Hollywood Hot Mess (16 page)

The smell of him, the smell of us, is still on my skin and every time I move just right it wafts over me—a bittersweet reminder.

Scratchy hotel sheets wrap around my nakedness. I’m all Marilyn Monroe wearing nothing but Chanel No 5 as I fluff the sheets out and pull them tightly around me, sending a delicious cloud of our fading scent over me for the hundredth time. A highlighter marks tomorrow’s scenes in the discarded script at my side, but I can’t focus on memorizing lines right now.

Slowly, softly, I trace the remembered trail of his kisses over my neck with a fingertip. Closing my eyes, I try to recall every detail of our scene. My hand slips beneath the sheet and heads south, my nipples sitting up and paying attention. When the first wiry strands of hair brush my fingertips a contented moan escapes, only to be interrupted by the buzzing of a text message.

Damn it
,
Jerrie!
Can’t a girl get some privacy?

But it’s not Jerrie. It’s a 310 area code and I know exactly who it is.
Holy shit!
Maybe he wants round two as badly as I do.

* * *

U OK after ur first nude scene?

My body goes rigid and I can’t believe it’s him. I immediately reply without really even thinking.

better than OK

My hands are shaking when I hit Send. What if this isn’t right? What if I’m not supposed to remember our encounters hours after they happen? Is he just being nice or was he utterly shaken by our lovemaking too?

BEST. SEX. SCENE. EVER.

Oh! Punctuated capitals. That means something. That means he can’t forget about it either, right? I swallow hard and fire off my reply before I have time to think better of it.

Where R U?

I jump out of bed, taking my phone with me as I run around trying to find my clothes so I can run to his room and finish what we started. I frown when the next message pops up.

Angel and Heather were in an accident. Headed back to L.A.

I slump into the rickety little desk chair covered in discarded clothes. This is the worst news I’ve had in a while. I bite my lip. Disappointment pricks my lover’s high. It deflates around me like a saggy old balloon. I should probably be somewhat concerned for Angel and Heather, but I don’t really care. What I do care about is them stealing Devon from me. But I play the game, because that’s what I’m supposed to do.

Hope they r ok.

It is beyond lame, but what else can I say? Your wife is a fucking bitch, come back to me? Please don’t leave me? Even I know better than to show my crazy like that. So I say nothing else. TMI stalking later that night, I do feel the tiniest prick of shame when I land on picture after picture of a black Mercedes with the rear end smashed into the backseat. Some photographer was following too closely trying to get a money shot of Heather and Angel. Their driver stopped suddenly and the idiot crashed into the back of them. Serves the stupid photog right. But I have to admit, being chased like an animal does kinda suck for Heather and Angel.

I feel hollow going to bed that night. In a way, I’m proud of Devon, dropping everything and heading back home to take care of things for his “family.” I’ve never known love like that, and the idea that he could maybe, possibly, one day, love me like that is a wickedly addictive thought. On the other hand, I’m both pissed and scared. It’s obvious where I rank in his life. But how can I really expect a weekend away and a one-sided orgasm to eclipse the fake family he’s lived with for years? The fact that I want to mean that much to him is what scares the shit out of me. I’m snakebit when it comes to true love, but I’m helpless to stop myself from wanting it where Devon is concerned.

It isn’t until I wake up the next morning that the hollowness is finally chased away. As I light my morning cigarette, a waiting text from Devon sets my world right again.

I’ll miss you, Sunshine

My throat closes up and hot chills race over me. Oh, Devon. You know exactly what you’re doing to me. But, as tortuous as it all is? I don’t want him to stop. Ever. I smile as I reply.

already miss u

Chapter Sixteen

I can’t get a cigarette out of the pack and lit fast enough when I break through the double glass doors of Dr. Goldberg’s office into the California sunshine. My hands shake, and my butt aches with each step thanks to the Depo shot I just got. I’m shocked at how responsible I’m being. But bringing a kid into this fucked-up world is a huge
hell no
in my book. So, when filming broke for the holiday, I decided a little better-safe-than-sorry insurance was in order. All I want for Christmas is Devon’s dick. I’m steps away from snagging a cab when past collides with present.

