Hollywood Hot Mess (12 page)

“Fancy drink in a fancy glass.” Devon appears at my side and places a cut-crystal highball in my hand. A lime slice floats in the bubbles. “God I hate that photo.” His nose curls and he turns back to the bar. A sea breeze gusts through the open doors. The picture rattles on its nail. It’s all my mind needs to take action.

I place a hand on either side of the canvas-wrapped frame to still it, then accidently lift it off the nail and drop it. It clatters to the floor, but not before slamming into the sharp wooden corner of a nearby accent table.

“Oops. Looks like the wind took care of that problem for you.” I bend to retrieve the picture. A puncture wound shines through directly under Heather’s right eye. Fake innocence plastered over my face, I hold it up to Devon. His face washes slack. His brow pulls down. Seconds later his face lights up like he can’t believe he’s never thought of staging an “accident.”

“Is it not the height of narcissism to decorate your home with pictures of yourself?”

He walks over, wine in hand, and takes the picture from me. “You know what I love about you, Carly?” The mention of love pricks my ears and spins my head so fast my neck nearly breaks. “You don’t give a fuck about anything.” He chuckles and pokes a finger through the hole, dragging it to the edge of the frame, ripping Heather’s face wide open in the process. “I miss those days.”

“I give a fuck about some things.” My tone is defiant. I hold his gaze until his simple smile widens. He gives me an equally suggestive up-down. It’s enough to clench my thighs. “And whatever. You’re Devon Hayes. You don’t have to give a shit about anything you don’t want to.”

He shakes his head and walks to an open door. “I wish it were that simple.” He chucks Heather’s ruined photo out the door and brushes his hands like he’s just taken out the trash. “When you’re on top, if you don’t give a fuck about everything, you won’t stay there very long.” He gives a weary nod.

“Bullshit. Everything you touch turns into a diamond-crusted blockbuster mega hit. Why else do you think I agreed to play your teenage whore?” Sassy? Hell yes. But that’s the mood I’m in, fancy drink and all. I sashay my fancy, sassy ass over to lean against a countertop.

He turns a half-cocked brow in my direction, obviously trying to decide if he’s shocked or intrigued by my brashness. The latter wins—something else he loves about me. “Oh, to be so naïve to the ways of the world.” He brushes a finger down my cheek. It feels branding-iron hot. “Today’s blockbuster is tomorrow’s dusty DVD.” I’m barely able to breathe. While I was focused on his finger he stepped closer. So close that the tingly breeze of his breath cools my bare arm. Disrobing and leaping into his arms is totally within the realm of possibility. He steps away and reaches for a wine bottle. I struggle to keep my feet under me and my clothes on my body.

I clear my throat because it’s the only thing I can think to do.

“Fame is a noose we willingly tighten around our own necks.” He’s already washed the oysters and pulls them from the fridge, along with a tray of ice from the freezer. The blast of arctic air calms my sizzling hormones. How in the hell am I supposed to make it through the evening with him playing these games? He’s got exactly one hour to make the first move before I take matters into my own hands. I gulp at my soda, desperately wishing it were the vodka my nerves need.

“Raw or steamed?” he asks as he puts both trays on the countertop.

“Raw, with lemon.” In reality I’d like them cooked, but I’m certain this is the sexy way to eat them.

“Lemon? Hmm...I thought you were a lime girl?” It is so damn sexy when he winks at me as he pours the oysters onto the bed of ice, I think of sweeping it all to the floor and jumping his bones, but instead I haul my majorly crushing ass onto the countertop and cross my ankles, which immediately start swinging with the nervous energy flowing through me.

“Do you know how to pop oysters?” He retrieves two shucking knives from a drawer.

“Not really.” I run my hand over my braid and reach down for the cut-crystal glass of water beside me, thinking I would much rather have a nerve-bolstering gulp of Devon’s wine instead. Flirting was always so much easier when I was drunk.

No
,
Carly!
335.
Love yourself enough.

