BRIAN (The Callahans Book 1) (56 page)

“Who is this?”

“It’s me, June,” I said, channeling some of Trina’s impatience into my voice.

“June?” He sounded suspicious. “How did you get this number?”

Trina had given it to me, but I couldn’t tell him that. “Devon. He said to call you if I ever needed anything.” I was thinking on my feet, improvising. Trina frowned and pressed her head against mine so she could hear the conversation better. I turned the volume up on my phone.

“Not recently he didn’t,” Chaz said, smug. “I know for a fact that he hasn’t spoken to you since he left Dallas.

“Obviously it wasn’t recently, asshole,” I barked, making Trina flinch away from me before covering her mouth in an apparent attack of the giggles. “He’s fucking pissed at me, or haven’t you noticed?”

“I have noticed,” Chaz said. “And you’re not going to be my problem for very much longer. I can feel it.”

Was he implying that Devon was going to break up with me? That shitty little statement threw me off my game for a moment.

“Well, you have to help me.” Trina rolled her eyes on me, and she was right. That hadn’t been convincing at all.

“I don’t have to do anything for you,” Chaz said. “I’m Devon’s agent, not yours. If you’re in trouble, call the police.”

“It’s not that kind of trouble,” I said, working a desperate edge back into my voice that I could only muster because I actually was desperate for this to work. If Devon really was on the verge of breaking up with me, it meant that this might not be worth anything. Trina had done battle with Chaz — or tried to — and Devon had dumped her outright. How was I going to fare?

“And again, I’d like to inform you that you’re not my problem,” Chaz said. “I’m only concerned with matters that affect Devon.”

“Trust me. This really, really affects Devon.”

There was a silence on the other end of the line that stretched so long I checked the phone’s display to make sure we hadn’t been disconnected.

“You, bitch, had better not be pregnant,” Chaz growled. I gave a thum
bs
up to Trina, who rolled around on the floor with sheer glee.

“We had a condom break. I thought it was okay, but now it’s not.”

“This is what we’re going to do,” Chaz said briskly. “I am going to make an appointment at a clinic for you, and you are going to show up for it. All of your expenses will be paid as long as you tell no one. And then you’re going to disappear.”

“I think I want to keep the baby,” I said, fighting to keep a straight face as Trina wriggling around with the joy of a happy puppy. “It’s Devon’s, after all. I think it’ll help fix our relationship.”

“If you try to keep this baby, I will ruin you,” he said. “You think life is tough right now? You just wait. No one likes you. They’ll all loathe you if you’re planning on keeping a misbegotten kid to keep Devon Ray as your boyfriend.”

“I’m keeping it,” I said firmly. “And I’m of the opinion that Devon will marry me once he finds out I’m carrying his child.”

The call ended and I looked at Trina, wide-eyed.

“What do we do now?” I asked, holding my phone in my hand as if it were a live grenade.

“Now?” Trina gave a satisfied smile and held out a fresh beer to me. I hadn’t even noticed she’d gotten up and brought more. “Now, we wait.”

I did one last thing on my phone before I handed myself over to the whirlwind that was Trina. I texted Devon.

“I’m not pregnant, but Chaz thinks I am. This is an experiment.”

No answer. I eagerly threw myself into Trina’s brand of celebration if only to forget my desperation.

I blinked awake, startled by the sound of banging and a rattling of keys. My head ached in the way that told me I’d had too much to drink the previous night. There was way too much light. I should’ve left the hotel room curtain closed before falling asleep … only I wasn’t in Dallas anymore. I was in Los Angeles, in Trina’s penthouse.

And we had gotten very drunk.

I opened my eyes as well as I could and checked my surroundings. Trina and I had apparently fallen asleep on the couch. Well, Trina was on the couch, stirring, and I had ensconced myself in a very fuzzy rug on the floor, a single couch cushion acting as my pillow.

“And what the fresh hell is this?”

I unrolled myself from the rug at the same time Trina sat up on the couch.

“Devon, what the fuck!” she yelled hoarsely. “How did you even get in?”

Devon stood at the door to the penthouse, that same inscrutable look on his face as he’d worn at the hotel in Dallas. It was good to see him, sure, but it was scary. It was also a little hurtful that he’d shown up at Trina’s, but after last night, I trusted her with my life — and that of my fake, unborn child.

My mind raced, and I realized there was only one explanation for Devon’s presence here. The story had hit, and it had hit in a big way. That hadn’t taken very long at all.

