Hollywood Hot Mess (5 page)

Chapter Three

A thick, red brocade robe with golden embroidery drapes over impossibly broad shoulders and narrows to a V at his waist, all kingly and condescending. The top hangs open, revealing a chest that probably does a hundred bench presses a minute—skin tight and tanned. Not even the tiniest whisper of hair mars his masterpiece. He looks like a giant Ken doll, more plastic than flesh and blood.

A five o’clock shadow darkens his jaw and chin. His signature rough and rugged look has made him the Sexiest Man Alive for the past two years. No doubt it also won him the role of the handsome king hell-bent on seducing a naïve prostitute.

Salt-and-pepper hair peeks around the golden crown on his head. Below it, blue eyes sparkle in a color that has to be contacts. He smiles too easily, like we’re friends or something, and the simple act unsettles my insides. Who does he think he is?

“I think you’re in the wrong dressing room, Mr. Hayes.” I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him. He didn’t even knock!

“No, this isn’t my dressing room.” He chuckles in an as-if way, looking around the cramped, prehistoric trailer scattered with pieces of my fake movie life. His eyes linger on the stack of headshots. His posture is so relaxed and confident—straight as steel, but somehow managing to look effortless. Royal even.
Ugh!

He obviously hates me. Why wouldn’t he? I basically called him a pompous fraud and nearly wrecked this movie in a national publication. But I keep the icy look on my face because being America’s Bad Girl has taught me one thing: it doesn’t hurt as much when you hate them first.

“I wanted to introduce myself, Miss Klein. I thought it might be nice if we broke the ice in private before meeting on set.” His well-practiced yes-I’m-the-Sexiest-Man-Alive-but-I’m-really-embarrassed-by-it smile tugs at his lips. He steps forward, his hand shooting out from his robe’s red folds.

I sneer at the hand he’s offered. Who does he think he is?

“Introduction?” My eyes are ripe with hate by the time they make it back to his, and my arms stay stubbornly crossed at my chest. “Now, why would we need that?” My tone is sugary, yet filled with sardonic disdain. “Everyone knows who you are.” There’s no mistaking the clean old-fashioned hate in my voice. The smile falls from his lips and for a moment I can tell I’ve rattled Mr. Perfect’s perfection. He removes his crown and runs a hand through his hair.

“Is this about the magazine?” When he finally looks at me again, the whole Good Guy charade is gone. His look is real, honest and totally unflinching.
Shit
. Not the reaction I was expecting. He holds out a hand to an assistant hovering in his shadow. It is immediately filled with the glossy tabloid that nearly ruined my life. I’m so shocked my mouth actually falls open. Why in the hell does he have this?

“Why do you...”

“Do you honestly think I—or anyone else for that matter—gives a shit what a D-list actress says about me on her first day out of rehab?”

Fuck
. This situation has just spun wildly out of my control. Inside, I’m crumbling. Outside, I refuse to break.

“Leave us,” I say over my shoulder to the handful of assistants who are either lusting after Devon or loving the promise of an epic smackdown. Reluctant feet shuffle over the trailer’s worn carpet and the door shuts at Devon’s back. Once we’re alone, the tension simmering between us reaches a full-on boil. But I refuse to shrink before Devon Hayes.

“You are such an asshole.” I shake my head and grit my teeth under an infuriated smile.

“Me? I’m the asshole?” he asks, holding up the magazine so I can read the awful headline again—as if I need reminding.

“I thought you didn’t care?”

“Please! I don’t.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I’ve never met you and we’re about to fake fuck in front of twenty people.” At the word
fuck
my stomach drops and breathing becomes difficult, but I hold it together.

“Whatever. If you’re such a good actor that shouldn’t matter.” I tilt my head defiantly, daring him to step across the line I’ve just drawn in invisible sand. For a brief moment I worry I’ve gone too far. Can he fire me, too?

When he steps back, utterly bewildered, I inwardly pat myself on the head.

Only he recovers too quickly, straightening to his full, impressive height. His eyes spark with a wild, mischievous light. Yet he says nothing.

