Hollywood Hot Mess (9 page)

Whatever was wrapped around my insides, squeezing me in a stranglehold, yields a little ground, and I take one deep, cleansing breath of salty sea air. Sitting there, wrapped in a blanket on Devon’s porch, a new reality creeps into my brain, irrevocably changing the world before my eyes. It’s surreal, one of those out-of-body experiences that could easily be an acid flashback. Only it isn’t. Something deep inside me is changing, shifting into a new place that seems to settle the anger and rage boiling in my veins.

No one has ever spoken those words to me and actually meant it. Used, abused, broken, neglected—those are words better suited for me. Want and need? Uh-uh. No one’s ever wanted or needed me in a good way. So how in the hell can tiny little words so completely change my whole world? Questions like that don’t have answers. At least, not an answer I’m prepared to face. Part of me wants to cry because my brain doesn’t deal with emotions like this sober. Every time something or someone got too close, I either pushed them away or got high until I forgot what needing someone felt like. I don’t want to forget. Not anymore. Not him.

Want. Need. Me.

They’re filthy words. They’re promising words. Promises don’t keep in my world. They evaporate. They disappoint. They make me look like a fool. I have a million and one reasons not to believe him. Only I seem to have forgotten every one.

Chapter Nine

I cry until there’s nothing left, though what I’m crying for, I don’t really know. Is it losing control of the dark parts of me that make it easy to hate the world, or realizing that there is still good left in me that wants desperately to see the light? I just don’t know which is more terrifying, and I’m still utterly bewildered padding down the hall to Heather’s room in a towel with soaking-wet hair.

Moonlight shimmers on dark ocean water, beckoning from behind the whispery curtains. Oh, it’s beautiful, and so calming to my raw state. Without turning on a light, I tiptoe to the windows, resting my forehead on the cold glass as I stare out at a thread of glowing sea trailing toward a heavy moon. A lingering tear drops down my cheek, splashing on the dark wood floor below. My attention falls to the gleaming pool, wondering for a moment if I should bend and wipe its saltiness away.

I’m too exhausted to move, and when I look back up his reflection meets me in the window.

I spin around with a gasp. He’s wearing nothing but crisp cotton pajama pants that hang dangerously low on his hips, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, watching me.

The room is electric, like he’s flipped a switch, but remains dark. I feel naked wrapped only in a towel. Completely exposed, though the parts of me I offered so freely before are now covered. Goose bumps prickle my skin.

He’s a black shadow. Only the rounded peaks of his shoulder muscles glow in the hallway light. A curtain catches in a strong gust, and pure moonlight filters into the room for a few glorious seconds.

Devon’s look is hungry, ravenous, searching for something to fill him up.
Let it be me!
Oh
,
please let it be me!
A tiny voice sings in my ears and I shake my head, confused by the unfamiliar sound.

“Pajamas...” I manage to utter the word, but it’s all breathy and ragged, like my throat has closed up.

He steps into the room, arms crossed over his broad chest, tanned muscles flexed in a delicious way. My heartbeat races, sending blood churning through my veins like swirling whirlpool waters. He takes another step toward me, and for once I don’t step away. Another few halting steps, like he’s trying to make up his mind about something. He steps so close my body goes radioactive. Oh, he smells glorious. A mixture of coconuts, sunshine and beachy things that make a girl melt like a summertime Popsicle. Warmth radiates off his skin, knocking the chill away from my own.

The whisper of his breath tickles my cheek. My eyes stay safely on the little pit of shadow at his throat, knowing how dangerously close our lips would be if I raised my head to his. He reaches out to the dresser beside me. Without taking his eyes off me, he grabs a garment from the top drawer.

Soft silk brushes down my bare arm as he lowers the nightgown to my hand. Shivers follow the fabric.

The part of me he unraveled earlier reaches out to him, begging my fingers to follow. Just to touch him. Just to know he’s there and that maybe I’m not so alone after all. But I don’t.

His eyes close with barely held restraint. I’ve seen this look from him before, but never in real life. I quiver at the thought of what usually comes next. Hot seconds pass. Devon collects himself with a few deep breaths and his face falls into unreadable blankness. He turns back to the doorway, dragging his hands through his hair as he walks away. He takes the electrical charge with him and it’s instantly colder and darker as I stand half-naked, now shivering in the breeze.

What. The. Hell?

I sink to the hardwood floor, completely undone. In my hand, I hold the soft silk gown of a grown woman who obviously knows what to do with a man like Devon Hayes.

