Hollywood Hot Mess (7 page)

I turn the page in disgust. Perfection is boring. Besides, who said a loving family is everyone’s idea of perfect?

Once again, I come face-to-face with HeaVon, sans Angel, because apparently no other stars in Hollywood can sell magazines these days. This time they pose and wave on a red carpet, all smiles and huggy togetherness, at the glamorous premiere of yet another mega blockbuster movie graced with Devon’s star-power pull.
Ugh!

Somewhere near the back of the magazine, so small it barely warrants attention, a thumbnail-size shot of me jumps off the page.

Is Carly Off The Wagon...Again?

And there I am, holding my preferred Smartwater with lime. A drink that looks surprisingly like a vodka drink when one holds it at the opening of a club. What a bunch of idiots. I’ve been sober for 332 days. And I only went to that damned club opening because I was desperate for the appearance fee the promoter offered me. But reformed-bad-girl Carly doesn’t sell magazines. I only make headlines when I’m being the hell-on-heels bad girl America expects me to be. I try telling myself it’s a character I play, just another role. But that’s total horseshit because there’s no script directing this train wreck. It’s all me.

Glossy pages flutter in the air when I toss the magazine on the table. It skims the surface and hits the floor with a thud. Life kinda sucks when the whole world’s against you. With the push of a button, the plush chair back falls into a full recline. I curl into the fetal position, dirty boots and all.

* * *

The room’s dark except for a thin line of light filtering under the closed door.
Daddy’s out there.
He said he’d wait for me.
Why doesn’t he hear my cries?
I’m hot and sweaty.
Pinned beneath the potbelly of this awful man
,
unable to move.
The foul stink of his gin-soaked breath puffs repulsively over my skin.
I
squirm under his heft
,
turning my head
,
trying to hide my face from his spittle-stringed blowfish mouth in the blond braided pigtail at my shoulder.
Tears slick my cheeks
,
ringing my neck
,
running down to my back where they mix with the sweat and leather sliding against my back.
His hand traces down my undeveloped body while the other clasps over my mouth to keep me quiet.
I
scream against his hand
,
and clamp my teeth down on his rough skin
,
but it’s no use.
No one hears my cries.

* * *

I wake up fighting, arms flailing, beating him off me.

“Whoa!” Devon ducks, barely missing the fist I launch in his direction when he nudges my shoulder to wake me. He cowers, defensively raising a hand between us. His sideways gaze turns from ice blue to navy. “We’re here.” He rights himself, offering me a hand and an intrusively suspicious stare. I freeze, fearing I’ve said something in my sleep. Something that would make him suspect. Confusion tightens his face, but he says nothing. I wave his hand away and crawl to my own two feet by myself. A cashmere blanket I don’t remember having falls to the floor. I pull in a shaky breath to calm my nerves.

Warm tropical breezes laced with morning fog send my hair flying when I take my first step down the extended airstairs. It’s still dark and the mist envelops our arrival in a shroud of secrecy, which is exactly what a mega star like Devon wants. It’s actually kind of exciting to travel under the cover of darkness. For a moment, I soften my scowl into a wistful longing, like Ingrid Bergman standing on the airplane steps in Casablanca, knowing she’s about to leave her only love forever because it’s the right thing to do. Until I remember I’m neither beautiful nor lovable like Ilsa, only a skinny little kid trying to fool the world into thinking I’m tougher than I really am. Life seems simpler in black-and-white.

It’s warm outside, but I shrug into my jacket when a hulking man in a tight black T-shirt named Tiny opens the door to a waiting car. Leather seats. Just what I need. My throat tightens and I swallow hard, pushing the old memories back to their hiding place.

We drive through deserted streets. Devon’s head stays buried in a bound script, legs spread wide, taking up more than his half of the backseat.

“How many of those do you have?” I ask, nodding in the direction of the script.

“Too many.” He leans down to open the flap of his briefcase, revealing ten bound spines.

“Why does everyone want you?” The question is out of my mouth in a desperate whine before I can stop it. It’s stupid. I know why everyone wants him. What I can’t figure out is why no one wants
me
. He looks up from the script, eyebrows wrinkled behind his glasses, obviously picking up on the desperation I hoped he was too preoccupied to notice. He removes his glasses, rubbing at his eyes, and then turns to me.

