Finding Love's Wings (2 page)

Her face falls immediately, and she knows exactly what I'm referring to. She knows what my life was like, and she knows that I got to this position via a single, hardworking mom. I would have graduated college with a mountain of debt had it not been for getting my role in
Love is Burning
.
 

"Tristan, that's not fair."

"Not fair! Not fair!" My temper flares up. "Don't you dare talk to me about fair. You have evidence of your having a good time, surrounded by I don't know how many men, one of which is the producer of your last movie. Do not ever talk to me about fair, ever again." I slowly unclench my fists and start to turn. I take a long look at her ruddy face. The woman I once thought of as drop-dead gorgeous now has my stomach acid rising, making me want to vomit. I rub my hand on my chest in an effort to soothe the ache caused by this woman. I could claw my heart out of my chest and it wouldn’t feel any better. "I've had enough of this shit," I growl at her. "If you want this story stopped, you will find a way and it will not be by my hand or my people." I turn on my heel and take two steps away from her.
 

"Tristan, I'm pregnant."

In an instant my heart swells and I start to turn toward her, wanting to embrace her. Then it hits me like a lightning bolt. Oh for fuck's sake, is she serious? The acid grows higher. "If you think that is going to bring my arms around you in a comforting, everything-will-be-all-right embrace, forget it. I'm not stupid, Layla." I lean into her ear and nearly growl at her. "For the love of all that is holy, Layla, get your shit straightened out. That goddamn article is the least of your problems."

I back away from her. Tears are streaming down her face. A look of defeat. I turn and walk away as quickly as I can manage. I pass Tyson on my way to the door. I hold my hand up. "Don't." I walk out the door and turn to the left. I put my head down and walk as quickly as I can manage toward the back entrance of the J.W. Marriott. I'm walking at such a pace that by the time it registers on people's minds exactly who I am, I'm lost in the next crowd. I hear several girls calling my name, but I don't so much as flinch.
 

Fucking Layla. She has a damn orgy with God only knows how many men, gets pregnant, and she expects me to fall to bended knee and rectify her problems. Well, Layla, have Daddy or Mommy fix your latest problem, because I could care less.
 

I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. No doubt it's probably her. Or Travis wondering where I've gone. I take a brief look and see that it's Tyson. I hit send and put the phone to my ear. "Meet me at J.W."
 

"Trist—" He starts to say, and I hit end. I refuse to have this conversation while walking down through the L.A. Live area of downtown.
 

I need to call Trinity to give her a heads up about this story. I'm not sure what the implications will be for me, and I'm not sure that I really care. Over the last five years it has become painfully obvious that an actor's career in Hollywood can be marred by his associations as well as the stories that are written about him. Frankly, I'm to a point that all this Hollywood nonsense is old, and I'm a bit tired of it.
 

My thoughts are random and scattered. I can't stay focused on one subject or another. Layla has me scrambling into hiding because I can't or won't deal with this. Why should I?

God, she's pregnant. And for a second I was ready and willing to embrace her. To show her that it would be okay, that I would make it okay. Then, for another half a second after the lightning bolt struck, her drug use was flashing through my mind. She was high, even tonight. The premiere is the reason why. We had talked about it a couple of days ago, and I was adamant that we were going separate. She and I hadn't been seen arriving together in over six months. In fact, I cannot remember the last time we went anywhere together.

Once I found out about her drug use, I slowly pulled back from my association with her. Some of the tabloids had even started questioning whether or not we were together. Layla's people denied any such allegations, and then they'd leak some random story about Tristan and Layla being seen somewhere together. They were so determined to keep us together, and it is finally time to break free. The pictures she showed me on her phone are their concrete proof, and there is nothing out there that can deny the newest accusations. For this, I'm grateful.
 

I make it to the hotel about five minutes later. I walk in and the concierge recognizes me, and I'm immediately ushered straight to the penthouse. It’s my usual room, but tonight I would have taken anything. On the way up he asks, "How many nights, Mr. Michaels?"