“See this little hinge in the shell?” Our hair touches when he holds an oyster between us to demonstrate. This simple touch makes my body fizz. I nod my head and let out a heavy breath. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Stick the tip of the knife in right there and twist. It’s all in the wrist.” With a single movement, the oyster pops open, revealing the soft gray flesh within. He runs the knife under the oyster to loosen its grip on the shell, and holds it out to me.

I reach for it and he pulls it back teasingly.

“Allow me.” He reaches for a slice of lemon, squirting it into the shell.

I’m hanging on by a thread here. All he has to do is breathe the word and I’m his. I really don’t have an appetite for food anymore, but I play along, opening my mouth and tilting my head back. His mouth and head mimic mine in a less obvious way. My eyes close, trusting him completely.

The oyster slides over my tongue—delicious salty, briny, zesty flavor swimming with my taste buds. It’s so juicy a little river trickles out of my mouth and down my chin. I giggle and move to wipe it away.

Devon’s hand grasps gently around my wrist and pulls my palm into his chest.

My eyes fly open. He’s inches from me, his breath whispering hot and heavy over my cheek. Dark and hungry blue eyes search my face. Waiting. Wanting. The final resistant piece of me unravels, leaving me completely undone. I curl my fingers into the loose fabric of his shirt and pull him to me.

He hesitates, eyes flickering to my lips and back, waiting to see if I tell him no. Which of course I don’t.

A desperate, repressed moan escapes my throat when his lips slide like silk along my chin. His tongue, gently licking the oyster juice in slow, wet caresses, follows the trail up to my mouth. Warm fingers tease up the opposite side of my neck, wrapping around the soft skin at my nape.

He stills at my mouth. His lips trace mine, tempting me with the promise of more. My insides constrict around my belly button, forcing me into his kiss.

He licks and sucks at my bottom lip, the alternating sensations of his tongue sending a thousand butterfly wings flapping against my insides. A tortured whine parts my lips again. Oh, just kiss me already! He chuckles wickedly, relishing what he’s doing to me.

His grip tightens on my neck. He rocks into me, parting my waiting lips with his tongue. The movement is slow and soft, exploring my mouth with a delicate rhythm. In no time I’ve picked up his pace and twist my fingers in his hair to pull him closer. I
need
him closer.

Pushing between my legs, he runs a hand up my thigh and over my ass. Squeezing it hard, he pulls me into him with a grip that is so forceful and needy I moan into his mouth.

I fist his hair, needing something to grab onto. Obviously needing me just as badly, he makes a sound that is both pleasure and pain.

His kisses land on my lips harder, more urgently, telling me this is nothing but right. I fist the steel waves again—good lord it feels so good to finally have my hands in his hair.

Without releasing my mouth, he pulls me off the countertop, holding me against him. My legs mold to his back as he carries me. He pins me against the soft gray wall where Heather’s photo once hung, his lips refusing to leave mine. I try to release my feet to the floor, but he grabs the soft flesh of my thighs and presses harder against me.

The titanic length of him teases my now exposed crotch. Nothing separates us but my lacy thong and the unmistakable swell of his zipper. His hand trails up my thigh and a few fingers curl around the lace at my hip. Slowly pulling down.

Oh
,
god yes!

My body doesn’t feel like my own, all loose and limp under his touch, but refusing to let go of the grip I have on him.

Holding me where he wants me with his hips, he releases a hand to trace down my neck. His velvet lips leave mine and follow the line of his hand. Down my throat, over my chest, ripping away the thin green material covering my breasts.

“You don’t have a bra on, you naughty girl,” he growls in my ear, and I’m suddenly starving. My head rolls back, opening my neck to him, offering anything he wants.

But when I open my eyes I’m confused to see my vision blurred by tears. I release his curls and bring my hands up to wipe my cheeks.

My move is not lost on Devon and he pulls away from me, panting and breathy, his hair all bedroom sexy and lips reddened by our kisses.