“I still have your keys,” he said finally, dangling a ring from his fingers.

“And that’s the end of that,” Trina snapped, stalking across the floor to snatch them from him. “Honestly! What if I had someone over?”

“You do have someone over,” Devon pointed out.

“I’m not pregnant,” I blurted out.

“That’s not what the Internet says,” Devon said grimly.

“Do you seriously believe everything you read on the Internet?” Trina asked, indignant.

“Absolutely not,” he retorted. “But this has your fingerprints all over it, Trina. Chaz is beside himself.”

“Chaz is the one who leaked this story,” I said quietly. “I called him last night. Fed it to him. He said he’d ruin me if I was going to keep the baby — which is fictional — so I decided to try and let him. I think he’s the one who’s behind the photo leak. The one of you in the hotel room.”

“He is the one behind it,” Devon said. “He confessed.”

“Ha!” Trina cried, triumphant. “I knew he would! I knew we’d get him! I hope you shit-canned him!”

Devon eyed his ex, humor making his eyes shimmer. “I didn’t shit-can him.”

“What?” Her mouth dropped open.

“Did Chaz make some bad decisions? Yes,” Devon reasoned. “Did Chaz have the best intentions? Also yes.”

“There’s a saying about good intentions,” Trina warned him.

“I know the one,” Devon said, cutting her off. “Chaz will no longer be working for me. But I’ve also forgiven him. He was incredibly misguided.”

“Don’t you know the definition of shit-can?” Trina muttered.

“I didn’t throw him away,” Devon said. “I gently fired him. Now, if you’ll excuse me. My girlfriend is expecting an apology.”

“I’m not expecting anything,” I squeaked as he strode forward, bent, and picked me up from the rug. “I’m just happy to see you.”

“Get out of here, you two,” Trina said, waving her hands at us.

“I’ll have to remember one thing,” Devon said, turning as we reached the door, still carrying me in his arms.

“What’s that?”

“You two are very dangerous when you’re together.”

The drive from Trina’s penthouse to Devon’s palace boggled my mind with its length. It was way too long. I craved more than Devon’s hand on my knee, creeping higher and higher on my thigh, caressing me through my jeans.

“I should’ve believed you when you told me the truth,” Devon said, pausing in his attentions.

I fought the urge to groan at the distraction. “That’s all in the past, now.”

“But I don’t want to repeat my mistake in the future.”

“Then don’t.” I smiled at him, smiled at the fact we were wheeling in to his driveway.

“How are you forgiving me already?” he asked, parking the car and marveling at me. “After everything I said to you? Everything I put you through?”

“How did you forgive Chaz?” I countered. “After everything he did? Everything he put you through?”

Devon sighed. “Because I was so mad at him I was afraid of what I’d do to him. Because I realized that I might lose you, and I didn’t have the time to do everything to him that I wanted to. Because I wanted to be the better person, after all of his ugliness. Because I wanted nothing more than to find you and tell you how sorry I was.”

“Take me inside and show me how sorry you are,” I said, leering at him, not caring how creepy I sounded, or how he might take it. I missed him. And the knowledge that things were going to be okay — as okay as they could ever be — made we want to do some celebrating.

We barely made it inside, falling onto the stairs that led up to his room, Devon pulling me out of my jeans and burying his face between my legs. We crept up stair by stair, me crying out at the overpowering contact of his tongue against the most sensitive part of my body, over stimulated by his relentless push against me, until we reached the landing, Devon leaving his pants behind on the staircase and plunging his cock into me in one smooth movement.

We had each other like that, loud and rough and raw on the carpet until I screamed myself hoarse coming.

Then, we had each other gently, Devon holding me like I might break, in his big, soft bed. That was just as sweet as the first, slow and deep. We left each other exhausted and sated, content in each other’s presence.

Devon broke the silence first.

“I’m going to tell you something, and you’re not going to like it,” he said.

“Uh-oh.”

“I think you should do another interview,” he said. “Maybe not on TV. Maybe for a magazine. But I want people to know the truth about you. About us.”

“And what truth would that be?” I teased. “The one where I’m trapping you with an ugly photo, or with an illegitimate baby?”

“The truth that we’re in love,” he said. “That I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

I gulped. “Devon …”

“I know you don’t want to do another interview,” he said. “But you deserve to set the record straight.”

“I can set the record straight,” I said, an idea dawning on me. “And I can do it without giving an interview.”

“You can?”