"One, I think. Tyson will be along shortly. Send him up, will you, please?"

"Absolutely. Will you be needing anything right away?"
 

"No, the bar will suffice. Thanks."

I turn to my BlackBerry and text Tyson that I need my stuff from Layla's – all of it – and that I’m in my usual room. Yes, I've stayed here a few too many nights.
 

Layla has a house over in Beverly Hills. It was originally suppose to be 'our' house when she bought it about a year ago, but I didn't like the house, and Layla insisted it was what she wanted. I let her buy it herself. I guess this was the start of my knowing full well that our relationship was going nowhere.
 

I enter the suite and beeline straight to the bar. I grab the bottle of Laphraig and pour about two fingers’ worth into the crystal glass. Once I pour, I stare at it like it's going to bite me.
 

"No more," I grumble out loud, and down the scotch. Immediately I pour another glass and make my way to the terrace. The hotel room has a retro feel to it. With a lot of orange, red, brown, and yellow, of all things. All put together, it really works. The streets of downtown L.A. are bustling with people going this way and that. The searchlights are still going in front of Nokia Theater and people are still milling about. No doubt waiting for all those who entered to leave again. The premiere isn't even for one of my movies. I felt no obligation to stay, and I refused to stay with Layla milling about. I turn my phone back on and text Travis to let him know that I've left. I had agreed to attend Travis's
Rebound
premiere more than a month ago. He never actually asks me to attend such events; it's kind of implied, when it comes to him. We met about four years ago at a charity event and we have been nearly inseparable ever since. He's been my rock since all of this Layla crap happened, including my escape and a place to crash.
 

His response to my text has me laughing. I stare at the "Fuck Layla!" replay and shake my head. If he only knew.

I sit down and rub my chest. While I wait for Tyson, I look to the stars and whisper. "Please, Mama. Send me a sign – something, anything – that this is all going to be right."

PART TWO

Upon my arrival in L.A., I head downtown to the JW Marriott, I want to stay at the Hollywood Hotel, but my late arrival has me seeking something quick and guaranteed. If the JW fails, the Ritz is right next door.
 

Once I check in I take the elevator up to a suite on the eighteenth floor. The room looks like Ikea barfed on the decor: brown walls, orange furniture, and white linens. The furniture is eclectic, but strangely it all goes together.

I dump my luggage next to the bed, pour myself a glass of white wine, and flop into a white, high-backed club chair. While pulling my iPad from my knapsack I notice a strange light peeking through the closed curtains. Hmm, I wonder what that's all about? I get out of my chair and walk toward the window. Peering out, I notice a few spotlights floating around. My eyes follow the lights to the top of the towers located in the center of L.A. Live, then look down to see the red carpet and the crowd milling about. It's hard to make out what exactly is going on, but it appears to be a premiere.
 

I stare down at it for a moment, shrug and return to my chair. I email Beau and Mick to tell them that I'm in L.A. I just leave it at that for right now. I'm sure the initial reaction is that I'm in town for business, which is now true: Trinity has emailed to ask me to come to a board meeting tomorrow. I guess since I'm here, I might as well.
 

I shut down the iPad, light a cigarette, and sit back. Taking a deep breath, I let the tears of frustration flow.
 

I'm not hurt, per se, regarding Reed. I'm angry with myself and – interestingly – with my parents.

Bobbie, my father, and Evelyn, my mother, were the definition of what a parent shouldn't be throughout my childhood and even into the early stages of adulthood. When I was only six, my parents sent me off to England with a personal matron to keep tabs on me until I was old enough to enter into a full boarding school.
 

I stayed in England until I was sixteen. I was brought home by Bobbie because Evelyn had passed away. I found out later on that she had been sick for some time. It was another thing to add to the long list of what my parents failed at.
 