When he notices my tears his eyes fly open in horror and then my feet hit the floor as he releases me, holding my hips with his hands to help me find my balance. I’m unable to move or speak, my body needing the solid strength of the wall and my mind so scattered by him I can’t form words. He backs away, dragging both hands through his hair, and shaking his head ever so slightly.

He turns to the countertop, and I rack my brain trying to think of what to say. My insides are still on fire, and my tears confuse me just as much as they do him, but I know they aren’t coming from a bad place. Nothing has ever felt as right to me as Devon’s touch.

“I’m going to get some wine,” he mumbles, and disappears behind the cellar door.

Holy shit.
I
just kissed Devon Hayes.
No
,
Devon Hayes just kissed me!
For real!

The air hangs heavy with promise, which seems a little surreal. My wits lie splattered on the marble floor and my reason is rocked to the core by the tingle he’s left on my lips. I’m shaky and fidgety in the way only lust can make you.

Hot and bothered in too many places, I smooth my hair and dress in an effort to restore some balance to the high-voltage wire that has replaced my body.

Normal. Devon wants normal. Not some schoolgirl who’s never done this before.

Absently, I pick up another oyster and break it open the way Devon showed me. Fingers still a little shaky, I squirt lemon onto it and hold my head back to let it slide down my throat.

Which it does. But then lodges halfway.

I swallow again, trying to force it down, but it doesn’t move. So I swallow harder, thrusting my chin forward with the strain, beating my palm on the countertop with purpose. The muscles constrict against the oyster with a painful scrape, making me involuntarily cough and gag. Only it’s nothing but a muted reflex, accomplishing nothing.

Holy shit!

My brain whirls in a crazy way and I try to force it to think. I can’t breathe, and the suffocating feeling grips my body in absolute panic. I reach blindly for my water, but miss and send the heavy cut-crystal glass crashing to the floor where it shatters at my feet. Devon’s wine glass is the next thing my hand finds.

I throw the wine down my throat, but it doesn’t pass, gushing back into the room and splattering on the floor with the glass. I’m only vaguely aware of my feet being ripped to shreds as I whirl around the room searching for an answer.

My vision is going dark and my body grows weak. I remember all the times before when I wanted this. When I courted death but never succeeded. But not now! I don’t want this anymore!

With staggering steps I pull myself over to one of the barstools and hurl my torso over the back of it, hoping to dislodge the oyster from my throat.

It doesn’t work, only adding to my pain instead. My lungs are burning now, hot and tight and needing breath so badly it feels like every heartbeat is pumping in their direction, trying to save my life.

I claw at my throat, beating my esophagus, trying to make it move. Nothing. My face and neck ignite with heated strain, trying to force it out of me, but it’s no use. My world is spinning too fast as I walk back through the kitchen. If I can just make it to the door where Devon disappeared.

But I don’t make it.

The world goes a deathly gray. White marble rises to meet my head as I fall down to the cold stone floor.

A thick leaded crystal shard from the bottom of my glass glints on the floor as I fall. I’m powerless to move my arm and it slices into my right wrist when I hit the ground. My body bounces on the rigid stone with the force of my fall.

Mercifully, the blow rocks my chest hard enough to vomit the last bit of air from my lungs, taking the damned oyster with it. It bursts from my mouth like a bullet, smacking against the cabinet with a splat and falling to the floor. A fat pearl rolls out of the gray flesh.

I gasp greedily for air, but it’s too late. My eyelids close. From far away, Devon bursts into the room.

“Holy shit! Carly!”

Chapter Twelve

The room is dark when I wake, my head throbbing and body as utterly wiped out as it has ever been. What the hell happened? Hangovers, I’m used to. This is a million times worse. It feels like I’ve been shattered by a wrecking ball and when I shift under the sheets I nearly pass out from pain. My right wrist is wrapped in something damp, something that clings to my skin. I wiggle my hand from under the covers, and when I realize the dampness is my own blood, I blanch and bury my face in the pillow. Oh, god, no. Not again.

Breathing makes my throat burn like smoldering ashes. When I try to swallow I immediately whimper in pain. I’m cloistered in the soft white folds of Heather’s bed, the billowy curtains whispering softly.