* * *

“What’s the bag for?” Devon’s hot and bothered again. He’s been running on the beach, but I couldn’t watch him today. His shorts are dangerously close to falling off, shoulders heaving and chest rocking. Sweat glistening like sea spray.
Jesus.

I’m bellied up to the kitchen bar with a huge cup of coffee, nursing my raw insides and trying for the life of me to remember why leaving seemed like such a good idea when I was packing. My vocal cords seem to have lost the ability to make sound, and I gulp at the knot twisting my throat.

Devon walks over to the cabinet to get a coffee mug like last night never happened. When he passes, his deliciously sweaty scent hangs in the air like some exotic perfume. I take a creepily deep breath. Immediately disgusted with myself, I facepalm and vomit the words swimming in my head.

“I’m leaving,” I mumble, hating the idea, closing my eyes behind the safety of Heather’s blackout shades, which for some reason I’m wearing inside.

He stills, but says nothing.

I shrink away from him on the pretense of getting a smoke. “I’ve just made things weird, Devon.” I don’t know why my voice is so pleading as I try to explain it’s not him, it’s me. He takes a deep breath, releasing it forcefully and dragging his hands through his hair again. Droplets of sweat fly everywhere. I force myself to gag when one lands on my arm, but it’s totally disingenuous.

“You haven’t made anything weird. Nothing happened last night that hasn’t happened between us before.” His smile is both teasing and wicked. I blush immediately, my head falling down to hide the shock that Heather’s sunglasses can’t. “There just weren’t any cameras around last night. No big deal.” He reaches for the coffeepot, lickable muscles flexing to fill his cup. No big deal? Is he crazy or has his old-man brain succumbed to dementia?

In my world, last night is a huge fucking deal. How the hell can he blow it off as nothing? I bared my tits. He didn’t get to see those on set. And my tits are awesome. At the very least those should be a big deal. I am beyond flustered trying to figure out exactly what brand of crazy he’s trying to sell.

“I want to go.” He has the gall to laugh at my protest, lowering his coffee cup and resting it against his chiseled chest. His laughter further pisses me off.

“Well, I’m not going to the mainland today.” He shrugs off the counter and retrieves my bag from beside the door, leaving the kitchen and heading down the hallway. I follow behind him like a puppy dog yapping at his heels.

“You can’t keep me here!” Defiant rage seeps in. I will not be held against my will. So what if he’s not going to the mainland? I’ll steal his boat if I have to. This whole trip has become one big problem. I run from problems when they get too difficult. Baring my breasts, being denied, and then whatever the hell that was in Heather’s bedroom last night has made Devon one big, impossible problem. I’m way out of my element. I can’t deal with this sober. Hell, I wouldn’t have been able to deal with it high, but at least I wouldn’t have given a shit. Which is infinitely better than the purgatory I’m currently in. I just can’t. I need to go.

“I’m not keeping you here.” He shakes his head as we walk down the hall. I sulk behind him. “You can leave if you want. But it’s Thanksgiving—you won’t find a commercial flight.”

Shit. He’s right, and I roll my eyes at his stupid sweaty back.

“Devon, why do you want me here?” I hate how whiny my words sound. They grate against my eardrum like sandpaper. He stops. His face is blank for a second before he sighs and drags a hand through his hair.

“You know why I want you here.” He continues down the hallway. My brain sprints to keep up. Honestly? I don’t have a clue why he wants me here. Because my hating him could ruin the movie? Sure, this is his film, and he’s a professional and all. But a holiday trip to a private island seems like an awful lot of trouble just to make somebody like you.

Falling in line behind him, I can’t hide the little smile at the corner of my mouth when I realize he
wants
me to stay. He stops to open a door and I’m so lost in my thoughts, we nearly collide. I jump back, and it’s then that I realize what door he’s opening. White pours through the opening so bright it’s blinding.

“This isn’t my room.” I shake my head thinking there must be some mistake when he crosses the threshold and puts my bag down beside Heather’s bed.

“You should stay here. She never does.” He shrugs like this means nothing. The look on his face, on the other hand, tells me this is everything. She doesn’t stay here. She’s not part of this life he so obviously loves. It’s me he wants in her bed, steps away from his own. The reality of what he’s wordlessly saying sinks in. I sit on the bed. He lingers in the doorway with a satisfied look that gives me the strangest sensation deep down in my belly.

“I don’t want to stay in her room.” I cross my arms defiantly like what I want actually matters because giving in isn’t in my DNA. Who am I kidding? I’ve lost this one, though I’m not so sure I care.