“It’s simple. I play by the rules. You’ve played this game long enough to know that.”

“Pfft!” I roll my eyes. “There aren’t any rules.”

“Yes, there are. And when you bothered to play by the rules, the fans wanted you just as much as they want me.”

“No. They loved the idealized little girl they saw on TV. If they knew the truth...” I shake my head and stare out the window, unable to finish.

Against the tinted window, his ghostly reflection is illuminated in the reading light. I can see him plain as day without having to look at him, which I like. He moves against the seat, his jeans rustling over the leather as he turns toward me.

“You know, Carly...” he starts, but then stops, brushing fingers over his lips as he studies the back of my head. “If you’d get that chip off your shoulder, you’d be pretty easy to love again.”

Wait...what?
Did he really just refer to all the wrongs in my past as a measly fucking chip? Hey, asshole—I’m not chipped. I’m broken.

Chapter Six

I’m silently fuming, strapped into a fishing chair on Devon’s flawless yacht. Ernest and the bodyguard stayed on the mainland, sending me out to sea with Devon all by myself. Supposedly they’re waiting on the rest of the crew to arrive tomorrow. Infuriating me even further is Devon’s unsettlingly good humor, piloting his boat like a rum-soaked Jack Sparrow, laughing and smiling to the point I’m about to vomit all over the pristinely polished white deck.

The boat ride is dark and cold, and it isn’t until the land disappears entirely that I remember no one in the world knows where I am, which spooks me. After a short ride, Devon slides the boat into a single slip and cuts the motor. We disembark onto a weathered gray dock. I toss my cigarette butt into the sliver of ocean lapping at the boat’s hull. In near darkness, I strain to see signs of life on the island, but it is one giant blob of shadows. Weary lines drag down Devon’s face as he hoists our bags over the side, lithely pouncing like a cat when he lands beside them.

I don’t have a clue how his old-man eyes see my cigarette butt floating on the waves.

“Carly, pick that up.” He frowns.

“No.” I smirk and start down the dock.

“Carly.” He grabs my jacket sleeve and pulls me back, fixing me with such overbearing authority I actually cower. “A fish will eat that and die. For someone who cares so much about animals, you should know better.” He doesn’t look away, his gaze going all wild-and-dare-me when I hesitate.

With an exaggerated shrug I swat his hand away from my arm and sulk over to the side of the boat where my butt disappeared. Poor Angel. A stupid name and an asshole dad.

With the wet butt clenched in my hand, I follow Devon down the creaky dock and pause in front of a weathered sign welcoming me to a white sandy beach.

Welcome to HeaVon on Earth

Maddalena Archipelago
,
Sardinia

My seething is interrupted by an involuntary belly laugh that breaks the morning’s sleepy silence. It echoes off the tip of the island where a stand of rocks reaching into the water glow warm orange with first light.

“HeaVon on Earth? You’ve got to be kidding me!” I hug myself to quell the giggles before I look at Devon. He’d stopped in his tracks the moment my shrill laughter hit his ears. To my amazement he actually grimaces, offering an apologetic shrug.

“Heather named it. I know. It’s ridiculous. But she’s not a reasonable woman. I pick my battles.”

“Think you could love yourself any more?” I snort under my breath. He laughs, low and wicked, like there’s some inside joke I’m oblivious to. Whatever.

I’m slightly surprised that the over-the-top opulence of HeaVon’s life stays at the dock with the phallic speedboat. The island isn’t grand by any means. It appears as untouched as the day it pushed out of the sea. Plush with green foliage, bursting with exotic birds and vibrant flowers, but it certainly isn’t a five-star resort. Give me an hour or two and I could walk the whole thing.

We pick our way along a narrow path winding through a tangle of lush tropical trees. Birds sing in the canopy and scurry away when we approach. I’m panting and seconds away from bending over and grabbing my knees for relief trying to keep up with Devon. He races up the elevation like a damned mountain goat. Stubborn as I am, I refuse to let an old man beat me. But I make a mental note to cut back on the cigarettes.

