Hollywood Hot Mess (4 page)

“Couldn’t you have left a message?”

“That’s not the kind of news you leave in a message.”

“Why did she do this, Spence? I mean, she kept the secret about what really happened at your party all this time. Why is she trying to fuck me now?” The damn traitor tears spill over my cheeks. I wipe them quickly, hoping he doesn’t see. I hate them. I hate Jessica. I hate feeling so weak.

He grimaces and reaches into his breast pocket for a handkerchief. “She kept quiet about that night because I paid her to. I paid off everyone who was there so they wouldn’t breathe a word about what happened.”

My stomach falls to the concrete beneath my sneakers. Blankly, I stare at the crisp, monogrammed linen square shaking in my hand. “You did that for me?” I don’t look at him.

“For
us
. A story like that wouldn’t have been good for me either.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and clasping his hands together. His gray suit tightens against his arms and I can tell he’s been working out, a lot.

I’m so confused right now. Spence and I were never anything more than friends. Sure we flirted, and I’m sure a few stoned kisses were shared, but it was never anything more than that. At least not that I remember. It made sense that he paid for me to party and let me crash at his palatial house in the Hills. Spence never wanted the party to end and neither did I. We worked because we partied longer and harder than anyone else. But this? Paying off people to keep the secret of what really happened that night? I’m blown away.

“Hey, come here.” His voice is soft again, and he snakes an arm around my shoulders. With his touch, something suddenly seems really off.

“Spence, what are you doing here? Are you following me?” I recoil from his embrace and swat his arm away.

“You’ve been working out at my gym for weeks. I knew you didn’t want to talk to me so I respected your space. This morning when I saw the story I thought you might need a friend. So yes, I followed you.”

I turn to him, pulling my leg up on the bricks between us so he no longer has access to put his arms around me. That, I don’t need. A friend, I do. I reach for a cigarette and offer him one. He turns it down. I consider smoking both at the same time.

“What am I going to do? How did she even get that story to print? It was off record. She has zero proof.” I exhale and tuck the lighter into my bag.

“She has it on tape.”

“Uh-uh. The recorder was off.” I shake my head adamantly.

“Yeah, but her phone wasn’t.”

“Phone?” My heart drops. That bitch.

“Why would you even say those things off record to a reporter?”

“I thought she was on my side. She seemed so...” My words trail off. Was I really so desperate that I didn’t see that sneaky bitch for what she really was?

“This is Hollywood, Carly. You should know better. Everyone’s out for themselves. And you handed her a career-making story on a silver platter.”

I hang my head in my hands, shaking it back and forth, knowing he’s right. “The studio is going to fire me. Aren’t they?”

“Not necessarily. Have you talked to Jerrie?”

“No.”

“You need to. You might be able to salvage it. Throw Jessica under the bus if you have to. She certainly deserves it.”

“Why are you friends with someone like that?”

“I’m not. We haven’t hung out since the night you...” His voice trails off and he shakes his head dismissively. “She called and told me she was interviewing you. I hadn’t seen you in so long. And I...” He pauses. “I missed you.”

“What about your
gift
?”

“Come on, how was I supposed to know you were serious this time?” He laughs and playfully nudges my arm. I hate to admit he’s right. Rehab was an annoying joke before. A way to get Jerrie off my back or avoid jail time. I’ve never been serious about maintaining my sobriety. I’ve never had the role of a lifetime waiting on me when I got out.

“It’s for real this time, Spence. It has to be.”

“I get that.” He holds up his hands in surrender and offers me that damned smile of his. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.” It’s so tempting. Spence is familiar. He’s a soft place to land when I need it most. But I can’t.

I reach over to stick his handkerchief back in his breast pocket. My fingers brush against a cold, hard something tucked into the same pocket. I pull out the glass vial and roll it over my palm.

A year ago, I would’ve crawled into his blue Bugatti and snorted lines until I didn’t care about some bitch reporter or losing the role of a lifetime. He would have led me into the darkest dens in Hollywood, and I would have scampered along at his heels. Not anymore.