After I graduated from high school and moved away to Phoenix for college, Bobbie started to come around and warm up to me. The emails were few and far between in the beginning. As time passed, his emails became more frequent. When I entered into my degree program, my schedule was such that my responses became shorter, and I sent them less often. But the emails from Bobbie got longer, and the more emails I got, the better I got to know him. I made a few trips out to California over the next couple of years, and, to my surprise, Bobbie made time for me. The lunches and dinners were awkward, but we managed to muddle through.
 

Last year, which was my senior year of college, my thesis kept me busy and left me little time for much fun. I did, however, make a point of returning his emails, though my replies were often short. I thought we had time. Just as I realized I was looking forward to having a better relationship with Bobbie, he passed away.

From my parents I learned to be insensitive, a bit of a bitch, and, most of all, shallow and empty. I know nothing of love, or what love is supposed to feel like. I constantly find myself in the arms of men that treat me as though I'm nothing more than a good fuck.

I'm so angry at myself for being susceptible to the weakness Bobbie and Evelyn have instilled in me that I can't stop the tears from flowing.

The next morning I wake up around six, shower, and put on jeans, a tank top underneath a lacy button-up shirt, and sneakers. I head downstairs and grab a cab, instructing the driver to head to Westwood Memorial Park in Hollywood.

When we arrive I ask the cab driver to wait for me, and I make my way to Bobbie and Evelyn's grave. As I approach their headstones my anger grows to uncontrollable proportions, and I walk up and kick Bobbie's headstone right in the name.
 

"Ow! Ow! Dammit." I fall to the ground, sobbing. "I hate you, you son of bitch! Why did you do this to me? I don't understand. If you never wanted kids, why the fuck did you have them? Because, believe me, right now, I'm sure I would be better off." For a moment the tears are so overwhelming that I can't speak anymore.

I have never understood why my parents saw fit to let us be raised the way that we were. Why did we never have parents, but only house staff and guardians at school to take care of us?
 

"Because of you, I'm dead on the inside. I can't love or be loved," I continued to sob. "You were never there for me. You were never supportive or loving. You left me to care for myself at an age when I needed you most." I wipe the tears from my cheeks. "I've never been anything more than a throw-away toy, a sexual object, and for that I hate myself. I just wish I knew better how to handle myself and my emotions, or even something as simple as a relationship. Instead I give in to someone so fast they see a way to use me for their own satisfaction."
 

The anger that pulled me here quickly turns to loneliness and isolation. I shift my position, pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms tightly around my legs, and stare at my father's grave.
 

He's been gone for a full year now. Despite all his God-awful flaws, I'm really starting to miss him. I need someone to be there for me on an emotional level. I need someone who has holes in their head that fit all the rocks in mine.
 

Bobbie and I were never a father and daughter; it was more like ward and warden because he was always cold and unyielding when it came to expressions of love. I am so angry at the fact that I feel so lost and I have no one to turn to.
 

After a few more minutes, the cab driver approaches me. "Ma'am, we need to go if you want to make your meeting."

I wipe the tears from my eyes and stand up. "I'll be right there," I tell him. Take one last look at the headstone.
 

As much as I want to hate him and be angry with him, it's no use. There's only this bronze-colored headstone.

"Good Morning Rayne," I say to my assistant. She starts, then quickly puts her hand dramatically over her heart. I can’t help but smile at the fact that she looks so guilty, but all I did was scare the hell out of her. Rayne's presence in the office, while helpful when I'm here, is ridiculous if you want the truth of it. She ends up doing ridiculous office duties when I'm not around and it's unnecessary. I watch as she quickly composes herself.
 

Rayne is about my height, with blond-highlighted, chestnut colored hair and brown eyes. She is very pretty in a simple-kind-of-girl way. Her makeup is subtle, but present. A curvy yet slim figure. She’s downright gorgeous, if you want the truth of it. Her outfit today is a black suit with an electric blue camisole underneath.
 

"Good morning, ma'am. I assume that Trinity doesn't know you're here?"

I smile. "No, I didn't see her email until last night. I had already come back to L.A., so I figured I'd come in."