Hollywood Hot Mess (10 page)

“Work isn’t all you have.” Wait, what exactly am I offering here? I know it should be friendship, but there is a growing part of me that desperately wants it to be something much, much more. He says nothing, making my offer feel exposed and vulnerable. This man is the most frustrating human being I’ve ever met. In this moment, he is flesh-and-blood real, no longer an untouchable superstar. Yet he remains stuck behind castle-height walls.

He flashes a frustratingly empty smile I’m beginning to recognize. “Told you those magazines are nothing but lies.”

“For you they are,” I quip flippantly, raising my eyebrows.

“Come on, it can’t all be true about you.” With a reputation like mine, it isn’t too hard to see why someone who actually knows how things work in Hollywood would assume it’s all a PR stunt. Only it’s not, and I look away, searching for a way out. I don’t know what to say.

“All of it?” Now it’s his turn to be rendered the wide-eyed fool. “No way. You’d be dead if you partied that much!” The word
dead
rings through me in a hollow echo.

I nod weakly and bring my hands up from my lap, spreading them over the table. The blood-red cuff on my left wrist glares like a stoplight. In my world there are different levels of truth. Level One contains the kind of truths everyone knows, like my struggle with addiction and the fact that I can’t hold a job. In Level Two lies the truths that are only whispered about—the night at the Roosevelt’s Pool, the overdoses that were swept under the proverbial rug. Level Three, however, is a different beast entirely. That’s the inner circle. The place where I hide ugly truths even from myself. Those are the secrets no one knows.

Numbly, I hold my cuffed wrist between us. That night in the Roosevelt’s Pool was a tipping point for me, though not the kind most would expect. Something changed inside me after that experience. Something broke and I ended up spinning so wildly out of control I couldn’t bring it back. For weeks after my release from the hospital I belly-crawled through L.A.’s darkest gutters. Had Spence not found me in his bathroom I would’ve gotten my way and I damn sure wouldn’t have to wear this cuff strapped to my wrist every day. But its thick leather is the only way I can hide the reminder of what I did. Because this is one of the truths I can’t face. I’ve never shown anyone this. Not even Jerrie. And I don’t really know why I’m showing Devon, but for some reason I want to. For some reason, it feels safe to share my secrets with him.

My fingers weaken fumbling with the snaps. Finally, they pop free, revealing my secret. A thick silvery scar runs parallel down my wrist for a good two inches. In the movies, they always run the other way—which can’t kill you. You’ll only pass out. For those who really want to end it all? A parallel cut’s the only way to do it. Mine will be a year old in a month.

“Holy shit, Carly.” He’s overwhelmed by my revelation, like he doesn’t know if he wants to yell at me or cry for me. I shrink away, afraid I’ve gone too far, misread the situation and shared too much. Until Devon takes my wrist in his hand, tracing his thumb over the scar. This touch sends chills racing all over me. His distress fades and he retreats back to the empty look he had earlier, like he’s having some private moment with my scar that I’m not a part of.

“Why?” When he finally looks at me, it’s enough to break my heart. I try to jerk my hand away from him, but he holds on tight and all I manage to accomplish is pulling my body closer to his. He runs his fingers back over the silvery line before releasing my wrist and bringing his hand up to trace his lips. His eyes remain on my wrist splayed over the table. Thought wrinkling his forehead.

“Because no one ever loved me enough to stop me.” My voice cracks. It’s the simplest truth, but one I’ve never been able to utter. It hurts too much, knowing there isn’t anyone who cares enough to keep me from doing such awful things to myself. No one to protect me or tell me no.

He picks up the red cuff from where it lies discarded on the table. Holding my hand in his, he turns my palm over and snaps it back into place over the ugly scar. I feel fragile in his hands. As soon as he releases me, I cradle my wrist into my bosom.

He reaches up and tugs at one of my braids.

“Heeeeeeyyyy...” His voice is soft, so soft and warm that I want to curl up in his lap and let him chase the bad things away. But I’m too overwhelmed to move. I’m also terrified that if I touch him, I won’t be able to let go. For ten years, I’ve built defenses against the world. Devon’s broken through them all. He’s not supposed to be this person. He’s not supposed to care. And I am most definitely not supposed to want him to.