“Spence, I can’t go back to my old life if sobriety is going to work.” I draw in a deep breath and slowly exhale. “You aren’t good for me.” I drop the vial into his outstretched palm.

He drags in a sharp, ragged breath. My chest constricts. He stands, running his hands down his torso to straighten his suit, and steps into the street. Is he leaving me? Have I pissed him off to the point he isn’t even going to say goodbye?

When I look up, Spence hasn’t left me. He’s behind his car, in the street hailing a cab. One slides to a stop in front of him. He looks back to me, his expression unreadable. I scrape myself off the brick wall and walk into his outstretched arms. He places the softest kiss on my forehead and hands a hundred dollar bill to the driver.

“Good luck, baby girl.” His words are hot against my hair. I smile weakly and slip into the backseat, waving until he disappears.

Chapter Two

“Cut!” Gavin yells from his director’s chair beside a towering Panavision camera. His timbre is hostile, almost irate. Angry enough to earn a collection of startled gasps from the actors on set. He rubs his temples, head bowed, dramatically searching the floor for serenity. Anxious eyes dart warily from face to face, hanging on his next move.
Cut!
fades into soft echoes down the castle’s grand hall, bouncing off wall-sized tapestries, movie set equipment and extras dressed in royal court finery.

Everyone freezes. Everyone except me. From the corner of my eye, I drop my gaze to the cold stone floor and realize I’ve missed my mark. For the tenth time. Grasping fistfuls of taffeta and crinoline, I lift my massive skirt and take a tiny, sideways step toward it, hoping no one sees. Only my costume is so unwieldy, everyone sees. With a communal sigh, every head turns toward the flutter of my dress. Exasperated glares rip holes through me. I can feel them, just like I’ve felt them all week. Feigning indifference, I raise my gaze above them, studying the raftered ceiling as if they aren’t there. When did extras earn the right to be assholes, anyway?

It’s been one week on set, and already everyone hates me, not that they gave me a fighting chance after the Jessica story. I tried to play nice—my wordless apology for that damned article. But I’m over it.

I’ve paid for my mistake—a hundred grand for breaking that damned NDA and agreeing to the studio’s
fire at will
clause. That’s my entire movie advance and permission to get rid of me if I breathe the wrong air. I’m giving everything I’ve got to this role for nothing but room and board and a bunch of condescending glares. They’re all miserable idiots. But this is my last chance. I can’t fuck it up.

At best, the crew is indifferent when I pop a seam or smudge my makeup. At worst, like right now, the director is openly hostile when I mess up. I know they’re going to fire me. Why wouldn’t they? I can’t do anything right, and
everyone
hates me.

Breathless moments pass. Finally, the director raises his head. When he does, his eyes are polluted with unrestrained hate behind his black-rimmed hipster glasses. I turn away, nervously clenching and releasing rich red fabric in clammy hands.

“Take an hour for lunch,” he announces, throwing his script on the floor.

Skirts in hand, I whisk around, ready to run to the safety of my trailer.

“Not so fast, Miss Klein,” he orders. I freeze midstep, my back breaking under the weight of his voice, feeling every bit a naughty student called to the principal.

With a smile that goes no further than my lips, I turn to face him. He’s risen from his chair, stretching his back like a grandpa, his face drawn into deep, angry lines.

“Yes?” My chipper tone belies the hatred I harbor for this man.

“Oh, is this amusing you, Miss Klein?” He’s not prepared for the zero fucks my smile gives his irritation. If my job weren’t on the line, I’d laugh in his rage-puckered face.

“Amusing how?” I shrug.

“Is it amusing to waste everyone’s time and the studio’s money by not remembering your lines or your marks?”

“No, Gavin, it’s not. I had this scene down, but you’ve changed something on me after every take.”

“You’re a professional. That’s not an excuse.” He flourishes a splayed hand in the air, waving me to silence. “You’ve had a week to get acclimated to being on set again.” He points an accusing finger at me and nearly breaks into a run rushing over to where I stand. I shrink away from him when he stops, inches from my face, so close I can see his temple throbbing with anger.