For what seems like a minor eternity we face off, both refusing to back down. The air is suddenly so heavy it’s like breathing lead. After dragging an appraising glance up and down my body, a playful smile parts his lips, but he quickly brushes it away with skillful fingers. Finally, his gaze relents, and I release the breath I’ve been holding.

“Did you mean what you said?” He drags his hand through his steel-gray locks and now I’m taken aback by him. Why would he care? Why would he need someone like me to boost his ego by telling him how great he is? I don’t give him what he’s looking for. Knocking him down a few notches puts him closer to my level.

“Every word,” I answer without flinching.

“Good.” He turns to me so quickly I don’t have time to swallow my bewilderment.

“W-Why is that good?” I stammer, unprepared for his answer.

“Honesty is an elusive quality in Hollywood. I appreciate it when I find it.”

“Well honestly, I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to work. Right now, you are getting in the way of me doing that. So, if there’s nothing else, I’ll have to ask you to leave so I can get ready.” I reach for the door in an effort to herd him from my trailer. Only he doesn’t move like a normal person would; instead, his feet stay planted right where they are. My arm slides over his and sparks that would break a weaker woman shoot across my skin. I jerk away.

This isn’t lost on him. A small, victorious sound escapes his throat. His smile widens when he notices my agitation. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

“Is it that obvious?” I cross my arms sarcastically and try to ignore the part of me that wants to touch him again.

“
Everybody
likes me.” The way he says this—like it’s a commandment written in stone—coaxes a disbelieving laugh from me I don’t stop. Is he really this arrogant? He gives me a devilish smile and wink, proud of himself for making me laugh for real. “Why don’t you like me?”

I bite my lip because I don’t have an answer. At least not one that makes me seem like a reasonable human being.

“I thought you didn’t care what a D-list actress fresh out of rehab thinks about you.”

He looks up at the ceiling, his lips twitching to fight another smile. “You’re right. I don’t.” He nods and turns to leave. With his hand on the door he stops and turns back. “Or maybe I do?” The sideways glance he carelessly tosses over his shoulder, accompanied by the tiniest of shrugs, is so suggestively bewildering I’m caught without a comeback. I use the moment to settle into the makeup chair at my side. “See you on set, Carly.” He has the nerve to wink at me before he pushes the door open. The handful of assistants I dismissed earlier tumble in with a gust of arctic air.

Obviously caught eavesdropping, they are nothing but apologies as they fall over themselves to be sure he’s okay and they haven’t injured him in some way. In reality, they’re using any excuse to touch him. “See? Everybody loves me!” he says to no one in particular, and navigates through the crowd of blushing ladies.

* * *

He’s in bed when I make it to set thirty minutes late. Thundering with unease, my heart threatens to crack a rib. It’s unnerving to see him half-naked in bed, knowing what we’re about to do. What he’s about to do to me. My feet stick to the floor. I try to hide among the crew readying the set for our scene. I need a few minutes to settle my brain. Then maybe I can do this. But a little girl wearing too much makeup in a red silk whore’s robe doesn’t blend into the crew’s all-black attire. Immediately, I’m called forward.

“Miss Klein, how nice of you to join us.” Gavin’s voice is just as arrogant and condescending as it was earlier. Inside I’m crumbling to tiny pieces, but I force an actress’s confidence into my trembling steps.

If eyes could tear me apart, I’d be shredded to scraps by the time I reach the bed. An assistant materializes from thin air and I lurch out of my skin. She gets a nasty glare for that trick. I slide between ice-cold sheets before undressing, and toss my robe at her feet. Another crew member arranges the red silk artfully beside the bed.

The room is filled with hungry eyes, sickeningly ravenous glares that make me want to vomit. Lying there, nearly naked, I feel exposed and vulnerable, the two feelings I hate most in the world. The worst part is that these eyes are nothing new. They follow me everywhere. The creeps who watched me grow up on TV now want a peek at the womanhood blossoming over my chest. I tense my muscles to keep the shakes from showing.

“Lighting check!” Gavin orders from his perch, and Devon rolls on top of me. He’s barely touching me, expertly holding his weight on his knees and elbows so he doesn’t push me down into the pillows and obstruct camera angles.

The gentle brush of his skin is too much, and the awful hot, squirmy shakes that are ravaging my insides bubble out. I squeeze my eyes shut. My head trembles against the pillow, filling my ears with a scratchy rustle.