* * *

I’m beginning to wonder how much time Heather spends on the island. Her room is filled with everything a starlet needs, but nothing is touched. Her bathroom, for example. Bottles of expensive bath products line the sides of the tub. Not a single one has been opened...until today. I sink down into the bubbles, holding my nose and swishing my hair around like a mermaid in the colossal soaking tub.

Last night was awkward to say the least. Secrets spilled. Truths came to light. I feel connected to Devon on this weird level I’ve never known. But that’s far from the most fascinating turn of events. What I can’t figure out is what Heather has on Devon that could ruin him. My mind has been working overtime. That’s dangerous territory.

No way he’s in the closet. I used to party with L.A.’s hottest queens. I’d know if he were one of them. He likes to let loose. Who doesn’t? But he’s not the druggie type. I spot that a mile away. Money troubles? Please. You don’t live life like an Arab sheik if the cash isn’t rolling in. So what does that leave? Murder, espionage, CIA secret agent, mafia kingpin?

Ooh...maybe that’s it! Maybe he’s got some Frank Sinatra—type mafia tie that’s helped build his career. They’ve made him a star and now he’s indebted to them forever. I giggle at my ridiculousness and trace a finger through the bubbles. Worrying over this is a pointless waste of time. It’ll come out. Secrets always do.

I’m pruney when I pull myself from the bath, but my mind is actually clear, and I get a nervous butterfly feeling in my stomach when I realize why that is.
Damn
,
I
need a drink!
Why am I even thinking these things about him? Sure, he’s not the egotistical asshole I thought he was, but he’s still...Devon. People like him aren’t meant for people like me.

No
,
Carly!
335.
Love yourself enough.

I shake the flutters away and grab a towel. Flicking on the lights, I come face-to-face with a girl who doesn’t look so tough without her charcoal eyes and nose rings. Without my armor, I look like the innocent little Carly Klein I’ve been trying to get rid of, but here, in this immaculate bathroom, I don’t feel so little anymore. Instead, I feel powerful, and settled in a way I’m not entirely comfortable with. Stripped-down Carly looks like she belongs on a private island with the Sexiest Man Alive.

“What the fuck am I thinking?” I whisper, facepalming when I realize how pointless my thoughts are. There’s no way this is going to happen. Devon’s a grown-ass man. The only way I come close to being what he wants is faking it on-screen. Could I ever be that woman for real?

There’s only one way to find out.

* * *

An hour later, the reflection in Heather’s bathroom mirror is an Aretha Franklin—style, 100 percent pure woman. Powerful, sexy and drop-the-microphone gorgeous. Soft curls frame my face and spill in golden waves down my back, bangs pinned in an old Hollywood swoop by a crystal starburst clip at my right temple. My makeup is soft, yet seductive. Smoky eye makeup smolders around bright green eyes. Red lipstick paints a bowed pout. It’s fabulous but too much for a girl wrapped in a beige towel.

Everything’s so ordered and neat in Heather’s massive closet, you’d think she’s just left. My towel falls to the carpet, fingers trailing over the padded hangers. It’s all bathing suit cover-ups and gauzy linen clothes. But in the far corner, I find just what I’m looking for.

It’s a rich golden color. Almost the shade of my hair, and flows in silken columns to the floor. I slip the straps from the padded hanger and it thuds gently against the wall. The cold yet irresistibly sexy feel of expensive fabric on bare skin prickles goose bumps over me. Too easily the dress slides over my nakedness in the lazy way only silk can. Turning to face the full-length mirror, my jaw hangs open when I see what I’ve become.

I’m no longer little Carly Klein playing dress up in another woman’s closet.

The dress hugs my curves in all the right places instead of gratuitously flaunting them like my clothes normally do. A deep V neckline reaches to my navel, showing just enough cleavage to need some wardrobe tape. Fluttery cap sleeves breeze around my shoulders, framed with a garland of burnt-out leaves. Turning around I find the back is completely gone, leaving zero room for panties.

When I smile, the reflection isn’t me at all. It’s like I’ve stepped into some alternate reality where all my little girl wishes for a grown-up life have been granted.

I grab a pair of killer gold heels and slip them on, knowing exactly what Cinderella felt like in those glass slippers. It’s so sinfully tempting, seeing myself like this. What wouldn’t I give to be this woman every day? I swing my hair like a Pantene model, sticking a smile on my face and striking a red carpet pose.
Who is this woman smiling back at me?
She could be on Devon Hayes’s arm.