“I’m sorry...” Once again I’m silenced by a raised hand.

“I don’t want to hear it. You’re running out of chances with me. So you go snort a line, chug some vodka, pray to Allah. Do whatever the fuck it is you need to do. But when you come back, you’d better be perfect. Perfect! Do you understand?” He’s so close, a speck of his spit flies onto my cheek. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing it’s there by wiping it away. Instead, I grit my teeth and swallow all the words scrambling up my throat.

It’s what he wants. What everyone wants. Slapping this insolent asshole’s face would buy my ticket on the next flight home. He wouldn’t need the studio’s approval. I refuse to let him break me. So I stand frozen in humiliated anger, knowing if my lips part, it won’t be pretty.

Normally, the instant lunch is called everyone flees like cockroaches in kitchen light. Not today. Today they’re sticking around for the show. Murmurs, lip smacks and sniggers echo around the room as the asshole continues chastising me. My cheeks flame molten red, and I wish the floor would swallow me whole.

“Gavin.” A voice dares to break the silence, ending our showdown, taking the hot spotlight of everyone’s attention off me. It’s
him
. I know that much without looking. He arrived on set today, sending the entire place into a frenzy over his greatness. Now, there’s a throng of adoring fans the security guards have to keep at bay. Now, there’s decent coffee in craft services. Now, my failings are amplified by his stupid perfection.

Gavin’s eyes soften, and he tears them away from me. Together, our heads turn to where
he
stands, a hand resting on the back of Gavin’s director’s chair, looking so in control of the world, it makes me sick. Only, his eyes don’t meet Gavin’s.

Instead, they land on me, brushing a glance up the length of me. Devon’s face is tight at first, but pulls into half of a down-turned smile when our eyes finally meet. He’s dressed in street clothes, worn jeans and a gray sweater pulled up his forearms. A tan kisses his cheeks, suggesting he’s just spent a few days in some exotic locale. Over his trademark steel-gray locks, he wears a black beanie, one that almost hides enough of his hair to also hide his age. Jesus, he’s even hotter in real life. The thought is in my head before I stop it. I turn away in protest, refusing to return his smile. He’s either laughing at me like everyone else, or thinking he’s awesome for saving me. Either reason makes my blood boil.

Beside me, an extra lets out an audible moan, her hands falling weakly to her sides. I roll my eyes and turn to leave. Women are so pathetic!

“An hour, Carly!” the director shouts at my back as he scampers to Devon’s side like a dog called to heel. It’s all I can do to keep my mouth shut and my feet moving.

My trailer is a giant rust-flavored jelly bean that would be more at home in a junkyard than on a Hollywood production. I bet Devon’s trailer is huge and shiny and right next to set so he doesn’t have to freeze his ass off in this subarctic tundra between takes. Under a fur parka and layers of crinoline, my ass is frozen solid. I hustle toward the aluminum shell, my breath a puffy cloud. Unnerved by my encounter with Gavin, I’m almost in tears when my icicle fingers find the handle.

The door flies against the metal exterior with a clattering whack. Inside the aluminum beast, a startled wardrobe assistant shrieks like she’s seen a ghost. My nerves are in no mood for this. Gavin isn’t the only beast I’ve got to slay this afternoon. When I think about my next scene a cold wave of unease tightens my shoulders. It exits my body as an audible snarl directed at the poor assistant.

Full of soft apologies, she flutters over and takes my coat, tossing it on a worn polyester couch near the door. Wordlessly, I turn away so she can unlace the corseted bodice. With a sigh, I stare dully at the trailer that has become my on-set home. It’s dated and dank and everything one would expect a mass murderer to hide out in. My contract stipulated I have private dressing quarters instead of sharing with the other talent. It’s a standard ask for a female lead. This trailer is obviously the studio’s way of putting me in my place. Even the assistants enter with upturned noses.