“I guess it’s time I put my college degree to some use,” I said.

Devon smiled. “I don’t even know what you majored in.”

“English.” I laughed. “Fat lot of good it’s done me.”

“You’re going to write something,” he said, his smile widening into a grin. “You write it. I’ll find somewhere to publish it.”

I blinked at him. “You have that kind of pull in this town?”

He spread his arms. “This is my town.”

Everyone’s supposed to have a mom and dad — at least, that’s what they told me in school. I didn’t grow up with either, and so I missed out on that. It was hopeless on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day every year, trying to complete projects my well-meaning teachers devised to make crafts for all of the students’ parents. I would get teased — kids are cruel — as I wrote “Happy Father’s Day, Nana,” on a sheet of construction paper. But that was my realty. My grandmother raised me. She was mother and father to me, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Neither would she.

I was born when both of my biological parents were not much older than children themselves. It was nobody’s fault but a torn condom and puppy love. They did the most responsible thing they could think of — having Nana raise me. They knew that was the best.

And it was the best. Nana was a queen.

Life was funny with her. She loved handsome home healthcare aides and pizza and Devon Ray, most of all. When I stumbled upon her favorite movie star by absolute chance, in a Dallas hotel, I knew she had to have a photo of him or she’d never forgive me.

And that lamentable example of my photography skills is now infamous.

Devon Ray himself showed up at Nana’s house to try and convince me to delete it was how lamentable it was, and still it slipped out despite our best combined efforts. Devon doesn’t want the world to see him like that, but I don’t mind it so much. I love him, drunk double chin and all.

That was the funniest thing that happened, and it was all because of Nana. Strangely enough, and from two different worlds, Devon and I fell in love. It was helpless and hapless, love in spite of what was practical or understood. And just as I got Devon Ray, drunk double chin and all, he got June Clark, child raised by grandmother, unsure of herself and her place in the world, scrabbling just to fit in to regular life.

I have to tell you a truth. Hollywood is not regular life.

Hollywood is cameras and lights and scrutiny. It’s not what people deserve, even if those people seem to lead charmed lives. Hollywood can be cruel, and I’ve been victim to that cruelty. I’ve discovered enemies in that cruelty, and true, lifelong allies.

Through that cruelty, the love Devon and I share only sharpened, fused together, strengthened.

I wanted to write this to introduce myself, but I think it might be something more than that. I wanted to write this to remind Hollywood to love itself and one another. We’re all people, after all. It’s okay to open ourselves up to love.

And to Mike and Amelia Clark, my biological parents, I suppose this is something of an open letter to you. I’m your daughter. I know that now. I’m sorry I couldn’t face you on TV, in front of everyone. But I open myself to you now, and invite you into my life. It’s been a long time. And in such a big world, with so many people in it, family is precious.

Let’s be a family.

My writing got a bigger response than I could’ve ever hoped for, and overwhelmingly positive. I didn’t read the gossip sites, but the tone of the paparazzi that still persisted in following our tracks changed.

“Beautiful today, queen!” a photographer would shout, making me laugh.

“Look at that happy smile!”

“Devon! Blink once if she has you under mind control!”

Well, I couldn’t win them all.

Life even took on a modicum of normalcy, which I’d never expected. Devon’s house gradually became a home, and I loved cooking together with him. We were making lunch one lazy afternoon, hot winds tempting us to spend the day submerged in the pool, when the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Devon said, wiping his hands on the tea towel. We were making a late breakfast feast — that’s how torpid the heat had made us. We hadn’t even managed the first meal of the day yet.

“June, there’s someone here to see you,” Devon called, holding the door open as I frowned and turned down the burners on the stove.. I didn’t understand the pensive expression he wore until I looked past him to see who it was.

Two faces I only knew from one of the worst days of my life: Mike and Amelia Clark. My biological parents.

“Hi, June,” Amelia said, clasping her hands together so hard her knuckles had turned white. She was so nervous.

“We, uh, read what you wrote,” Mike said hesitantly. “I didn’t have a single clue you could write like that.”

“Mike, until not very long ago, we didn’t have a single clue where she even was,” Amelia pointed out. “I’m sure there are lots of things we don’t know about her.”

Something about that statement, especially after everything that had happened, everything I’d been through, moved me. There were lots of things my own parents didn’t know about me, but it didn’t have to be like that forever.

“Mike, Amelia, why don’t you come inside?” I asked, stepping aside. “It sounds like we have a lot to talk about.”