“Carly Klein!” The woman’s voice is full of star-struck disbelief. Oh, great. An adoring fan. Instinctively, I reach for the purple Sharpie pen and turn to the gaunt woman paused on the steps a few feet away.

Heather’s glasses cover most of my face, which is exactly what I intended for today’s errand. Instead, I’m publically outed with a damned Depo aftercare sheet sticking out of my bag. Stuffing the sheet and my annoyance, I plaster on the fake I’m-so-honored-you’re-asking-for-my-autograph smile and reach for the slip of paper in her hand.

I scribble my autograph, quickly adding the heart over the
i
for good measure. Why change a good thing? It’s what America wants. I shove the paper into her hand, smile and head off down the sidewalk.

“Carly?” The woman basically yells at me like she can’t believe how rude I am. Little does she know this is super nice for Carly Klein. But something about the way her voice ticks up is vaguely familiar. I can’t help but turn around.

When I finally look at her, like raise the ridiculous blackout shades up my forehead look at her, I want to recoil immediately. Her mousy blond hair is stringy and dull, as though it hasn’t been washed in days. Hollow, hazel orbs blink at me, rimmed with red lids that haven’t seen decent sleep in years. An oversized green shirt dress hangs from her bony shoulders, doing little to hide the fact that a strong gust of wind could blow her down. I assume she’s about to ask me for money when she smiles.

My automatic grimace is impossible to hide.

Her teeth are grayed from the constant presence of stomach acid and hard drugs, but there’s something about her smile that sparks recognition in the very back of my brain, back in the dark forgotten places.

“Maria?” I do a double take and shake my head because I can’t believe the ghost of a girl standing before me is the same girl I grew up idolizing. The same girl every red-blooded male, even Devon Hayes, fantasized about.

“Carly!” Her voice is breathy with some sort of odd relief as she crashes into me and throws her arms around my shoulders. She still towers over me, but when I wrap my arms around her waist, I feel like I’m hugging a pillowcase.

“What are you doing here?” I pull away from her and take a hard drag from my cigarette, unable to believe the craziness this day is bringing.

“I have an appointment with Dr. Goldberg.” She holds up the appointment reminder in her hand, which is now branded with my purple signature, and I wince. Of course she’d still see the same doctor we did as kids. Dr. Goldberg doesn’t charge me, and looking at Maria, I’m pretty sure she couldn’t afford it if she did.

“Shit, Maria. I’m sorry about that.” I shake my head and offer my pack of cigarettes to her. She gladly takes one.

“Don’t apologize.” She runs her fingers down the white paper tube in her hand. “I’m glad people don’t recognize me looking like this.” She tilts her head to the side to light her cigarette and leans back on the brick wall beside me. “Wouldn’t exactly help with a comeback.” She laughs, crossing her arms over the enormous folds of fabric at her waist.

Words are hard to come by. What do I say to her?
Gosh
,
Maria
,
you look like shit
, is all that comes to mind, and that isn’t an option, even for me. I spot a coffee shop down the block.

“Hey, I’m gonna grab a cup of coffee. Do you have time to join me?” I point with a sleeve-covered hand. Shifting nervously from foot to foot, I study the sidewalk between us. Maria’s face twists with indifference as she follows my finger. I wonder if her frail body can make it that far. She grabs her cell phone from a pocket to check the time.

“Sure.” She shrugs off the brick wall and we walk awkwardly together, neither of us knowing what to say. Maria was basically my big sister, on set and in real life. She showed me how to roll a joint and snort a line and drink my liquor straight to save calories. She knew all the bouncers at the best clubs and made sure they knew me, too. She taught me to use hemorrhoid cream to cover the bags under my eyes and baby powder in my dirty bar hair when we rolled onto set still stoned out of our minds from the night before. She wrote my lines on discreet parts of my body so I could read them instead of learn them. But the reason why I really loved her like a sister? She hated Melvin LaCroix, the asshole who played our father, just as much as I did. Which never really made much sense to me until I sobered up enough to realize what it actually meant.