To my left, a stack of glossy headshots sits on a glass-top table, three purple Sharpies waiting in a neat row for me to sign autographs for the crew. These photos may be the cruelest joke yet.

Eight-year-old Carly laughs at me from the photo. A little girl with blond braided pigtails and the pouty smile America loved. Little Carly Klein, young and sweet. Dennis the Menace in pigtails. That’s the only Carly anyone wants. Grown-up Carly Klein, struggling to make a comeback and save her pathetic existence, can’t even run a scene without making a huge mess of everything.

If I were alone, I’d rip every one to shreds and strike a match. But I can’t. The assistant’s watching my every move with eager eyes, waiting for me to do something rash and newsworthy.

“Get me a Smartwater with lime,” I bark over my shoulder, stepping from the gown. She scampers off. Most actresses get something a hell of a lot stronger to calm their nerves before sex scenes. Not me. Instead, I inhale, count to ten and exhale. A gust of wind howls into the trailer when the assistant opens the door to leave, popping goose bumps on my chilled, naked flesh. She doesn’t see the snake eyes I shoot at her back, but it makes me feel better. A little more in control of things.

Serene music drifts from a single speaker attached to my phone. Pandora’s spa channel relaxes me further. I breathe deeply, concentrating on the sound of breaking waves. Anything to get my mind off the mess I left on set and the nightmare I’m returning to.

It’s just tits
, I tell myself for the millionth time. Not even nipple, just flesh. The audience will see nothing more than two naked bodies rolling around in the sheets. They’ve seen more in the tabloids. If only I could believe me. This is different. So different.

The flimsy white sheet draped neatly over a length of string and held in place by clothespins offers some degree of warmth as I slip behind it to prepare for my next scene. I attach pasties to my nipples, and slip into the nude silk crotch sock. Trembling replaces the calm. It’s my first love scene ever. A cherry every actress dreads popping. “Losing it” to an oversized ego who’s movie-fucked half the starlets in Hollywood makes it infinitely worse.

A red silk robe lined with heavy gold embroidery hangs against the wall beside a dime store plastic mirror. The lush fabric melts over my bare skin like hot butter, giving me another chill as it slides into place. Clothed for my next scene, my first scene with Devon, I step around the curtain to find an impatient hairstylist. From the shadows another assistant appears, stepping forward to remove the heavy golden jewelry from the previous scene. I shiver as a necklace slips over my chest, and dazzling chandelier earrings are plucked from my ears. Standing obediently still, they fix me like a life-sized Barbie doll. The assistant grasps the thick gold cuff on my left arm and I yank it from her reach. Fixing her in a hard gaze, I take it off myself and hug my wrist to my bosom. I try to look tough. Make her think she’s hurt me. Make her think anything but the truth. She doesn’t know. Nobody knows. And I desperately want to keep it that way.

Confusion crinkles her face. She retrieves the jewelry from my palm. Her eyes fall sheepishly away, and she turns to leave.

“Where’s my bracelet for this scene?” I demand at her back. She turns with a grimace.

“It’s a bedroom scene, Miss Klein. Wardrobe doesn’t call for you to wear a bracelet.” Her voice is soft and appeasing. I know it isn’t her fault her boss is such an idiot, but I don’t care.

“I always wear a bracelet on my left wrist. It’s in my contract!” I’m shouting, and it feels good, loosening the tight, constricting hold an invisible hand has on my chest. The assistant stands helplessly in front of me, shifting from one foot to the other, looking down at the soiled carpet as if she might find an answer there.

Behind me, pretending she’s deaf, the hairstylist is tying red silk ribbons in my hair. I pull one from her hand and wrap it artfully around my wrist, holding one loop with my teeth and pulling a bow into place. I take a deep breath and grit my teeth.

“Just go, get me my water,” I mumble, and with a soft...
Yes
,
Miss Klein
...she’s gone.

I close my eyes and gently pinch the bridge of my nose, careful not to disturb any of the makeup applied hours earlier.

When I open my eyes, he’s there.