Near the top of the trail, the branches thin and light filters into the cool, green oasis. Hiding behind a final stand of shoulder-height palm trees, a long and low single-level house wrapped with wide stilted porches spreads its wings over the back side of the hill. Oversized windows line clapboard walls, their black glass staring out to the sea like dull eyes. It’s all white and angular, yet soft enough that, from a distance, it disappears into the white sand yard falling away from its foundation. It’s faded in the way all things that live in the sun are—worn but welcoming.

“Is someone here?” I linger beside Devon, who closes his eyes, breathing the salty ocean air before acknowledging my question.

“The caretaker cottage is down there.” He swings my bag in the direction of another trail, and for some reason I feel better about being here, knowing we aren’t the only ones. Devon readjusts his bag and climbs the sprawling staircase.

He turns when he reaches the top step, and I follow his lead. Facing the view and the ocean beyond, the first rays of sun catch in his hair and spill over his face. I follow his gaze out to sea where the sunrise dances on pristine blue water.

Holy.
Mother.
Of.
Pearl.

Awe replaces every emotion in me. God, it’s gorgeous. Like National Geographic cover art insanely magnificent. It doesn’t look real. Way too perfect. Way too peaceful. Way too
everything
my life never is.

Devon’s own contentment is palpable and I’m clueless as to why he’d ever want to share this slice of heaven with me. But I’m here, and there’s no way I’m leaving now. I take a greedy lungful of ocean breeze, savoring the sun’s heat after frozen weeks on set.

I hate having to leave this, but finally drag myself inside. Surprisingly, the island retreat is much more subdued than HeaVon’s glitzy Hollywood world. It’s still nicer than my one-bedroom back in L.A, but it actually feels like I’m at the beach. The decor is natural, unfinished wooden furniture, linen fabrics, woven grass rugs and soft sea-glass sculptures. On the front wall, two accordion-style folding glass doors stretch the entire length, so the place becomes more of a tree house than a home when they’re opened. With a view like that right out your front door, who needs walls? A bank of white leather couches faces this view, and the biggest cut-crystal chandelier I’ve ever seen hangs over it all. The house has the calm and balance of a feng shui masterpiece—the exact opposite of the chaos ruling my cluttered abode.

Fabulous as it all is, the wave of exhaustion that hits me nearly knocks me over. I don’t know how my eyes are still open, dry and scratchy as they are. Even Devon is disheveled, which only makes him sexier—because he’s a man and that’s how unfair life is.

“I assume you want to crash?” He walks around the room opening the doors. The breeze works its magic through the curtains, turning the room into a cloister of wispy white clouds. I nod and rub my eyes with the back of my hand.

“Come on. Your room’s this way.” He grabs my bag and I follow him down a hall off the far wall of the kitchen. I toss the cigarette butt in a nearby trashcan, wiping my palm and silently cussing his old-man ass for making me do it.

“My room.” He opens a door and tosses his bag on the floor. “Heather’s room.” He points to a different door, yawning while trying to give me my bearings. Stifling my own yawn, I look from his door to her door.

“Hollywood’s hottest couple doesn’t share a room?”

“She says I snore,” he offers with a shrug.

“Do you?”

“How do I know? I’m always asleep.” We turn left down another hallway. “Your room.”

When the door swings open, he flicks on the light to reveal two twin beds with childish nautical-themed quilts. If they could, they would laugh at me. The kid’s room...really? But again, I’m too tired to care. Devon draws the shades on the far wall, darkening the room. He flicks on a lamp between the beds.

“Don’t bother. I’m going to sleep.” I fall fully clothed onto the closest bed.

“Carly, don’t you at least want to take your boots off?” His voice is full of parental disapproval. Annoyance twists my face.

“Argh!” I wave him away without opening my eyes. The door snicks shut, and I pass out cold.

Chapter Seven

I hate to admit that I feel more at home in this forgettable kid’s room than anywhere else in HeaVon’s immaculate world. Such luxury unnerves me. It wouldn’t had my life stayed the course it should’ve. Now, it’s just one more reminder of how far I’ve fallen, and how steep the mountain I’m trying to reclimb actually is.

