Hollywood Hot Mess (27 page)

A second later a spark of orange so tiny I have to squint to be sure it’s there ignites on the far reaches of the horizon. It sends a shaft of soft light into the sky, calling to the clouds, waking them after a peaceful night. They glow with a warm pinky-peach hue of morning. Streaking through the sky, long puffy ribbons of colored cotton candy stretch overhead as far as the eye can see.

Back at the horizon the orange spark has turned into a glowing orb of lava pushing against the horizon, fighting to claim its place in the sky. Everything is cast in a red-orange incandescence that is so peaceful I can almost hear its sweet song in my soul.

The breeze blows my hair back, the collar of my shirt-dress back, everything back, and I breathe deeply the warm salty air. It clears my head, wakes me, revitalizes me like a drug. Devon’s arms squeeze tighter around me when my lungs swell. For a moment... I forgot he was there.

Our pink and orange world explodes into a rainbow of blues and purples and reds. It’s so fiery and vibrant it doesn’t look real. A tear escapes my eye and I let it fall, not bothering to wipe it. We’re all alone on the beach, except for the sleepy pier in the distance and a fishing boat heading out to sea. We seem to be the only ones witnessing Mother Nature’s wake-up call. Such a waste.

“Do you do this every morning?” I whisper over my shoulder. It doesn’t seem right to talk loudly at a moment like this. His head shakes back and forth without leaving my shoulder.

“I don’t enjoy it by myself.” He sighs and pulls me closer.

“Are you lonely, Devon?” It’s a stupid question. I know he’s lonely. Any man that couldn’t enjoy a view like this by himself has to be missing something huge in life. Is another day—regardless of how beautiful its beginning—just another reminder of how much he doesn’t have? He sighs and turns me in his arms so I’m facing him.

“You have no idea.” His cheek presses against mine, and he inhales deeply.

“Why? You’re Devon Hayes. You could have anyone you wanted,” I whisper in his ear, wondering why I’m so different. Why I’m special enough to be given a moment like this with a man like him.

“Because no one wants
me
. They want Devon Hayes.” He pulls away from me, taking my chin in his hand and brushing my cheek with his thumb. “The myth...not the man.” He looks so sad my insides crumble to my toes and I shake my head.

“That’s not true.” I reach up and wrap my fingers around his hand, tips of my toes digging into the sand as I try to get as close to his beautiful eyes as I can. “I want the man.”

He leans down and playfully brushes his nose against mine.

“I’d never ask that of you, Carly.”

“You’re not asking. I’m giving.” Why do I feel like I’m begging right now? Sharing this perfect moment with the man of my dreams, I still feel like I’m forcing him into something he doesn’t really want.

“You would throw away your career for me?” he asks, his face pulled into a question mark.

“What career, Devon? You’re the only one giving me a chance these days.” My eyes fall to his chest. The truth is a bit embarrassing to admit regardless of how true it is. His face has changed. It’s dark, studying every part of me he can see in the pink fog of morning. He finally laughs and snuggles me closer to him.

“You know you’re crazy, right?”

“Crazy in love,” I quip, drunk on his touch. Cold dread drains down the length of me. What have I just said? What have I just done? Love isn’t what he wants.

The look on his face goes from playful teasing to stone sober and my world freezes with panic. It’s not hard to imagine the thoughts churning behind his navy gaze. Probably calculating the risk of this relationship once again, the risk of me being stupid enough to fall in love with him. Surely realizing how dangerous this all is for a man like him.

He shakes his head and looks away. My heart sinks desperately to my toes and I try to wiggle free from his embrace. Devon looking away tells me all I need to know, and I can’t hear it again. I’d rather tear my beating heart from my chest with a rusty nail than hear him tell me all the reasons we can’t be together again. Especially now when my guard has fallen far enough to tell him how I really feel. I’ve been pulled too tightly into his web to be spat out because it’s suddenly gotten too real for him.

His arms hold tight, refusing to release me, and with a single swivel of his hips he forces my body flat against him. I’m teetering on the verge of tears and my chin is so shaky my teeth are clattering. If I were capable of looking into his eyes without completely losing it, I would. But I’m not that strong. Not where he’s concerned. My gaze falls down to his chest, to the safety of his shirt buttons. I both love and hate this chest right now.

