for them, I learned long ago to tune them out. They get nothing but a shot of the parka hood and my hand shielding it.

Then, mercifully, two strong hands grab my upper arms and rip me away from the chaos. Pushing bodies away as he tucks me under his arm and practically carries me into the warmth of the lobby. He ushers me straight into the bar by the front door, away from the windows and flashing cameras.

When I can finally breathe I push my hood away and look up to find Tiny. It’s Devon’s bodyguard. Someone I thought was absolutely ridiculous to have around on set in the middle of nowhere until just now.

“Are you okay, Miss Klein?” He puts a strong hand on my shoulder and shakes me to get my attention.

“Yeah...um...yes.” I’m still dazed by the whole encounter and feel around to be sure I have everything with me. My old phone is in one pocket and Devon’s shiny new addition rests in the other one. My purse is still zipped, slung across my body under my parka. I smooth my hair and drag my hands down my face, cringing when I realize I don’t have on any makeup and will probably look like shit in the photos that were snapped before I managed to duck.

“Do you want me to walk you to your room?” The enormous man straightens up and leans back out of the bar’s doorway to be sure the paps are staying outside where they belong.

I don’t really. It’s always made me feel like a child to have a bodyguard around. As unsettled as I am, it suddenly doesn’t sound like the worst idea ever, and I give a small nod.

“This way, Miss Klein.” He puts a hand on my lower back and guides me to the elevator, his hulking size obscuring any possible picture as we cross the lobby in full view of the glass doors again. In the elevator, he doesn’t even have to ask my floor or room number. He just knows.

“Um, thanks.” I give him a sheepish sideways look.

“No problem,” he answers quickly, hands clasped at his lower back like a solider ready for inspection.

He really is massive, like steroid-popping-gym-freak massive. But I get the feeling his muscles are au natural. He makes me feel like a flea.

“Your key, Miss Klein?” The elevator slows, nearing my floor. I fumble in my purse for the plastic access card.

He takes the key and holds a hand out to shield me when the door opens, hunching down like a tiger ready to pounce if he must. After checking to the right and the left he waves me out and falls in line behind me, walking so close I can smell his Axe body spray.

He holds the door open and ushers me in, covering the entire entry.

“Thanks, Tiny.” I nod, kicking off my boots.

“Mr. Hayes wants you to call me whenever you leave the hotel.” He tosses my key on the entry table.

“Okay.” I frown. “But, I don’t have your number.”

“Where’s your phone?” he asks.

I fumble in my pocket and pull out the old piece of shit flip phone.

“Your new one,” Tiny says before it’s completely out of my pocket.

“You know about that?” I ask with a twisted face. How in the hell?

“It’s my job to keep Devon’s private life private.” Huh, I thought there was nothing more to Tiny than Herculean muscles and tight black T-shirts.

I hand over the shiny new toy. Tiny presses buttons and then holds our phones together. When he returns mine his number is listed right beside the only other number in the contacts list.

“Texts work best for me,” he says, and shuts the door behind him.

He leaves me staring at my phone, amazed by the electronic innovation in my hands. My parka hits the floor, followed by black jeans, a flannel shirt and my undies in a trail to the shower. Hot, scalding hot. That’s what I need to wash this day away.

I missed everything I’ve swung at today, except my time on-screen. I don’t have a clue what Devon wants out of this relationship anymore. Well, I guess I know what he
wants
. But where we are now is a million miles away from what he told me he wanted on his island. Secret phones? Intercontinental booty calls? Sensational headlines? The list of why this shouldn’t work keeps growing.

He should have stopped this a long time ago. But he didn’t. Every time something comes along that should pull us apart, he finds a way around it. Which leaves me wondering once again what the rules are of this game we’re playing. I highly doubt that rule book would include flying across the globe to have sex. But then again most people don’t have a G650 waiting on them like Devon does. His only rule seems to be there are no rules.

With a towel wrapped around my head, I drip across the carpeted room to my bag that has yet to be unpacked and pull on comfy flannel jammies. My new phone buzzes and I jump to attention, startled by the unfamiliar sound.

Are you okay?

sure-can we talk

Rooftop in 20?

yep

Thirty minutes later I burst onto the rooftop with a smile on my face, barely able to contain my excitement. Devon is huddled against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, impatiently waiting on me. I couldn’t decide what to wear. And I had to dry my hair. Can’t afford to get sick now. But I’m immediately sorry I took such precautions, because he looks mad.

I want to fall into his arms. Now that we’re away from anyone who might see. I reach for him, but he pulls away and I know this can’t be good.
Fuck!
What the hell have I done now?

He drags a gloved hand over his hair and stares up at the nighttime sky. A shiver runs over me. I don’t know if it’s from the cold weather or his icy demeanor. I pull my jacket closer and slump against the cement wall. Waiting to hear whatever it is that has his face pulled into deep old-man wrinkles.

He says nothing.

“I guess they found us,” I offer, rolling my eyes at the absurdity of the pap mob camping out at our hotel. He nods his head and sighs.

“I’m sorry, Carly.” He offers nothing but a shrug, like I’m supposed to know what he’s talking about.

“Sorry about what?” Sorry that the paparazzi attacked me? Sorry that he wasn’t as excited to see me as I was to see him? Sorry that he flubbed every scene he shot today? Sorry for what?

“We can’t risk it, Carly.” He shakes his head and looks at me as if I’m some dimwitted child who doesn’t have a clue. “The story didn’t go away. We have to end whatever this was.” He waves his hand back and forth between us in the yellow glow of the security light. I suddenly feel like I’m going to throw up.

“But...” My words fail me. I’m so caught off guard I can’t even argue with him. I just stand there like a statue, frozen.

“It’s just not worth it. For either of us.” His words knock the wind out of me. I struggle for air. Not worth it? I’m not worth it?
Think
,
Carly!