“Heeeyyyyy.” Devon’s voice is soft as a whisper, all careful like he actually cares. “You’re nervous?”

Way to go
,
Captain Obvious!
His thumb and finger curl around my chin. It doesn’t stop my shaking, but it is soothing. His gaze bores into me, but looking at him makes me lose control. I don’t want to see his sympathy, so I focus on his lips, which are way too kissable for an old man.

Wordlessly, he studies my face, a troubled look stealing his carefree smile. Nodding decisively, Devon rolls off me in one effortless motion, putting himself between me and the crew gathered behind camera. He reaches back and tucks the sheet securely over my nakedness.

“Okay, essential crew only.” His voice is stern and leaves zero room for questions. A disappointed murmur rises collectively from the crowd. Shuffling feet and smacking lips echo around the room. When quiet returns, I peek from behind Devon’s back. Ten people still mill around behind the camera. Devon looks down at me.

“Better?” he asks.

I give the tiniest shake of my head, eyes transfixed on ten scathing faces staring back at me.

“Skeleton crew only,” Devon orders, and everyone, save the director and cameraman, leaves the room. I roll onto the pillow, holding the corner of the sheet up to dab a tear from my eye without smearing any of my whore makeup.

My tears aren’t lost on Devon. He slips back beneath the sheet—warm, glowing muscles and back-to-work-mode face. I flinch when he touches me, going all hot and squirmy on the inside again. I hate being touched like this. It’s only ever bearable when I’m out-of-my-gourd-high. My mind loses focus, and I wish I had something to make the pain go away.

No
,
Carly!
332.
Love yourself enough.
I repeat the mantra in my head. It’s all I’ve got to cope with what’s happening to me.

“Hey, Pigtails,” Devon coos. “Don’t be nervous.” He drags his fingers through the curls framing my face and trails them down my cheek. Searing hot all the way to my throat. “This is what we do. We’re actors—it’s just another day at the office.” A smile pulls his lips away from a row of immaculate teeth, as white as the sea of sheets tangled between our bodies. “You’re getting paid big money to make fake love to me. It’s just a job.” He taps his finger against my temple and something about the intensity of his touch makes my eyes find his. A swirl of impossible blues rimmed with navy.

A knot forms in my throat. Trapped by the bank of fluffy pillows, my world is nothing but him—caressing fingers, soft smile and something I haven’t seen in another human’s eyes in...well, ever.

This cannot be good.

“Action!”

Chapter Four

Damn it, where’s my phone? A shrill ringtone blares into the corners of a cramped room in a nameless hotel in the forgotten wasteland of northern nowhere—home sweet home for the foreseeable future. Housekeeping hasn’t seen the place since I arrived. Something I regret as I dive into an unmade bed and rifle through rumpled sheets. Nothing. Every surface is littered with clouded coffee cups, empty cigarette packs, crumpled script pages and dirty clothes.

“Shit!” I knock over a cup of milky, week-old coffee. Of course, it splatters right on the toe of my Converse. Because that’s the kind of life I’m having.

I find the phone in the pocket of my movie set parka and click it on just before it cuts to voicemail.

“Carly? Carly, is that you?” The voice is muffled and garbled, but I know who it is. She’s the only one who calls these days.

“Jerrie? Hang on. I’m in a bad spot.” I’m shrugging the fur parka over my shoulders as I run from my room and down the hallway, hitting the rooftop access door with my hip. It clatters against the cement stairwell wall and I take the steps two at a time.

I’m winded when I finally burst onto the roof, my breath blowing a white cloud of steam in the whistling winter air.

“Can you hear me now?” I pull the coat’s oversized wooden toggles closed and duck behind one of the huge heating units to block the wind. The rooftop is one unending shadow except for a few yellow security lights by the door.

“Yes, I’ve got you now, Carly. Just checking in. How was filming today?”

“Everything’s great.” I tuck my hair into the collar of the jacket and pull the hood up.

“You made your call times and everyone’s happy with you?” She sounds all parental.