And now here she is, reappearing in my life like the ghost of mistakes past. Looking so broken and battered by the world I wonder if there is any sliver of the old Maria left inside the used-up woman staggering down the street beside me. Her smile. Maybe? She still has that. Sort of.

I peek at her as we walk past the decorated shop fronts in silence. She looks like a soulless ghost floating beside me. Biting my lip, I face forward and force the shocked horror off my face.

How many nights did I fall asleep wishing I would, someday, be as cool as Maria? I worshipped her like only little sisters can. And I hate to admit our role reversal is as gratifying as it is horrifying.

A minute’s worth of difference in my life and it would’ve been me. Luckily, Spence found me passed out from too much coke and blood loss in his bathroom the night that damned razor ended up in my hand and got too close to my wrist. Luckily, I could still scrape together the resources to get help. Luckily, I realized I wanted more and
Mighty
came along to save me. Had I not had luck on my side, I’d be looking in a mirror right now instead of at the inevitable train wreck that has stolen Maria Rhodes. Or dead.

I don’t remember when we grew apart. Probably when
Life on Easy Street
wrapped for the last time and we quit seeing each other every day. I have no ill will for Maria, though I often wonder if life would’ve been different had squeaky-clean Hilary Duff played my big sister.

We’re silent until we reach the counter of the coffee shop. It’s quintessentially L.A.—walls covered with chalkboard paint and the orders of famous customers and their autographs in every color of the rainbow. We both order large black coffees, no sugar or cream because we both know those make a girl fat, and take a seat at a removed table covered by an old burlap bean bag. I blow at my cup and wish we’d sat outside where I could smoke. This is painful, and I find myself wanting something stronger than coffee.

No
,
Carly!
364.
Love yourself enough!

“So you still see Dr. Goldberg?” Maria offers to break the ice because it’s the only obvious thing to talk about.

“Yeah.” My nod is way too energetic and she immediately picks up on it, giving me a squinty, disapproving smirk.

“Rehab?” She dips a finger into the coffee to check the temp without looking at me.

“Personal stuff.” I can’t believe how uncomfortable I am around her and I fidget with Heather’s huge glasses, pulling them off my head and tucking them over the collar of my shirt.

“Getting laid?” she guesses and my head shoots up with shock. Quickly, I rearrange my features into a cool and collected look. Why does it surprise me that she can read me so well? After all, she is my big sister.

“Something like that.” I laugh, brushing my hair back and leaning over the table again. Her overly blunt but familiar intrusion softens the disconnect between us, and I remember what it used to be like. Back when we used to share each other’s lives. “You?”

“Rehab follow-up.” She takes a sip and puts the coffee back on the table. I stare at her skeletal hand.

“Yeah, I heard about that.” I pull my stare away from her hand and force a smile. “I’m glad you’re doing better.” And I genuinely am. I know how hard it is to kick addiction. Hell, I’m still working on it every day myself.

“You can quit all this fake bullshit, Carly. I know I look like hell.” Her voice is as dead as she is, but she manages a genuine smile like she always used to, and it’s comforting to see a glimpse of the old Maria. I’m relieved that she’s brought the subject up.

“What happened?” My lips curl into a disgusted grimace, and this time I don’t hide it. Our relationship was built on the brutal honesty of sisters.

“I went too far.” Her shoulder bones draw up to her ears, pulling gaunt clavicles with them. “I got off the drugs when I heard about your...
accident
last year. But you know an addict never loses the need for an addiction. The bulimia took the place of all the drugs for me.” She looks away, over to the wall of windows where California’s sunny perfection shines like gold. She tangles her hand in her hair and winces as she plucks a single strand and twirls it through her fingers before sending it to the floor.