The house is graveyard quiet. I’ve been listening for sounds of life for a solid thirty minutes. His old-man ass is the last thing I want to see this morning. This, of course, makes me the only woman alive who doesn’t want to be alone with the Sexiest Man Alive. They can have him. Sunshine is the only thing I want after enduring weeks of winter bluster. Surely this island is big enough to avoid one man. First things first, I need a shower.

The bathroom looks like an episode of
Sesame Street
on steroids. Until the childish primary colors are enveloped in the thick cloud from my morning smoke. Now, they look decidedly less juvenile. It makes me happy in an empty sort of way.

Shower steam mingles with the last whispers of smoke as I peel my black clothes down to the floor. Jumping from foot to foot to avoid the tiles’ icy sting against my soles, I unsnap the red cuff and cradle my wrist into my chest.

Naked, and looking everywhere I possibly can to avoid seeing my reflection in the mirror, I slip around the glass door into the steaming water.

* * *

Devon’s door is closed when I head down the hall to Heather’s room wrapped only in a towel. Old man needs his sleep.

Heather’s door swings open, and I’m blinded by sunlight pouring through whispery curtains. A tropical view plays peek-a-boo with the curtains. So this is where the grown-ups get to sleep. Her room’s all white and ivory tones with pops of turquoise echoing the sea outside.

Her bed. Oh, her bed! It’s a heavenly looking mix of fluffy overstuffed pillows, silky soft sheets and breezy curtains spilling down from one of those circular hanging mosquito nets that is way more fashion than function. The folds of elegant, gauzy fabric create a cozy white womb, and my scalp prickles thinking about the stupid little boy boats I woke up to.

Thankfully, Heather Troy is Morticia Addams-y enough to have a drawer full of black string bikinis. Several lie discarded on the floor when I finally find the one that will give me the slightest tan lines. After all, teenage whores didn’t spend their holidays working on their tans in the middle ages, and I’m a professional. I mentally high-five myself at the mess I’m leaving. A wet towel and pile of abandoned bikinis litter her pristine wooden floor.

Prisms of light bathe every surface of the main room when I emerge into the kitchen. In bright daylight, the giant chandelier doesn’t seem quite so ridiculous. It seems totally gorgeous and has the room dancing like the sunlit sea outside. Light wildly scatters at will when the breeze catches the dangling crystals in its warm breath. It’s all Studio 54 fabulous until a streak of light beams into my eyeball and blinds me.

I swipe at my eyes and blindly grab for the kitchen counter. I’ll need two gallons of coffee and a carton of cigarettes before I can properly deal with shit like this.

With half of a freshly brewed pot filling a gigantic mug, I pad out to the porch, selecting an overstuffed lounge chair by the pool with an excellent view and plenty of sun to get my tan started. I tuck my coffee cup between my knees, raising both hands to block the breeze and light a cigarette.

Wait a minute...

With my cigarette lit, I look again to the beach and am so shocked by what I see, I nearly fall out of my chair. Who the hell is that on the beach? He’s all muscles glistening with sweat, hot and bothered, running shirtless in the soft surf, arms and legs pumping hard, looking more like a god than a man should. My cigarette falls to the ground.

There are only two other people on this island: Devon and a caretaker I’ve yet to meet. On set, I’ve been sandwiched next to Devon’s body for longer than I like to remember, and even though it is surprisingly tight for his age, this has to be the caretaker. Has to.

A hottie caretaker? Now that makes this trip very interesting! He disappears into the forest separating us. I scan the tree line, desperately hoping he wasn’t a hallucination. Nothing. A borrowed pair of Heather’s sunglasses hangs from the bikini string between my breasts. I grab them and slap them over my eyes. The massive frame could pass for medical-grade cataract shades. But right now, I don’t care. I’m bird-dogging my new man crush.

Damn
. He’s gone.

I flop down in the lounge chair and retrieve my cigarette, sucking in a steady drag. On an island this small, we’ll meet eventually. And it’s probably best I’m not lusting after him like a bitch in heat when we do. I take a gulp of hot coffee, twisting to the side to set it on the porch. When I turn back around he’s there.