“Yes, Jerrie. I said everything’s fine.” She knows I’m rolling my eyes at her. “What are you doing up? It’s 4 a.m. in New York.” I pull the phone from my ear to check the time. Counting off fingers to try to figure out the time difference. Wait...4 a.m. or 4 p.m.? Damn time zones. Math is for ugly people.

“Don’t you know this city never sleeps?” Jerrie yawns, not bothering to correct me if I’m wrong.

“Better slip you an Ambien!” I think I’m hilarious, doing my best Jay Z impersonation and patting myself on the head for being so clever.

“That’s not funny coming from you.” Jerrie is choking on whatever she just drank.

“Jeez. I’m kidding. Can’t I joke anymore?” The wind blows my hood off. I catch it with my free hand and pull it back into place.

“I worry about you, Carly. This is your last chance. You can’t afford another slipup. The fans won’t forgive you again.” If this is so damned important, and she’s so worried, why isn’t her ass over here with me? It isn’t like she’s got anything else to do.

“I’m fine.” I hope she can hear my teeth grinding.

“Are you still taking your medication?”

“Yes.” Truthfully, the bottle of Neurontin is still beside my bed in L.A. Not wanting to give her time to read between the lines of my lie, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “You know sometimes you sound more like a mother than an agent.”

The phone goes radio silent on either end, both of us trying to ignore the awkwardness my last comment created. It’s something about the word
mother
. Ever since I got sober, I can’t utter the word without grimacing. I hit the speakerphone button and sit the talking box on the cement ledge at my shoulder, fumbling in my pockets for a cigarette.

“Speaking of...” She pauses. “Your mother called me today.” Her voice is soft like she’s worried how I’m going to react.

“Well, lucky you.” My tone is so flat it sounds manly. “You didn’t give her my number, did you?” I bite the end of a Marlboro Red between my teeth. The lighter’s flame flickers warmly over my face.

“No. I told her you were on location and couldn’t be reached.” Jerrie knows better than to tell my mother anything about my life, which makes her one of the only people I trust.

“Good.” I take a long drag from my cigarette. “Did she mention Dad?” I hate to ask about him. Even picturing his face is like pouring boiling oil in a festering wound, but the words are out before I can stop them.

“He’s back in rehab.” Again the line is quiet. I grab the cement ledge at my chest with both hands, scooting my toes up to the edge to brace my weight. I lean back like a cantilever, looking up at the diamond-speckled black sky. The only good thing about this frozen tundra? The stars are beautiful.

“That’s probably good, too.” I take another drag and exhale the smoke, shrouding the stars for a brief moment.

“She wanted to know where you plan to spend Thanksgiving.” There’s a touch of concern in Jerrie’s voice and a lighter scratches to life on her end.

“That’s none of her business anymore.” The freezing wind numbs my fingers, and I stand, tucking my icy hand under my armpit to warm it.

“Where
are
you spending Thanksgiving?” Jerrie coughs as she takes a drag of her own cigarette.

“I’m spending it here.” I sigh, as if it should be obvious. “We have a few days off while they move locations.” I lean forward and peer over the ledge, watching red ashes disappear into darkness.

“Are you going to be okay by yourself?”

“I’ve been just fine on my own for years, haven’t I?”

“No, not really.” Her voice is chastising and I roll my eyes again.

“I’ve been sober for 332 days. I think I can handle one more Thanksgiving on my own.” The thought of launching my cell into the cold black night puts a smile on my face, but I stop my itchy fingers by trading my warm armpit hand for the frozen cigarette hand, which has reached hypothermia cold.

“We just can’t afford any mistakes, Carly. You know that, right?” I want this call to end, or at least get off the topic of my epic fail of a life.

“Sure.” It’s patronizing and overly hostile, but I’m sick of my failures being thrown in my face.

“You only get so many strikes. All these rehab stints and whispered overdoses? Even the loyalist fans will eventually quit caring if you don’t give them something to love.”

Love?
Ha!
What does anyone really know about love? Deciding this call has gone on long enough, I make swishing sounds with my mouth and rub my finger over the little hole that captures sound.

“Jerrie? I’m sorry, Jerrie, I’m losing you.” I stab the end button and stare at it as the screen fades to black. With more force than is needed, I flick my cigarette over the cement wall—a cherry-red dot in a black abyss—watching it fall until the cold wind snuffs it out. I rub my hands over my face and pull at my cheeks in a frustrated way.

