Hollywood Hot Mess (3 page)

“Give me what?”

She peers into her purse, casually scans the room, and then plucks a small something from the side pocket. In a quick motion she drops it on the table in front of me. A glass vial filled with white powder rolls across the slick wooden surface. My stomach turns over on itself and I seriously think I’m going to vomit.

“I don’t want that shit. I’m sober.” I swat it across the table and sit back, teeth clenched, arms over chest. Suddenly I’m shaking and I don’t know if it’s anger, or nerves, or what. How dare she? How dare
he
?

“I told him you wouldn’t want it. Especially your first day out of rehab.” She shakes her head, staring at the vial, acting as if she is helpless to ignore Spence’s demands. Hell, maybe she is.

“What did he say?”

“He laughed and said sobriety’s never really been your thing,” she says apologetically, and purses her lips, too embarrassed to look at me.

“He’s such an ass!” I seethe under my breath, even though he’s right. I reach for the napkin with my number on it, but Jessica grabs it and tucks it away before I can get it.

“He really wants to talk to you. And he made me promise to give that to you. Toss it if you don’t want it.” She places the vial in front of me again, oblivious to the fact that tossing blow is a cardinal sin in LaLa Land.

“Such an ass!” I whisper again, and quickly tuck the vial into my purse when a serious-looking man emerges from the bathroom.

“For what it’s worth, I really hope sobriety works for you this time. Forget about Spence. You know he never wants anyone to leave the party.” She pats my hand with an understanding look. Her brown eyes are heart-meltingly sincere. Technically, it’s Spence’s dumb ass I should be mad at. Jessica seems to understand what I’m going through.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“You scared the shit out of me that night, Carly. I rode with you in the ambulance. I didn’t think you were going to make it. Nobody did,” she says, leaning in closer.

“You were with me?” There’s no way I can keep the shock off my face now.

She nods and I am once again the world’s biggest idiot. I slump over the table, resting my head in my hands. No one ever told me who took me to the ER that night. I knew it wasn’t any of my so-called friends. They were too wasted to deal with doctors and cops. Jessica probably saved my life and I don’t even remember her. She knows half of the truth I hide from the world. But here she sits with her warm eyes and big smile like it doesn’t even matter. This situation is suddenly way too heavy. All the coping techniques I learned in rehab fly right out the window and I’m once again that broken person I used to be, needing something to help forget the failures of my world. She reaches for my hand. I don’t pull it away this time.

“Hey.” She studies me intently. “You’re better than your past, Carly.”

Her words sober me. It’s such a simple answer, but it took me eight months to find it. I’m tired of being a train wreck. I’m sick of sucking at life. It’s time to turn things around and show America there’s good left in me.

I shrug and give a dismissive laugh. Sharing serious moments like this makes me uncomfortable as hell. The laugh sticks in my throat. She has the decency to look away. Awkwardness settles over our table. I gulp at my coffee and she fiddles nervously with her phone. I’m totally mind-fucked by the idea that a quasi-stranger could know me so well. I’m obsessing over the fact when she breaks the silence.

“So, off the record, you did get the Devon Hayes movie?” Her smile is genuinely earnest. I’m dying to share this news with someone. And as weird as it is, this forgotten friend has proven she can keep secrets.

Off the record. I check to be sure the recorder is off. It is SO tempting. She won’t have any proof of it. Even if she does blab, I can deny it all. Her fact checkers won’t let a story full of “lies” go to print. “Okay,” I answer with a conspiratorial smile. “Off the record, yes, I did!” My whisper is bursting at the seams.

“Oh! My! Gosh!” She squeals loudly enough to attract the attention of neighboring tables and slaps a hand over her mouth. “I knew it!” she whispers once she recovers, her excitement barely contained. God it feels so good to have someone in my corner again. “When do you start filming?”

“A month,” I answer, trying to sound casual. “I have to work with a trainer and jump through some ridiculous hoops before they ship me off.”

“Holy shit. On location with Devon Hayes. I would seriously give my left tit for a second alone with him!” Her expression is all dreamy and it’s clear Jessica would like to lick Devon’s man candy, too.

“He’s not that fabulous,” I say as if the hangnail I’m picking is way more fascinating than Devon Hayes.