With gentle fingers he lifts my chin. I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to look at him. Terrified of what’s about to come out of his mouth.

I’m utterly delighted when his lips find mine.

“I guess we’ve both gone crazy,” he whispers against me.
Wait...what?
We’re both crazy? Does that mean...? Oh, I don’t care what it means!

My toes leave the cool, wet sand when he lifts me up level to his kisses. Instinctively, as if they’ve known his body forever, my legs curl around him. His tongue is in my mouth, his hand is on my ass, and his penis is growing against my pantyless crotch. I wiggle a hand between us and fumble with his zipper, delighted to find he’s gone commando, too.

He enters me as soon as I can free the length of him and point it in the right direction. All the while carrying me back to the porch of his mansion by the sea. He reaches blindly for the gate latch, unable to peel himself away from me. I try to move against him, force him deeper, but I can’t.

We don’t even make it to the porch. He pins me against the step railing and rips the buttons off the front of my shirt, baring my chest to early morning air. One hand grabs the nape of my neck, pulling my head back before he plunges his tongue into my mouth.

His free hand snakes down and releases the button on his jeans, pulling out of me for an agonizing second to skin himself bare before plunging balls deep into me again. I moan with the intoxicating pain ripping up my spine every time he charges into me.

Our sex is hot and fast. A desperate kind of lovemaking that feels as if our lives depend on it. He holds me so tightly I can barely move, pinioned between him and a wooden pole at my back. Writhing up and down the weathered wood with each thrust of his hips. Deeper, harder, faster. His need for me measured by how completely he claims me.

Feeling as if I will never be able to get enough, I dig my nails into the firm flesh of his ass, slamming him into me with as much added force as I can. Needing it to hurt; wanting it rough so that I know it’s real. No more easy love that leaves me breathless with orgasmic bliss. I want this hard and dirty. I want him to use me, to conquer me, to take me in a way our bodies will never forget.

And that’s exactly what he does. Sensing I’m near the edge, he snakes an arm under my knee, reaching around and grabbing onto the railing at my back. As soon as he has a hold, he straightens up, slamming into me and pinning my leg between us, lifting me completely off the ground.

With me doing a split up the length of him, he can go as deep as he wants to. Deeper than I’ve ever felt him go before. My sandy toes dangle in the air, held aloft by his desire. Wrapping my free leg around his as it flexes its muscles to push into me, I reach up and grab onto the railing, the hot burn of an intense orgasm building deep in my belly. With my leg securely wrapped around his I’m able to get enough balance to grind against his hips, meeting each plunge with a desperate thrust of my own.

“Carly...” Devon whispers my name, tight and strained, telling me he’s about to explode. I take a deep breath, clenching my hands tightly on the railing, and slamming into him with a force that unleashes our orgasms. They roar into the world with primal sounds of pure ecstasy.

It isn’t until we’re both panting and waiting for our bodies to return to earth that I realize he has fucked Heather’s black wig right off my head. I’m pretty sure I’ll need a chiropractic adjustment after sex like this, but I couldn’t care less.

When I finally move it’s so painful an involuntary groan leaves my throat. I want to sit up and stretch the muscles back into place, but Devon’s arms lock around my back, rendering me motionless. I circle my arms around his neck and lower my head to kiss away beads of sweat. His navy gaze watches every move I make, so intense I have no way of knowing what he’s thinking.

“What,” I whisper as I kiss and lick, thinking his old-man muscles are probably hurting just as badly as mine.

“Stay the week,” he pleads in a hot, breathy voice at my ear. I gasp and squeeze his body tighter.

Like I’m capable of telling him no.

Chapter Twenty-Six

My body is sore in all the right places and my head swims with the X-rated memories of the past eighteen hours. I’m naked in his bathroom. I’m always naked now. Is it possible to overdose on sex? ’Cause that’d be a hell of a way to go.

The blond rat’s nest on top of my head needs some attention, as do my stubbly legs. I stumble into the marbled walk-in shower and scrub the smell of Devon off me. Which I hate.