When I turn around he’s standing there.

All rugged and outdoorsy in a full-length arctic trekking parka and boots. He’s shrouded by darkness, but I know it’s him. Even his shadow has an ego.

“What the hell are you doing?” It’s not often that the world shocks me enough to steal the contemptuous frown from my face. At this moment, however, I’m as blank as a board. My mind runs in circles trying to remember what I said and what he might have heard.

“I didn’t want to interrupt.” He steps from the darkness. A yellow glow from the emergency light spills over his face. Instinctively, I step back. “I just needed to make a call.” He waves his phone to show me he has a reason for being here other than eavesdropping. “Only place I can find any bloody reception.” A smile curls his lips, but his eyes are still in shadow and I can’t tell if he’s laughing at me or commiserating with me. Contempt settles my shoulders, and a frown pulls my features back into place.

“What did you hear?” I narrow my eyes into a baleful, razor-sharp gaze. He backs away.

“Hey, no worries.” His hands come up to his shoulders like I’ve got a gun on him in a dark alley. One gloveless hand grips his phone, the other fists and releases, encouraging circulation in the cold. “I didn’t hear anything.” He lowers his hands and scrolls through his phone. His voice is ridiculously soothing, and submissive, reminding me of our last encounter on set. The memory softens me.

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter.” I roll my eyes and suck air through my teeth. “Everyone knows how fucked up my life is.” I turn sideways to move past him in the narrow space between the heating units and the ledge. He moves with me, flattening against the wall to let me pass.

“Right.” He is totally consumed by his phone, no longer paying attention to me. For some reason, this irks me. “Hey, Carly?”

I stop with my hand on the door.

“I’m taking some of the crew to my island for the holiday. Real last-minute.” His tone is so distracted it confuses me. Did he actually say my name or did I imagine it? “You should come.” He doesn’t bother to look at me, like this is such a casual invitation it doesn’t even warrant eye contact.
Private island?

“And leave all this?” Dramatically, I sweep a hand across the barren white patches illuminated in the hotel’s floodlights. “Besides, I’ve got a real special day planned with the roaches in my room.” I roll my eyes and glance over my shoulder into the stairwell. Warm air seeps from the opened door, blowing blond hair over my cheeks. The light flooding from inside chases the sick-looking yellow hue from his face. His head pops up from studying his phone and he howls with laughter at my joke. The sound is so carefree and wild that a smile twitches the corner of my lips. He rocks back onto his heels, leaning into the cement wall, appraising me with a new appreciation. It’s not at all a reaction I expect from an old man.

“Just come. It’ll be fun.” His focus shifts back to his phone, and his brow darkens as he reads something on the screen. “At the very least you can knock the chill out of your bones for a few days.” He shrugs without looking up at me. Oh, now that is tempting. A perfectly timed gust of wind scuttles down my back and I shiver, drawing the parka closer to me.

“I don’t have clothes.” Wait...am I actually considering this?

“I’m sure Heather has something you can wear at the island.” Oh, sun and sand would be so nice right now, but I can’t do it. I just can’t say the word he wants to hear. “Come on, you know you want to.” His voice is low and teasing as he brings the phone up to his ear and the blue backlight turns his immaculate row of white teeth into a violet smile. “Just say yes.” He’s whispering, and if he weren’t such an old man it might actually sound somewhat seductive.

“What the hell?” I throw my hands in the air and my head back to the sky, not wanting to see the smug smile of victory I’m sure is planted over his arrogant lips.

“Good. My jet’s at the airfield outside of town. Wheels up in two hours.” He wiggles a couple of fingers at me.
Jet?
Vomit!
“Thomas? Devon. Yeah, I got your email...” His look goes all serious and businesslike before he turns away. Once again dismissed, I step into the hotel’s warm light.

“Say.” I nearly jump out of my skin. He’s right at my shoulder, whispering and holding a hand over his phone to mute the conversation. “Think you could grab a taxi? The last thing I need is stories circling stateside about us.”

Oh
,
I’m sure it is
,
Mr.
Perfect.