“You’ve met him?” She perks up.

“No, but, I mean come on. What’s the big deal? If he were such a great actor he would have won a Best Actor award by now.” I move from picking the hangnail to biting it.

“I don’t give a damn if he can act. I’d be perfectly fine watching him do absolutely nothing for hours!” She giggles and tosses her shiny hair the way girls do. I roll my eyes. Why is everyone so fascinated with him?

“Devon Hayes is nothing but a lottery winner.”

“Come on, Carly. Even you have to admit he’s hot.”

“Anyone would be hot if they lived his life.” I prop my elbows on the table and rest my chin in the palm of my hand. “You could take a bum off the street, give him the right stylist, publicist, acting coach, a couple key roles, and he’d be everything that Devon Hayes is. He is not that special.”

“That’s a little harsh.”

“It’s not harsh. It’s Hollywood.” I fidget with the red leather cuff around my wrist. “I’m no different. I just won the lottery a lot earlier in life. I was a baby. Devon’s an old man. One day his star will fall just like mine has and everyone will wonder what the big deal was. It’s only a matter of time before someone knocks him off his throne.”

Jessica leans back and studies me with a skeptical grin. She looks down at her phone, frowning when she sees the time.

“Well, I guess you don’t have to worry about falling in love with your costar,” she says, grinning as she closes her laptop.

“Nope. Trust me, filming this movie is nothing but a paycheck for me.” I retrieve my sunglasses from my bag and push them over my forehead. “Is that all you need?”

“Yeah, I’ve got more than enough for the piece.” We stand together and she reaches for a hug. I turn my shoulder to her chest and hug back with one arm, still uneasy with her touch. “It was great to see you again, Carly. Promise me I can have the first interview once this news goes public?”

“Sure, if I can. It’s good to see you, too. Feel free to lose my number before you see Spence.”

She laughs, obviously thinking my comment is another joke. “Take care of yourself. And don’t be a stranger.”

I pull the sunglasses down over my eyes, smiling as I turn to leave.

Back outside in the bright sunshine, I feel good. My blacked-out Tahoe sits by the curb, humming softly in the afternoon breeze. It’s a heady mixture of orange blossoms and asphalt; an unmistakably L.A. scent I would recognize anywhere. For the first time in a long time, hope swells my chest and I’m not so bothered by not being recognized because I know it’s only a matter of time. Life is changing. I can feel it. All I have to do is hold things together long enough to make this movie and I’ll be on top again. Who knows? I may even be the one to knock the mighty Devon Hayes off his golden throne.

* * *

Three weeks later I’m covered in sweat, limping out of L.A.’s trendiest gym, pretending to drink the rancid smoothie my trainer insists I have post workout. I swear it tastes like he blends cat piss with cauliflower. He’s a militant son of a bitch I’ve come to loathe. We share a strong hatred for each other, but neither of us can do a damn thing about it thanks to our studio contracts. On the plus side, my ass has never looked better and he’s making a mint off whipping said ass into shape. I’m pretty sure he gets off on it, too.

I keep the straw to my lips until I round the corner. Once I’m safely out of sight I toss the putrid slush in a trashcan with an involuntary gag. Leaning against the smooth cement facade of a dress shop, I dig in my bag and find the only thing I want after a workout. The lighter flares to life and I take a long drag of my Marlboro Red, popping my neck as I exhale. It’s the only vice I have left. My lungs are happy, and I smile when I think about the vein my trainer would bust if he saw me. Asshole.

The sunshine is so bright and cheery I hum happily, digging through my bag for a pair of sunglasses. Life is routine these days. Routine is good for a recovering addict. In the mornings I work with a dialect coach. Afternoons are spent working out. Evenings I’m on the couch. Lately, I’m also packing.

Five days and I leave this glorious sunshine for remote, northern Europe to film
The Mighty Fall
—a sweeping love story of a powerful king and his teenage concubine. It’s supposed to be
Titanic
meets
The Other Boleyn Girl
on half the budget. A once-upon-a-time drama where lovers overcome great obstacles to be together. The script is decent enough, but kings don’t give up their crowns for teenage prostitutes. Why buy the cow when you can milk it through the fence for free? It’s just another pathetic fairy tale to help viewers forget how badly reality actually sucks.