“But I want you to.” He leaves without giving me a chance to protest again. In his doorway he stops, his hand tracing over his chest and down the length of his opposite arm. “I’m going to start cooking around two. I could use your help.” Something in his voice softens my defiance. He
needs
me again. He
wants
my help. But there’s something else hiding in his words. Something I can’t place. Devon’s demeanor is different, faraway and empty. Not at all what I’ve come to expect from him.

“Sure.” I nod and he disappears. Across the hall, his door closes. I face-plant into the meringue that is Heather’s perfect white bed. What. The. Hell?

Chapter Ten

“Daddy!” A young boy’s voice bursts into the kitchen. The sound is so out of place I shrink against the hallway wall out of sight, fearing Devon’s real life has arrived to ruin this make-believe world we’ve created. Cold relief washes over me when Devon accidentally hits a button and I realize he’s on the phone. I’d rather eat Thanksgiving dinner with cockroaches than endure one second with HeaVon.

“Angel!” I’ve never heard Devon’s voice so loving and carefree. “Hang on, let me get in better light.” In the reflection of a glass-front cabinet, I watch Devon move to the window and hold his phone up to get a better picture for FaceTime. “There, that’s better. How’s my little man?” A toothy grin is about to break his face.

“I’m good, Daddy.” Angel’s voice has the sweetest lilt. “Are you coming to eat turkey with us?” I’m caught off guard by the innocence of Angel’s question. And I don’t know why it hasn’t occurred to me before how odd it is that Devon isn’t spending Thanksgiving with his family.

“I’m sorry, buddy. I’m on location working on my new film. But, I’m going to see you real soon.” Wait...what? Why is Devon lying? He could have flown to L.A. just as easily as he flew here. But he didn’t, and I’m at a total loss why.

“Am I coming to see you, Daddy?” Angel is full of the optimistic eagerness children reserve for absentee parents. A parent who has blown off Thanksgiving to come to a private island with...me? No way, the idea that I’m the reason he came here is absolutely ludicrous.

“I sure hope so, buddy. Your mom and I are trying to work that out.” There’s something unmistakably broken in Devon’s voice. Something he’s trying desperately to hide from Angel. Still standing in the hallway, I’m confused and saddened. Not because Devon’s absence is my fault, but because I remember the heartbreak of shitty parents. Poor kid.

“Oh, yay, Daddy! I can’t wait.” The phone rustles. “Hey, Daddy—I got a new joke for you.”

“Okay, let’s hear it!” Lightness returns to Devon’s voice.

“If April showers bring May flowers, what do May flowers bring?”

“I don’t know, Angel, what do May flowers bring?” The delicate clink of a wineglass meeting a marble countertop chimes down the hallway.

“Pilgrims!” Angel shouts the punch line into the phone.

They both roar with laughter and I chuckle too, muffling my snigger in a fishtail braid.

“Mommy wants to talk to you,” Angel says when they recover from their laughter.

“Okay, buddy, I love you. I can’t wait to see you.”

“I love you too, Daddy.”

The corners of my lips turn down in one of those frowns that’s just as happy as it is sad. The phone rustles again.

“Where are you?” Heather’s husky voice punches each word out.

“I’m on the island.” Devon isn’t fazed and drops the phone so the camera no longer sees him. “We had time off between locations.” Again the wineglass clinks against the countertop and he sighs loudly.

“Why didn’t you come home?” Based solely on the condescension in her voice, I can imagine the snarl crawling over her face.

“Home?” He snorts like the word is amusing. “I’m working, Heather. We agreed this is my time.” Devon’s voice holds little patience. I bite my lip to keep my mouth from falling open. What the hell? These two are supposed to be perfect. So in love it hurts. But hearing this conversation, HeaVon sounds more like hell.

“Damn it, Devon! Can’t you at least make an effort for Angel’s sake? I was followed around the grocery store by ten photographers yesterday.
Ten
photographers!” Heather says this like it isn’t exactly what she hopes for every time she walks out the door. I have zero pity for fame whores. Angel, on the other hand, I’m beginning to feel really sorry for.

“Heather, everything I do is for Angel.” Devon’s voice is cold as ice. For a second, Heather goes silent, but comes right back swinging.

“Don’t piss me off, Devon. I can ruin your world with one press interview. Or have you forgotten?”

Shock straightens my spine. My head thumps against the wall. I freeze, then lean in, not wanting to miss anything. How could anyone ruin Devon Hayes? Especially the woman who’s supposed to love him?

“Ruining me—” Devon’s voice raises an entire octave “—would ruin you, too, Heather, and how could I possibly forget with a broken record like you to remind me?”