Winded, hands on his hips, trying to catch his breath. He pops out from the goat path in the forest. I lick my lips, letting a hungry groan escape my throat. Why on earth would a male model like this want to hide his gloriousness away in paradise? His taut, tanned skin, pinked by the effort of a hard workout, stretches over muscles that are impressive without being obnoxious. Bare feet strike the sand as he strides toward me, confident to a fault. A hat stained dark with sweat hides his face. Heaving with exerted breath, his shoulders and torso rock up and down.

My own shoulders heave too, my breath quickening for an entirely different reason. And oh those stomach muscles—they’re enough to make a nun lust like a schoolgirl. Toned and sculpted, with tight oblique muscles framing either side of a shallow navel. A valley runs down the inside of his hips, leaving a shadow of empty air when they disappear into the waistband of his mesh shorts. They hang on him, looking like they might fall enough to give a girl a thrill if he moved the wrong...or right...way.

I stand, picking bikini out of my butt crack and trying hard to remember what it was I always used to do to make people fall in love with me.
Think
,
Carly!
I look down, batting my eyes...demurely, I think? Then look back to him with the innocently naïve smile that always broke hearts before. But he’s not looking at me, his head bowed as he stretches his arms behind his back. A string of cigarette smoke curls into my nose, and I realize how unattractive that must look to someone who works out like he obviously does.

Frantically, I scan the porch for somewhere to hide it. Potted plant. Done. When I turn back around he’s standing at the end of my lounge chair.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

My heart explodes in my chest and rains down to my belly in ice-cold sparks. With his arm muscles properly stretched and his face forward, I’m greeted by navy-rimmed eyes twinkling with a runner’s high. I sink to the lounge chair, utterly lost for words. How in the world could I...oh no...that’s just...gross, right?

From behind Heather’s enormous blackout shades that suddenly don’t seem large enough, I stare at him. Hands on his hips, he smiles like he knows my secret. With his gray old-man hair covered up he actually looks...young. Not much older than me. I’ve never really looked at him before, not
really
looked at him. Minus the hair, he looks like a twenty-something...and damn, I hate to admit it...hot.

“You should put on a hat. Wrinkles ruin a career.” He’s still huffing. The breeze washes his sweet, salty, sweaty scent over me. I refuse to breathe until the wind turns.

“Thanks, Dad. I’m just fine.” I roll my eyes and light another smoke, pissed that I wasted one on trying to impress a hottie that turned out to be him.

“Suit yourself. But that heroin chic look is over.” Oh, he’s not so hot when he opens his mouth.

Standing beside me, he twists back and forth, stretching his muscles. My nose curls in disgust when a drop of his sweat lands on my leg, gleaming in the sunshine. I fake gag and flick it away.

“There wasn’t any breakfast.” I gulp my coffee. He crosses his ankles and leans back onto the seat of a sturdy chair to do reverse push-ups.

“There is if you make it,” he grunts between whispered rep counts.

“Can’t afford a cook?” I think I’m hilarious and smile wryly. He sits down, uninvited, on the end of my lounge chair. I ignore him, focusing on the view over his shoulder.

“I don’t want a cook. I come here to be normal, not to be Devon Hayes.” He rubs the sand from between his toes and I blow a long string of smoke his way. I cough when the breeze blows it right back at me.

“Thanksgiving on a private island? Real normal.” I pull the sunglasses up on my forehead so he can see my patronizing glare.

“You know, Carly, I don’t think you got enough spankings when you were a kid.”

What? My rage ignites like dynamite, barely containable, and I throw him the nastiest look I can muster.

“You don’t know a damned thing about my childhood.” I’m all piss and vinegar, the words a low hiss over my tongue. Who does he think he is
?
My childhood isn’t open for discussion, especially not with this narcissistic asshole. We stare at each other, both toeing a line in the sand, waiting to see who yields first.

Once again, the air goes electric with some scorching-hot current our shared anger ignites. It’s a feeling I don’t understand. A feeling I couldn’t shake from my soul if I wanted to. So close to hate, but not feeling entirely the same as hate always has before. Another second ticks by, his gaze just as blazing as my own.