I find black skinny jeans and a purple tank in Heather’s closet of darkened wonders. I look in the mirror. The tiny little holes left by my nose rings have almost healed, and in another month, the only proof they were ever there will be pictures. My green eyes sparkle like they used to. Is it because I’m happy again, or is it the aftereffect of multiple orgasms from the sex god I’m in love with?

Our sunrise sex seems like a lifetime ago. After coming back to bed, we shared another slow orgasm before I fell asleep. Old man, my ass. I basically told him I loved him this morning. Which I’d never really admitted to myself, even though I’d suspected it since I signed the new contract. I mean why else would I agree to go all
Full Monty
if it weren’t for him? I certainly don’t need America wanting to fuck me.

I was sure he would run screaming for the hills, or at least give me that disapproving father stare and find some reason for Tiny to take me home.

But he didn’t. Instead, he admitted he was crazy, too, fucked me five ways from Friday, and asked me to stay with him. Here in this impossible mansion by the sea. Does it get any more Hollywood love story than that? I don’t think so.

There is the nagging detail—that he didn’t actually
say
he loves me—but the implication is there. He did say he was crazy too... Right?

I fluff my damp hair with my hands as I pad down the dark lacquered floors, trying to remember how to find my way through the maze of halls. Bright sunlight is streaming in from windows and skylights, which only makes the dopey grin that’s set up permanent residence in my lips grow even wider. A soft, cool breeze drifts through the house, accompanied by the sea’s distant rumble. It’s obvious why everyone loves Malibu. This has to be the happiest, most relaxing place I’ve ever been. Maybe even more perfect than
HeaVon on Earth.
Ugh, the name makes me gag.

We’ll have to rename it
, I think absently, and then immediately clap a hand over my mouth, afraid I may have said it out loud. At that moment, I round a corner and pop into the main room. Devon sits at the far end, head buried in stacks of paper. Frameless glasses cover navy-rimmed eyes that seem like food to me sometimes. He’s been running. His sculpted chest is bare, the white cord of his earbuds drape over one shoulder and a damp sheen still clings to strands of steel-gray hair.

Holy shit! What am I thinking? I shrink back against the wall, still covering my mouth as I watch him work. This isn’t my life. The opulence that surrounds me isn’t mine. It could have been, easily, but then I detoured down the wrong road and ended up in every starlet’s nightmare. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve him. But god do I want it!

And now I’ve been stupid enough to fall in love with him when I know he can’t give himself to me. Not like that. He’s been nothing but honest with me from the beginning—no strings attached, it’s just sex. Love is too risky for men like him.

But is that still how he feels? I mean, you don’t fly across the globe or sneak a girl into your life disguised as someone else if there aren’t any strings. Do you? My head thuds against the pale blue wall behind me. I close my eyes, head up to the sunlight steaming in through a skylight, and pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. Stupid, stupid girl. This is not going to end happily for you. He’s not going to throw all this away for you.

But do I really have to have all this? I don’t want a closet on every continent. I don’t want a fake life filled with mansions and pretty, shiny things. I don’t want any of it. But I
need
him. And the thought of losing him makes kicking coke look like child’s play.

I mean, he said he was crazy too...

“Carly? Is that you?” Devon’s voice snaps me out of my overanalyzing. I spin back to the room, dropping my hand down to my side. He’s peering into the half shadow of the hallway where I’ve been hiding.

“Um, yeah.” I tuck my hair behind an ear and step into the room, studying the shiny wood like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t. His smile goes megawatt bright when he sees me and my insecurities suddenly seem utterly ridiculous. He wants me here. He wants me with him. I
know
he does.

“Sleep well?” His smile turns wicked and naughty and my insides twist with desire for the hundredth time since arriving as Casa de HeaVon.

“Better than I have in weeks.” I practically skip across the room. He removes his glasses to study my approach. I lean over the couch, wrap my arms around his neck from behind and kiss below his ear. He’s salty and I flick my tongue out to taste him.