Hating every muscle that moves, I pull myself to sitting, my good hand coming up to hold my head so it doesn’t explode off my neck. My brain is throbbing so soundly it may crack my skull, and I massage my temple to soothe it.

I cry out when my fingers hit a rounded mound of flesh. A golf-ball-sized bump protrudes just behind the hairline.

What the hell did I do this time
?
A sinking feeling creeps into me as I search through my memories, trying to remember.

Devon. Green dress. Oysters. His kiss....
Oh
,
his kiss!
My head spins... Oysters again. Choking.

Thank god! It isn’t my fault this time. My bloody wrist lies in my lap and I pull the edge of the bandage away to find a nasty gash that has been cleaned and coated with some sort of salve. The simple movement pulls it open and it weeps blood-tinged goo. Pain stills me. I wince at the angry lesion. My blood runs cold.

The sight is all too familiar, looking just like my left wrist did a year ago. That silvery scar cuts into my other wrist, exposed without my omnipresent cuff in place. It only comes off my wrist for work and showers. But it’s gone. I scan the room looking for it but see nothing. I’m wearing one of Devon’s oversized white T-shirts and panties. And it hits me.

He’s done this. He’s patched me up and put me to bed. He’s saved me. But where is he?

My feet find the floor, every muscle in my body screaming at me to stay still. But I don’t. I need Devon. I need to feel his arms around me and hear him tell me it’s okay.

Through open glass doors, a breeze mingles in the curtains, muffling the ocean’s distant rumble. Surely he’s out there. I walk on my tiptoes, because I’m cold and scared, gripping my arms around my middle. Yet, all I find on the porch outside is stillness and moonlight, interrupted by my shallow pants of pain. I walk along the rough wooden boards to the front porch, huddled close to the wall of the house, weakly holding onto furniture as I pass.

But he’s not on the front porch either. I venture down a few steps in the darkness. Nothing. Overcome by weakness I turn back to the house. Through open porch doors, a soft glow radiates from the kitchen. It calls me inside and I tiptoe over the threshold into a darkened main room.

The small light is enough to show me what I’ve done. The kitchen floor looks like a crime scene, in bloody and shattered disarray. Red wine trails down the marble backsplash in dried purple riverbeds. Uneaten oysters float in a pool of melted ice. Bloody handprints slide down the lower cabinet doors and I don’t know whose they are. Thick chunks of my broken water glass glint menacingly in the dim light. My wrist throbs just looking at it.

A flutter of motion in the far corner of the room calls my attention and I turn, catching myself on a chair back when the motion makes me swoon.

It’s Devon, watching me in the near darkness as I put the pieces together in my head. I rush to him as quickly as I can, needing to feel his arms, needing him to push the bad things away. Darkness hides his face. But nothing could hide his heartbroken frown and I’m about to erupt in tears when I make it to him.

I fall into his lap, too weary to stand any longer.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I whisper into the warmth of his neck between sobs. Cradling my wounded wrist to my chest, I wiggle my other arm around his shoulder and pull him to me as if he is the only thing holding me together.

But something’s not right. Beneath me, his body is stiff, rigid, unmoved by the emotions flowing from me like hot lava.

“What’s wrong?” I create enough space between us to find his pale blue gaze, immediately recognizing the stubborn restraint freezing his body. His jaw muscles work against each other, and still he gazes forward. Heavy with the scent of scotch, his lips open and a tight breath hisses through clenched teeth.

“What isn’t wrong, Carly?” My name sounds hollow as it crosses his lips, as if the word tastes sour.

“I know. I messed up. But it’s fine now. You fixed it. You fixed everything.” I lean into him again, relishing the way his manly scent chases my fears. His arms remain at his sides, palms splayed over the couch in rigid defiance.

“I didn’t fix anything.” In a motion so quick my head swoons, he stands, cradling me to him, and turns, depositing me alone in his warm spot on the couch. Hands dragging through his hair, he stalks over to the open door and stares out into the night.