Heather’s disgust slithers out of her in one low growl. It slides through the phone like a snake’s forked tongue, so evil I cringe. I am beyond torn. On the one hand this is the juiciest gossip I’ve heard in years, and for once, it isn’t about me. But it also brings the reality home that Devon isn’t as blissfully happy as it appears. Honestly, he sounds miserable since Heather picked up the phone. Not nearly as happy as he is talking to me. There’s a deep muffled voice on Heather’s end, and Devon lets out his own exasperated exhale.

“Is that Jamie?” Devon is slightly amused as he says this.

“Of course it is,” Heather answers impatiently.

“Then I can’t imagine why you would need me there. Happy Thanksgiving, Heather.” Never have I heard such bold indifference in his voice.

“Happy fucking Thanksgiving, Devon!” Heather yells into the phone, and Devon hangs up on her rant, slapping his palm loudly against the granite counter. Still skulking in the hallway, I hold my breath.

“You can quit hiding, now. I don’t think she can see you.” Devon is right at my shoulder, and I startle so badly I nearly trip over my own feet.

* * *

He hasn’t spoken since he hung up with Heather. The only help he wanted while cooking was a bottle of wine...or two. I sat on the porch pretending to read a magazine while he banged around inside.

Now, I’m playing with my food, trying to decide if I should say anything. I
sooo
want to say something. My entire view of this man and his so-called perfect life has just been blown to bits, but how in the hell do you bring up something like that? I don’t have the first clue. Soft acoustic music drifts through the room from hidden wireless speakers. For some reason Devon specifically chose this song. It could be soothing if it weren’t so damn cry-in-your-turkey-and-stuffing sad.

“What’s this music?” I break the silence with a safe enough question.

“‘Barefoot Pilgrims’ by Balmorhea. Thought it was appropriate for Thanksgiving.” Devon stares at his plate with a faraway look like he’s lost inside his own mind and can’t find his way out. But hey, who am I to judge a man for dealing with his demons?

So I let him deal with those demons until the music gets all weird and grating like a little kid banging on piano keys. Then I grab his phone and press the forward button. “It Makes No Difference” by The Band plays, which is still wallowing-in-misery sad, but at least it’s not unnerving. I clear my throat, put the phone beside his plate, and go back to pushing peas with my fork.

“You can ask.” Devon leans back from his plate, wineglass in hand, and studies me with a dark look. I swallow under such scrutiny, unable to read him.

“It’s not my business,” I answer, shocked by my newfound maturity.

“What? Carly Klein without a bitter opinion to share? They must need jackets in hell today.” He lets out one hard laugh, a laugh that sounds almost evil coming from him. My eyes narrow.

I pick up one of the peas I’ve been pushing around my plate and line it up between my thumb and middle finger. An artsy headshot of Heather, as if I need reminding how beautiful she is, hangs on the wall opposite me. I take aim and let the mushy green ball fly. Zipping through the air, it lands with a soft
splat
on Heather’s sepia face. Devon chuckles, and I’m glad to see the ice melt from his eyes.

“Your wife sounds like a real bitch,” I say, wiping pea mush from my nail. He nods.

“Not my wife.” He steals a pea from my plate, letting it sail through the air. He misses.

“Life partner, whatever.” I roll my eyes...as if it matters. He snorts and lets another pea fly. “Angel seems like a nice kid.” I shrug, using my fork to push peas in his direction.

“Yeah.” He distracts himself by lining up another pea. “Couldn’t love him more if he were my own.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he turns to me with the dread of saying too much washing over his face. I am suddenly all ears—he has definitely said too much.

“What?” My mind reels, and he grimaces before he gets up from the table. Walking over to the bar, he trades wine for a stiff liquor drink.

“Remember when I told you to start playing by the rules?” he asks.

I nod way too quickly.

“Rule number one, you keep the secrets of people who can destroy your career. You take it to the grave. Got it?”

Again I nod.

“I’m serious, Carly.” His look is stone-cold. “If you breathe a word of this, you will be a forgotten grease spot on Hollywood Boulevard before it’s over.”

“Okay!” I shout, knowing how real his threat is.

“Angel isn’t my kid.” He sits down in his chair, studying the ice cubes floating in his glass before taking a big swig.

“No way!” Either I’m on the most elaborate episode of
Punk’d
, or Devon is testing me for some unknown reason. This last revelation hurls a hand grenade at his crumbling perfect world. It is slowly burning to nothing. He doesn’t raise a finger to stop it. And I thought my life was fucked up.