“Mama” Moira calls daily, and as long as my cup of piss lands on her desk every Friday, we’re straight. She seems impressed with how well I’m doing. Spence calls daily, too, but after his little gift, I refuse to pick up. I smile every time I hit Decline because I know how much it’s pissing him off.

Unable to find my glasses, I pop into a nearby drugstore for a cheap pair. The last thing I need is a makeup-free gym photo circulating. A buzz has started to follow me again. Okay, so maybe it’s more like a low-decibel hum, but it’s getting louder. By the time the news breaks about my being cast in Devon’s film it will be a deafening damned roar.

The store is sterile and way too cold for sweat-slicked gym skin. I grab the first pair of black shades I find and head for the checkout. I’m minding my own business when the world decides to dole out its daily bitch slap straight across my face.

I’m paralyzed by what I see. Horror scorches through me like boiling oil.

“Your turn,” an impatient voice snarls from behind me. The cashier waves me forward, but I’m not sure I can move. I reach for the magazine whose headline has just atom-bombed my world and throw a few dollar bills on the counter on autopilot. What. The. Fuck?

The world spins, and not in a good way. It’s all I can do to put one foot in front of the other. My steps feel clumsy and weak, mirroring what my insides feel like. By the time I stumble through the automatic doors my inner bitch is taking over, strengthening my steps, and I feel like tearing the magazine to shreds. Anything to get rid of the angry shakes flying through me. I want to scream. I want to punch something. I want to fly into a Tasmanian devil—style fit. But I can’t. Too many witnesses on a street like this. Instead of making a scene that would further validate this stack of lies, I sit down on the brick wall enclosing a sidewalk tree and read the steaming pile of bullshit in my hands.

Carly Klein says costar Devon Hayes is a “Lottery Winner”

The front-page headline leaps off the cover accompanied by a picture of me drunk outside some club last year. My makeup is smeared, hair a total mess and the strap of my dress is snapped in two. It’s easily the worst paparazzi photo ever taken and I suddenly want to rip every page from the magazine, wad them into little balls, find Jessica and shove each one down her lying throat. That bitch! How could she? She was supposed to be on my side.

Numbly, I read the article. Every word I said—off the record—comes back to haunt me. No, comes back to destroy me. The thought of flying around Hollywood and buying up every lying copy comes to mind. But who am I kidding? I can’t afford that. Even if I could, the story is out. The damage is done.

My phone rings. It’s Jerrie. I decline the call because I can guess what she’s going to say. The studio probably released me from the film. They can walk if I violate our contract. Talking to anyone about the movie is expressly forbidden. And this article looks like I blabbed to the first reporter I saw. My life—which was Mary Poppins perfect five minutes ago—is fucking over.

I toss the magazine and bury my head in my hands, fighting the tears that bubble into my eyes. It barely registers when a car slides into the parking space in front of me. Hard leather heels hit asphalt. A few brisk steps and I feel a rush of air when someone sits beside me. I flinch, pulling my hands away from my face. The first thing I see? A seductively curved, French-blue bumper. His cologne hits me next, a scent that I hate no matter how much I secretly love it.

“Baby girl, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” Spence purrs into my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. I should have taken his call, told him to fuck off and been done with it. Seeing him face-to-face is a million times harder.

He holds my discarded magazine, running his fingers along its spine. I can’t look at him, not yet. He always cleans up my messes for me. I don’t need him now. I don’t
want
to need him now.

“She’s your fucking friend. Why don’t you tell me?” I finally manage to level the evilest look I can muster in his direction. It must be pretty harsh. His brown eyes look like they belong to a wounded baby deer. Not even the tiniest pinprick of regret registers inside me, but I do feel my face soften. Because, damn, he looks good. Better than I remember. Better than he used to? He’s let his hair grow out so it curls away from his face in surfer-blond waves, a face that holds what is probably the deadliest smile I’ve ever seen. A smile he now flashes, obviously knowing what it does to people. The rest of my evil look dissolves and I stare at my sneakers.

“I tried. You wouldn’t take my calls,” he says softly, and inches closer to me. So close the ridiculously rich fabric of his custom Italian suit brushes the still-flushed flesh peeking out from under my workout shorts.
Fuck
.