It’s getting easier to look at her. Now that we’re talking and have acknowledged the elephant in the room it makes things a little easier. But when I scan the coffee shop, I notice everyone else is still staring, and it infuriates me. They aren’t staring because they recognize us. They’re staring because Maria looks like she’s still in full zombie makeup for
The Walking Dead.
I lash out at the man nearest us with a snakelike glare, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Is there a problem, here?” My voice is ripe with hate and rage as I lean into his line of sight and obscure Maria from view. He quickly snaps back to his paper and pretends like he didn’t hear me. I roll my eyes when I turn back to Maria and she chuckles a raspy laugh.

“Being sober sucks.” I drag a hand down my face and make a cup for my chin. My hair falls to the side, providing a bit of privacy from prying eyes.

Shaking her head, she pulls another hair, twisting it around her fingers and then watching it float to the floor. I wonder if this is her newest addiction.

“Do you remember the time we stole that rapper’s Maserati from the club valet?” I gently tap her leg with my foot under the table, hoping to distract her enough to get her attention again.

“How could I forget?” She sighs. “I gave him a blow job in the bathroom so he wouldn’t press charges!” She rolls her eyes like this was a horrible sacrifice she made for us, but I remember how powerful it made her feel when men wanted her, how much she used to flaunt her flesh to get the cameras snapping and the fans crushing her. The two of us out together was exactly what America wanted: real life imitating art. Until they found out what we were really up to. “That was the first time you drove a car, right?” Her eyes try to sparkle as she remembers.

“Straight down the Sunset Strip!” I laugh and we both go silent for a moment, remembering when life was simpler and hadn’t tripped us up yet. “Are you working?”

She snorts when I ask her this and looks down at her body and back at me as if I should know better. “I’ve had a few offers from porn magazines, but I don’t think they would want me if they saw what I look like right now.” She winces and her head ticks down as she tugs another hair. “You?”

“I’m shooting the new Devon Hayes film,” I offer as nonchalantly as I can.
And hopefully sleeping with him
,
too
. I delight on the inside, but don’t dare show any sign of it on the outside. She raises her eyebrows and frowns, trying to act as if this isn’t as cool as we both know it is. “Are you still living with your mom?”

Back in the day, Maria lived with her mother and some famous producer whose name I can’t remember in a palatial spread in Brentwood. It was party central until her mother had a mishap with some routine plastic surgery and ended up with a droopy eye. The producer quickly left, and the palace parties ended.

“No. She’s back in Wisconsin with my grandparents.” All emotion has drained from Maria’s face.

“Where are you staying?” It’s a logical next question and I take a sip of my coffee.

“With Mel.” Her voice is so soft and faraway the answer doesn’t register at first. When it finally does my eyes fly open in horror, my heart hammers against my ribs and I go all hot and squirmy on the inside, nearly knocking my coffee over because I’m suddenly shaking.

“Mel...Melvin?” I’m wide-eyed and panicky. She simply nods her head and refuses to look at me, focusing instead on the sidewalk foot traffic. A haunted smile curves her lips and she plucks another hair. Maria is digging below rock bottom and I’m the only one here to save her.

“Maria, how can you stay with Mel? He’s a monster. Have you forgotten...” My voice trails off because I can’t say it out loud. I reach for her bony hand, desperately hoping she’ll see how dangerous her situation is.

“Like you’ve dealt with it any better,” she spits. I jerk away. That is ridiculously unfair. But this is Maria. There’s no need to sugarcoat anything. I groan and rub my temples.

“Hey, I’m trying.” I’m about a million miles from perfect, even farther from cured, but I damn sure wouldn’t share a roof with that monster. “I’m dealing with my issues the best I can.” I take her hand again, squeezing it hard enough to get her attention. “Melvin LaCroix does not get to hurt us anymore.” She purposefully looks away. Her cheeks redden. I rub my thumb over the back of her hand, feeling the bones twist and roll under tissue-paper skin. Her face is as vacant as an abandoned studio lot when she looks back to me, totally void of any emotion whatsoever.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go.” Her eyes fall weakly to the table.

“Stay with me,” I beg, pulling her arm across the table. “I’m leaving to finish this film in a couple days. You’ll have my apartment to yourself. Please.” I tuck my head down to find her eyes so she has to look at me.