As if I need anything else confusing the blank sponge between my ears any further. I’m bewildered and I fall weakly against the sofa, finding only the lingering scent of him to comfort me.

“This trip was supposed to be a lot of things. I wanted to help you. To wake you up and inspire you.” He turns in silhouette, leaning against the doorframe and dragging his hands down his face. “But when I saw you in Heather’s dress I...” His words trail off into a tortured sigh and he presses the heel of both hands to his brow, shaking his head. “I never meant to hurt you like this.”

“You haven’t hurt me. I’m fine,” I argue, trying to rise from the chair, but groaning when my bandage grazes the sofa’s arm.

“You’ve never been further from fine.” His blue eyes find me now, but only for the briefest of seconds before they stray toward the kitchen. My gaze follows his, and we stare at the mess I’ve made. A bloody scene that could have so easily ended with me in a body bag.

Devon doesn’t do drama. He’s told me that much. And snatching me from the jaws of death as I lie dying on his pristine marble floor is most definitely more drama than he would ever want. I have to find a way out of this. A way back to where we were before that damned oyster started us down this god-awful path.

Thoughts swirl in my head. I’ve got to find a way out of this. My addict’s brain kicks in, lies flying fast across my mind, desperately searching for one that will work. One that will make it okay.

As if it’s all too much, Devon turns away. All I want is for him to want me again. He stares out at the moonlit view, silent. I try to pick myself up off the chair, falling back to the cushions when my strength fails me.

“I knew you were fucked up going into this, Carly.” His finger traces his lips in the silver light, his features stone-cold. “I knew that!” he scolds himself, and fists his hand like he wants to hit something, but doesn’t. He releases a calming, measured breath. “There was a line, and I shouldn’t have crossed it.”

Knew I was fucked up?
His words crash into my mind like a wooden mallet, adding to the throbbing already trying to crack my skull. Anyone who can read a tabloid knows how fucked up my life is. I’ve never given a shit about what people thought about me before. But this is different. I’ve let Devon into parts of me no one else has seen. I’ve trusted him. I’ve wanted him. And now this? He’s throwing my flaws in my face and using them to dismiss me just like everyone else. Rejection has never stung so badly because I’ve never cared. It’s different this time. He’s different. The throbbing in my skull turns into wet heat stinging the back of my eyeballs. Tears are forming, and in the state I’m in, I can’t possibly stop them.

I grit my teeth, tilt my head up to the ceiling and breathe deeply, forcing back tears. I hate myself for caring about him. Love is for masochistic idiots. Not me. But his touch...
oh his touch
...has become so intoxicating I don’t think I want to live without it.

Staring at the ceiling, I have a blinding moment of clarity. This feeling is familiar—needing a thing that totally wrecks you. Regardless of how much I may hate Devon right now, I crave him more. He’s dazzling and distracting and there’s obviously some part of him that wants some part of me. Why waste my willpower fighting an addiction that can’t kill me? I like getting what I want and right now he’s all I want. I’ll find a way to fix this.

“Devon, that’s not who I am anymore.” I find my feet and walk to where he stands, amazed by the calm that has taken over my trembling voice. I reach out to put a hand on his shoulder. He pulls away without even looking at me.

My hand is close enough to spark the familiar current that flows between us, but I don’t touch him. I don’t want him to recoil again.

“It doesn’t matter who you
think
you are. The truth is I fucked up for one second, and it was enough to push you over the edge. Again.” His voice is eerily calm, and when he turns back to me, navy-rimmed eyes focus on the bloody bandage hovering in the air between us.

“You didn’t push me over the edge. I wanted this to happen.”

“What the fuck, Carly?” He turns a look on me that is as horrified as it is sickened. Now I recoil from him.

“Wait, what do you think happened here?”

He looks at me like I’ve got a bullet hole gored straight through my forehead.

“I kissed you,” he says haltingly, warily eyeing me like a mental patient on a ledge. “I went for more wine. You freaked the fuck out and when I came back you were covered in blood, inches from death on my kitchen floor.”