I sashay my hips to the side, dragging a stilettoed toe along the white carpet and resting a hand on the curve of my waist. The mirror has become my adoring public, clamoring for a piece of me, wanting me, needing me, in the way only frenzied fans can. I practice a coy laugh as I answer the questions a journalist asks me in my head out loud, taking mental notes of which facial expressions are the most flattering. My hand goes up in the air to wave, trying out a new pose that I will immediately hit when the paparazzi bulbs flash me into blindness.
Oh yes!
I can do this. I can have them eating out of my palm again.

“You know, I think fans identify with
The Mighty Fall
because it’s a beautiful love story. Love is capable of changing anything in its path, and I think everyone has felt a love that strong at least once in their life.”

I tilt my head demurely to the side, as if listening to an interviewer’s question, and then let out a coy peal of laughter.

“Oh yes, working with Devon Hayes was an incredible experience.”

When the imaginary interviewer asks me about my troubled past I immediately frown, my pose deflating. When I find center again, I look back into the mirror and he’s standing there.

Hanging in the doorway, his eyes are heavy with promise. Pure mischief lights his face and he looks more like a damned Greek god than anyone has a right to.

“The pleasure’s been all mine, Miss Klein.” His voice is soft and teasing and my heart drops down to my stilettos.

I flush every shade of red, hiding my face in my hands, mortified by what he’s witnessed.

“No! Don’t be embarrassed. Every starlet has to practice her pout. It’s part of the job.” He uncrosses his arms and shrugs off the doorframe, taking my hands away from my face and turning me back to the mirror. I swish my hair over my face, hoping he can’t see what he’s done to me. I’m completely unraveled by him, dangling by that proverbial thread. I’m no longer strong where he’s concerned. This isn’t good.

“But you’re doing it wrong.” His hands find my waist, hot as fire through the cool fabric. I swallow the moan that slithers up my throat and beg my insides to cool the fuck down. Nothing but a delicate layer of silk keeps me from his hands. The thought stands my nipples on end.

“Does this dress have a slit?” He digs through the skirt until he finds an opening, pushing the fabric away to reveal my tanned, naked leg. I suck in a deep breath, and my stomach tightens. He freezes momentarily too, ogling the bare flesh from toe tip to hip. He reaches for it, sliding a few fingers over the side toward my ass, on the pretense of pushing the fabric away. If his fingers can cause such anarchy in my body I’m almost scared to learn what the rest of him does. Please, who am I kidding? I’m seconds away from ripping the dress off my body and riding him to the floor.

He grips my waist. A quiver escapes my throat that I hope he doesn’t hear. My heart is suddenly beating so hard the closet walls are thumping, too.

“Okay, put this leg out and just barely rest the toe of your shoe on the floor, facing your camera.” His shorts button brushes against my bare ass under the thin silk.

We’re suctioned together, ass to hips and back to chest. He steps his leg forward against mine, bending it with his knee and guiding my toe forward to hit its imaginary mark. But he doesn’t move away. Our bodies lie against each other like the soft sheets on Heather’s bed. I’m completely undone, relying on him to keep me on my feet.

“Turn this leg back at a 45-degree angle, so your hips welcome the camera. Let this hip fall away...” He pushes my right side down so all my weight is being held on the back leg. “This shoulder falls back...” He pulls my left shoulder farther back. His practiced hands jerk me into position, and my mouth goes dry. “Good.” Is his voice shaking? “Now your torso snakes away from this back hip, but not too obvious, just enough to push your tits out and accentuate your curves.” I do as I’m told. The dress strap slips from my shoulder, exposing enough side boob to freeze Devon in his tracks. He takes the strap and slowly raises it back into place. I wallow in his touch like an addict. His hand still grips my shoulder tightly. “Shoulders back, chin up, left hand on hip.” He moves me like a marionette. “Right hand free to wave or hold your bag. And...
voila
!” He steps away to admire his work.

The reflection staring back at me is even better than it was before. Confidence now hangs on my body like an old friend, mixing with my own beauty and making me Marilyn Monroe sex goddess gorgeous.

“Devon, this is like magic. Where did you learn that?” I turn slightly in the full-length mirror, watching the way my body moves under the gold silk. I barely recognize me. This new woman staring back at me, who still has the heat of Devon’s touch on her skin, looks like the kind of woman capable of bringing a man to his knees.