“Careful, Carly,” he warns, grabbing my arm and pulling me over the back of the couch. I crash into his lap and he sprinkles his own kisses over me. “There’s no director or cameraman to stop me.” The implied promise in his voice makes me giggle like a love-drunk fool.

“I’m pretty sure I don’t care,” I say defiantly, knowing I’d never want to make him stop, and rolling my head back so he can continue the trail of kisses sending goose bumps over the length of me.

“Tempting...” He slides a hand between my thighs, up to their apex and gently strokes me. A knot forms way, way down in my belly and my body goes from zero to sixty in seconds. “Easy,” he chuckles, bringing his hand up to pull my arms from the death grip they’ve formed on his neck. “Give an old man a break.” He scoops me up and deposits me on the couch beside him, replacing his glasses and returning to the stack of papers.

I pout. Then quickly realize what a dirty whore I’m turning into and immediately shake it away.

“What’s all this?” I ask over his shoulder.

“A project I’m working on.” He’s distracted, so I pick up the folder nearest me to find out exactly what is more important than me at this moment.

The air deflates from my lungs and one of those thoughts I vowed not to think about creeps out from its hiding place. My doppelgänger stares up from the page, and I can no longer run from the scar this woman left on Devon’s soul.

Bold letters pop off the next page: Dylan M. Abbott Women’s Clinic

I get the sensation I’m falling. Through the couch. Through the lower levels of Devon’s mansion. Through the sandy ground, the layers of earth and all the way into hell. Her ghost has come back to haunt me, and I can no longer pretend she doesn’t exist.

Flipping through the pages, I see a plan outlined. A plan to build a clinic that will help drug addicted and at-risk women. The kind of place I’m all too familiar with. I slam the folder closed with shaky hands and toss it onto the coffee table. From my peripheral vision I can tell he’s watching me. I pull my knees into my chest and drag both hands over my face, propping my elbows over my knees and staring forward. I need a smoke.

“You know about Dylan,” he asks softly, more a statement than a question, and tosses his own papers onto the table. I nod, but refuse to look at him. “Who told you?”

“Ernest told me I look like her,” I answer, focused on a shiny gold award sitting on a bookcase.

“You do favor her. Sort of.” Devon reaches for my arm and I pull away. Because it’s out there now. He’s admitted it, and I hate him for it. If this had never come up, I could continue to act as though I were as ignorant to it as I’d always been. But now I can’t, and staying makes me look pathetic.

“Fuck this, Devon!” I shout, and stand up, retrieving the phone from my pocket to call a cab.

“Fuck what?” Devon stands beside me, reaching for the phone. I pull away from him and lunge to the opposite side of the coffee table.

“I may be pathetic in a lot of ways, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit around and let you make me feel like a fool!”

“How am I making you feel like a fool?”

“You’re using me. You’re fucking me because I remind you of her and she obviously won’t fuck you anymore. Surprisingly, that doesn’t bother me so much. But when you go around and start building shit for her, like she still matters to you, that makes me feel a damn fool!” It feels better when I yell. I turn back to my phone and start looking for a cab company in Malibu. Devon doesn’t argue, instead sinking down to the couch, hands covering his face like I’ve just sucker punched him.

“Dylan is dead, Carly.” His words are so soft I don’t hear them at first. It takes a few minutes for them to make it through the fog of my anger. When they do, my mind goes slack.

“Dead?” I ask.

He nods without looking up. My anger deflates, replaced by guilt as I watch him fighting against memories he doesn’t want to see.

“W...When?”

“Our first year in L.A.”

“But...but Ernest said...” My words trail off. What did Ernest say? That Hollywood chewed her up and spit her out. Which I assumed meant she had run back to the safety of home. Never would I imagine she died.

“Ernest knows I don’t like to talk about it.”

“How?” I walk back and sit on the couch beside him.

“She OD’d and didn’t get a second chance like you,” he says, and opens the folder to Dylan’s bio. The ghost of his past stares up at me from the cream page, but she looks decidedly less threatening than before. Now that I know she can’t walk in and steal him away.

“I’m...I’m really sorry.” I stumble over my words, not at all sure how to console him.