“Devon, I choked on an oyster!” I yell. A smile pulls my lips back and brilliant relief washes down to my toes. “I cut my wrist on broken glass when I fell. I don’t want to do that. Not anymore.” In stumbling strides, I run to the kitchen, thinking if I find the oyster and the pearl this misunderstanding will be fixed and we can forget it ever happened. I’ll forgive him for calling me
fucked up
. He’ll forgive me for almost dying on his kitchen floor. We’ll just sweep this little incident under the rug.

On my hands and knees, carefully avoiding the shattered glass, I search the darkened floor until my fingers find the cool, slick surface of the jewel that tried to kill me. He’s followed me, watching me with his arms crossed and brow pinched from the bloody spot where I fell.

The pearl gleams under soft stove light when I hold it up to him. He closes his eyes, sighs deeply and plucks the pearl from my grasp.

Without a word, he walks back to the couch and sits down on the coffee table. I’m right behind him, taking a seat on the couch and tucking my legs into the huge T-shirt for warmth. His elbows rest on his knees. He pulls a hand through his silver curls and folds both hands around the pearl.

“You probably needed stitches.” He laughs disbelievingly to himself. “But the thought of taking you to the hospital never crossed my mind. The only thing I could think about was keeping the story out of the press.”

“Good. I’m glad.” I encourage him with a nod he doesn’t see. “I can’t afford another story like this to get out.”

He stares at the moonlit pearl in his fingers. “I wasn’t thinking about protecting you, Carly. I was only thinking about protecting me.”
This
hurts.

Slowly, he casts a look over his shoulder. Meeting his hard navy gaze, I know exactly what he’s saying. The most important thing in Devon Hayes’s world is Devon Hayes. Not even lost little girls who try to kill themselves on his kitchen floor get in the way of guarding himself.

“Oh,” I whisper, curling further into myself. I feel so small sitting there on that white leather couch in the darkness. Curtains swirl all around us like we’re in some damned nightmarish dream world. I wish I were dreaming.

He walks to the doorway, resting his back against the frame while he looks at the pearl. In the moonlight his face is empty as glass—an impassive mask no one could read.

“I never meant for this to happen, and you have my word, it ends right here. Before I have a chance to hurt you again.”

“What’s the big deal? We’re just having fun. I’m no different than any other girl you’ve been with.” I shrug like he’s overreacting. Inside, I hate the thought of being just like them.

He turns his entire body to me. His face is unreadably dark. “If that were true, we’d be tangled in my sheets right now.” His gaze turns so hungry my thighs instinctively squeeze together. “But you know it isn’t.”

Hope swells. I try to believe I’m different because I’ve managed to cut through his thick walls and this is getting too real for him. The more likely scenario, given tonight’s shit show—I’m damaged goods.

“Devon...” I walk right up to him, my voice soft and apologetic. I want to tell him it’s not my fault. I don’t do this shit on purpose, and I’m trying to change. But he grabs my left wrist and right arm, holding me away from him.

We stare into each other’s eyes. Mine pleading, his burning dark and dangerous. I realize I’m not going to win. My gaze falls to his chest in defeat.

That’s when I see it.

A massive, dark brown bloodstain soils the front of his white linen shirt. It completely covers his chest and streaks faintly down the sleeves where he wiped his hands. The smell of salty iron makes my insides revolt.

Oh, shit. What have I done? My chin quivers and I go limp in his hands, but he doesn’t let me fall. Instead he picks me up and carries me to the couch, tucking a blanket around me before he sits down on the coffee table.

“Carly, you aren’t the kind of girl I can do this with.” He’s not going to let me get my way and these damn tears make me look like I’m crying about it. “In another life, maybe. But that’s not where we are.”

“You...but you want me. I know you do.” I whimper through my sobs, wiping my cheeks with the blanket.

“Of course I do.”

My heart should leap for joy at these words, but his voice is pained as he drags a hand through his hair.