He looks miserable, disgusted and utterly broken. Seeing him like this, I know he’s not lying, and I can’t fathom how unbearable the truth of his life actually is. The only thing that does start to make sense is his choosing me over L.A.

“How is that secret not out?” How is it this tabloid gold hasn’t been unearthed? And why has he chosen to share this with me?

“Plenty of people adopt their partner’s kids. Heather and I choose to leave that detail out of our public lives. The whole big, happy family narrative sells better.” He takes another swig of scotch.

“Why not be honest? What’s so bad about people knowing the truth?” I push my plate away and cross my arms over the table. No way can I eat another bite now. Devon watches me, then takes a sip of his drink, rolling the rim over his lips as he thinks.

“I made the choice I had to. Heather and I whored ourselves out to suckle at fame’s fickle tit.” A small laugh bounces his shoulders but goes no further. He’s going to a dark place. A place that, until this moment, I didn’t know he had.

“We were both C-list actors working on some horrible slasher flick that would have gone straight to DVD. Heather got knocked up by the very married producer and our agents saw a chance to make us famous.” He runs a hand through his hair again, dragging it down the side of his neck. “They spun the story that our lives had imitated art and the tabloids ate it up. A forgettable film became a cult classic. A year of carefully staged public appearances turned us into Hollywood’s golden couple. Nothing makes you more relatable to the masses than parenthood.” He sits back and sighs deeply like he’s freed, having this off his chest.

I’m once again shocked to silence by Devon.

“Your entire life’s a lie?” I run a hand over my brow and prop my chin in my palm. The motion feels foreign because I am totally out of my body with shock. Everyone, I mean
everyone
, loves HeaVon. You can’t walk through a grocery store line and not know every detail about their life. They are idolized like modern gods and it’s all a
lie
?

“We’re actors, Carly. It isn’t that hard to make fake love off camera, too.”

“Who’s Jamie?” Remembering the iciness of Devon’s reaction to him on the phone sends a shiver down my spine.

“Officially, he’s Angel’s manny. He’s also been Heather’s lover for the last five years.” Devon seems pleased when my chin nearly hits the table.

“Doesn’t it bother you that he’s around Angel?” These puzzle pieces simply don’t fit. How in the hell is Devon capable of living such a lie?

“Jamie’s a nice enough guy. To her credit, Heather keeps her relationship with Jamie away from Angel. I don’t care enough to get jealous.” Devon is all matter-of-fact now, like this is just another day for him, which I realize it is. If I’d really been paying attention I would’ve seen how a smile very rarely seeps into his eyes when he’s with her. How he only really smiles...a smile that washes over his entire body...when he’s with Angel.

“So, do you have lovers?” I study a hangnail as if I’m not on-the-edge-of-my-seat dying to know.

“What do you think?” His tone is reprimanding, and he rakes a look over my body that makes me feel totally naked. Whoa, anyone who can eye fuck like that most definitely has lovers. I rub my thighs together, blush every shade of red and pull the end of a braid into my mouth. How in the hell does he do that?

“Do you have a Jamie?”

He shakes his head. “No relationships. I’m just DTF,” he jokes with a noncommittal but overly suggestive shrug.

DTF?
Did that word really just come out of his old-man mouth? I’m shocked. A bit horrified. And endlessly fascinated. I struggle to keep a straight face, certain he has no clue what he’s just said. When his smile breaks wide and playful, I’m lost. And the seriousness of our previous discussion sails out the window. I snort, nearly falling out of my chair I’m laughing so hard. Devon’s grin is sinfully wicked, obviously enjoying my hysterics.

“You can’t possibly know what that means.”

“Down to fuck? I most definitely know what it means. The question is, do you?”

His words sober me like strong coffee. I’m frozen, staring at him wide-eyed. Scrambling for words while my brain processes what he just said, I go with the first thing that comes to mind.

“So, it’s just casual sex?” It’s a bold question softened by a witty tone, I hope. Because if he’s saying what I think he’s saying, I’m in way over my head and in major send-out-an-SOS-type trouble. He couldn’t want me like that. Could he? His searing gaze relents. I can breathe again, but without his rapt attention I suddenly feel empty.

“Relationships are complicated for me. I couldn’t give everything even if I wanted to. And falling in love definitely isn’t an option. My work is all I have.” His tone remains light, but I’m not fool. I see what he’s trying to hide. Devon Hayes is just as broken as I am. I’d have never believed it. But now that I know his truth, I realize we aren’t so different. I find myself wanting to fix what’s broken in him, which is crazy considering my own shattered state. But maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s our shared brokenness that might make us whole again.