“Thanks.” He closes the folder as if he can’t bear to look at her photo. “It wasn’t supposed to end like it did. We were supposed to become famous together.” He grips his fist in his hand and rubs it back and forth. “She took it too far, and no one was around to help her.” I say nothing, encouraging him with my silence. “This clinic is the least I can do for her. She never would’ve come to L.A. if it hadn’t been for me.”

“That’s very...very Devon of you,” I say, hoping my words are a comfort, but inside I’m as confused as I’ve ever been about him. I shrink away to the far end of the couch with the folder, studying the page in my hand, every curve of her face, every line of emotion she gives the camera. She’s loose and relaxed, obviously more pot and ecstasy than coke and pills. Her hair is flower-child free with a thick braid twisted down the side of her face. She looks happy, but somehow lost, like maybe she isn’t quite sure she wants to stay on the ride she’s on.

“I’m sorry if the similarity bothers you. I didn’t think it would. I guess I just have a type.” He shrugs, and when he explains it like this, I don’t feel so dirty anymore. If anything, I feel guilty again for doubting him.

Devon squints his eyes, studying me over the page. It makes me uncomfortable so I raise the paper to block my face. “She was really pretty,” I say in a whisper.

There’s a flurry of motion and a second later Devon is perched on the glass coffee table in front of me, hands on my knees looking at me with eyes so eager I’m afraid of what’s coming next.

This can’t be good.

“I want you to be a part of it,” he says, nodding his head, all Christmas-morning excited. This? This I
can
say no to.

“No way, Devon.” I stand up, pushing him away, and pace over to the wall of windows, watching the surf break on the sand and strangers walking by our love nest.

“Why?” He hasn’t followed me, thank goodness. In the reflection of the glass door I see he has swiveled around, watching me.

“Because that’s your thing, Devon. I’m not the hero in this life. I’m the victim.” I don’t realize that I have grabbed my left wrist and am twisting the blood-red cuff at my bosom until the leather’s friction chafes my skin.

“Bullshit, Carly!” He stands and I spin around to face him, suddenly pissed off that he would even bring this up with me. Doesn’t he remember what I’ve been through? How could he be dumb enough to think I want to be reminded of my past? “You’re no more of a victim than I am. You’re a survivor.” He nods his head encouragingly, walking over to me. I spin away from him and stalk to the far side of the room, clenching and releasing my fists at my sides, gasping to ease the tight feeling in my chest. He assumes my problems are the superficial kind every self-obsessed, pity-poor-little-me starlet experiences when her luck runs out. Don’t I wish.

“You don’t have the first clue what I’ve been through.”

“Enlighten me then,” he says without following me.

“The drugs, the alcohol, the suicide attempts—that’s just the tip of my iceberg,” I seethe. It sounds more like a threat than a revelation. But I’m afraid the danger is all mine. For the first time ever I feel the heinous words forming in the depths of me, scratching their way to the surface. My horrid truth glimmers in the darkness, begging to step into the light. Do I let it out? Do I tell him the real reason I’m so fucked up?

He waits. Silently watching me. His eyes turn darker blue with each passing second. My hands shake as I rip a leaf from the plant at my side and tear it to shreds. Oh god, I just want this out of me. I want to purge the pain, share the secret with someone who actually cares. Someone who makes me feel safe enough to share the darkness hiding inside. He watches me with careful eyes, tracing his lips and thinking. I turn away because I know I can never say the words while I look at him. I open my mouth without the first clue of what’s going to come out but knowing something has to or I am going to explode. I think of all the ways to say it—
I
was abused.
I
was molested.
Melvin LaCroix is a monster.
My parents knew and didn’t stop it.
But nothing comes out. Helplessly, I stare at the walls, actually wanting to hear the words spill from my throat. Nothing. Seconds slowly tick by in silence. I can’t do it. He speaks first.

“We both chose the life we live. And we can choose to walk away from it at any time.” He fills the void, obviously assuming I’m not going to. Hearing his words—his accusation that I may be in the wrong—shatters any strength building inside. The air is sucked out of my lungs. My safe place is gone and with it the ability to share the truth. I quickly pack it back down into its hiding place, outrage sparking hot in my belly. How dare he act like this is my fault?