Finally, he relents, standing, but keeping his heated glare on me.

“Jeez, Carly. I was kidding. Would it crack your face to smile?” He puts his hands on his hips, turning his back to me and staring out over the ocean, all master-of-his-domainly.

“Maybe. If you were actually funny.” I frown at him, flick my cigarette and take another long inhale. He snorts again and turns to the house.

“Pick up that cigarette butt,” he barks when he passes the potted plant. I roll my eyes and stamp my foot against the lounge chair cushion. Asshole.

* * *

Under a light cotton tunic, my flesh still simmers from hours in the sun. It’s been a lazy day, but a good day. I was damn near chipper until I walked into the kitchen to find Mr. Perfect and his ego cooking dinner for two. The thought of enduring dinner alone with him is a total buzzkill. Now, I’m pissed at life again.

I refuse to admit how delicious his pasta is, only taking a few bites and pushing the rest around my plate. A man like him shouldn’t know how to boil water, let alone cook a meal like this. But then again, his old-man ass probably knows lots of useless shit.

“You should eat your salad.” Devon motions toward my plate. Annoyance freezes me midbite. I drop my fork and slowly turn an evil eye his way.

“I haven’t had parents telling me what to do for years. I certainly don’t need you trying to take their place.” I lean back in my chair, tough as nails. He studies me like I’m the most perplexing riddle he’s ever tried to solve. Finally, he grunts and leans back in his chair, too, one arm hooking over the chair back and the other swirling a wineglass at his chest.

“So, you really divorced your parents?” He doesn’t look at me, focused instead on his wine.

“Emancipated,” I correct. “And yes, I did.” I shrug and look out over the darkening sky. I hate to see the sun go. The room grows stuffier with each fading ray.

“Why?” Curious eyes leave his wine to look at me.

“Why?” I stare at the wine in his hand, taking a deep breath and wishing it were in mine.

No
,
Carly!
333.
Love yourself enough.

“They weren’t parents. They were slave traders. They forced me into this world and left me for the wolves. As long as the money rolled in, they didn’t give a shit about me. So, why should I give a shit about them?”

“That bad?” He takes a big sip of wine to finish the glass.

“A cokehead father and a fame-obsessed mother who’s never remembered my birthday?” My ballsy glare falls to the skewered mushroom on my plate. Talking about my parents is embarrassing. I don’t know why they didn’t love me enough, and I’m always terrified everyone else does. “Yeah, they were that bad.” I quickly clear my throat, trying to make an unmistakable quiver sound like phlegm instead of feelings.

“I’m sorry, Carly. I didn’t realize.” A shattered look breaks over his face, drawing his lips into a thin line. “Some stage parents should be shot for what they do to their kids.” The irritation in his response is unexpected. People never share my anger. Everyone always blames me for leaving my parents. Assumes I’m some overly entitled spoiled brat.

I rub a hair away from my cheek with my shoulder. He leans in, resting a hand near mine, like maybe a tiny piece of his heart is breaking just for me. His slow burn shifts the mood of our conversation, and I hate how easily he makes me believe. How quickly I’m taken in. How instantly I feel our connection. Finally, someone’s on my side. And just like that, he softens the sharp edges I’ve spent years honing. I keep my head down, staring at his hand, not wanting him to see what he’s doing to me. Is his concern genuine? Could he really hate my fucked-up world as much as I do?

I’ve never been so aware of him. He’s intoxicating in the best way, stirring up all sorts of unfamiliar feelings. For the first time, I want a moment with him to last. I try to remember all the adorable ways little Carly Klein used to make the world eat from the palm of her hand. It was so easy back then. Why is it so hard now?

I flutter my lashes and suck in a quivering breath. “Sometimes bad things fall apart so good things can fall together.” I give a weak shrug, letting my eyes search the room all innocent and lost.

“She even quotes Marilyn Monroe.” An appreciative chuckle slides from that unmistakably male place low in his belly, like I’ve just checked an item off some imaginary list. He tilts his chair backward on two legs, up-downing me with new appreciation, and reaches for a bottle of wine on the kitchen island. He offers me some with a tilt of the bottle.

It is the only thing I want. I shake my head and look away.