Hollywood Hot Mess (6 page)

Chapter Five

Three rows of double-sized, ivory leather recliners—divided one and one down a beige-carpeted aisle—line the considerable length of Devon’s jet. Behind the seats, a bank of buttery sofas surround a lacquered conference table. In the very back, a stainless steel and dark wood dining area sits in front of closed double doors I assume lead to an equally extravagant bedroom.

Illuminated in the warm glow of reading lights, polished wood grain tables sit in front of each seat. No fold-down trays for Devon Hayes. Through floor-to-ceiling oval windows at each seat, the runway’s blinking lights flash against the glasslike strobe lights on a disco floor.

I shrink back momentarily into the little alcove reserved for staff, feeling so far out of my element it isn’t even funny. Devon turns to me, and for a cold second I stare at him like some star-struck fan, bewilderment washing down my face. Recovering slightly, I gulp and force my chin into the air, looking away as if something has caught my eye. At my side, the worn-out Louis Vuitton duffel I carry is even more out of place than I am. I pull the strap forward and tuck the bag behind my back.

“Miss Klein, you made it.” An elegant hand removes frameless reading glasses. The lenses glint in the glow of his overhead light like the patches of salt in his graying hair. On the table before him, a dark brown liquor drink sweats onto a neat marble coaster. The hot, earthy scent of scotch hangs heavy in the air. God, I love that smell! But I hate the smug smile smeared on his face.

Removing the scripts from his lap, he stands and the smile fades. With the easy, self-assured gait of a man with too much confidence he covers the few feet of carpeted aisle between us, appraising me with every step. His gaze lingers on my freshly painted black nail polish and row of golden nose rings.

“I see we’re back in character.” He raises an amused eyebrow as he reaches for my bag. I instinctively pull away from him, finding the collar button of his perfectly pressed light blue shirt an easier focal point than his smirky eyes. The fact that his shirt is probably the same color as his eyes is not lost on me, but I refuse to confirm this fleeting thought.

Ignoring my obvious discomfort, he takes a rolling step forward and closes the distance I created. His gaze is heavy. I freeze under its weight, still focused on the button. Slowly, steadily, he reaches for the worn straps of my bag, no doubt daring me to recoil again like some masterful lion tamer. Damned mannered men and their chivalrous need to make females feel helpless. Not every girl needs, or wants, a white knight.

But I let him take the bag. He tucks it neatly into the mahogany overhead bin opposite him and returns to his seat. Looking back to the cold black night whistling outside the open door, I wonder if it’s too late to change my mind. Aside from an overzealous anchorwoman on a TV mounted by Devon’s seat, we’re alone. When I agreed to this trip I thought it was going to be an epic party.

“Where’s everyone else?”

“Ernest is in the galley. Tiny is parking the car. The rest should be on their way.”

“Smartwater, Miss Klein?” I’m startled by a voice coming from behind me, and turn to see the same small Asian man that accompanied Devon into my trailer. I can only assume this is Ernest. But how in the hell does he know I like Smartwater?

“Do you have lime?” I accept the water and sigh with boredom, not wanting anyone to notice how out of place I feel in such swanky surroundings.

“It’s a little intimidating, isn’t it?” Devon whispers behind me. I spin on my heel and fix him in a cold glare. He doesn’t even bother to look at me.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I answer defiantly.

“Oh, do you usually fly private?” He finally looks up, holding his place on the page with a perfectly manicured nail. If my eyes were daggers, he would be dead. But they aren’t, and his look is so unaffected it unnerves me further. Oh, I’ll show him.

“No, I don’t. My ego fits just fine in coach.”

He clenches his jaw but says nothing more. He doesn’t have to. His gaze is so hot and intense it all but dares me to try to play whatever little game he thinks we’re playing. But I know a thing or two about games. I keep my eyes locked on his, refusing to be the first to look away. Refusing to show any weakness to him.

“If you’ll have a seat, Miss Klein, I’ll bring you some lime.” Ernest places his hand in the small of my back, ending our staring. I slink to the side so Ernest can pass. “I always like to sit in the last row,” he says with a conspiratorial nod. “The seats recline further.” He steps behind the last seat on the left and waves me in with a helpful smile. Ernest, I like. His asshole boss, I want to punch in the teeth.

But I don’t have time to plan a mysterious death at forty thousand feet. Staring down at the buttery leather makes me go all hot and squirmy inside. I swallow hard, pushing the old demons down.

“Is something wrong, Miss Klein?” Ernest places his hand gently on my shoulder, snatching me away from the dark places.

“Um, do you have a blanket?” I bite my lip and continue to stare down my nose at the seat like it might bite.

“A blanket? Sure.” He disappears. I pull my hair into a messy topknot and toss my phone on the table. He reappears with a fluffy beige throw. Of course, it’s cashmere. Only the best for Devon Hayes.

“My god, you look just like Dylan!” Ernest whispers, looking at my topknot like it’s created some miracle makeover. I check my reflection in the black windowpane, but see nothing different.

“Who’s Dylan?” My face wrinkles in confusion.

Ernest’s face washes into that slack look people get when they worry they’ve said too much. He chances a glance over his shoulder to Devon, who’s still buried in his scripts. By the time he turns back to me, all traces of shock have vanished from his face, replaced by a soft smile.

“Just an old friend.” Ernest turns back down the aisle and disappears into the kitchenette without further explanation.
Whatever
,
weirdo.
I grab the hem of the blanket and fan it out in the air so it settles over the seat, quickly slipping into place without touching any of the offending leather. I really don’t understand why everyone insists on leather seats. It’s just to show off their wealth. Leather is really a vile material, nothing but hot, sticky animal skin. The thought of it sends another shiver up my spine and I shake it off with a sarcastic gag.

“Something wrong, Pigtails?” Devon asks from where he sits in the front row like the king he likes to think he is. The urge to punch him resurfaces. I fucking hate being called Pigtails.

“Don’t call me that,” I snarl. He cranes his head around the side of his seat and snakes one ridiculously muscled arm down toward the floor, a curious smile curving around the highlighter he now has clamped between his teeth. What is it with this man attracting attention to his mouth? His glasses are back on, giving him that preppy, CEO-in-charge-who-will-still-beat-your-ass look that makes women melt.

“Fair enough. Something wrong,
Carly
?”

“I don’t think cows should have to die to give me something to sit on,” I snap.

His eyes sparkle as he looks down at the sleeve of my black leather jacket, then back to me, raising an entertained eyebrow before he disappears behind the ivory leather. I roll my eyes at the back of his seat and grab my phone from the table, inserting the earphone plug into its jack. Thankfully the music blares into my ears loudly enough to drown out the stuffy old-man opera music floating from discreetly hidden speakers in Devon Hayes’s flying yacht.

I close my eyes, and the music takes me to my own world where Mr. Asshole up front can no longer reach me.

Honestly? I’ve never flown private, something that gnaws at my insides the entire time I’m quietly relishing the experience without blowing my cover. I could have flown private, had I had the kind of parents that gave a shit about their kid’s future. But how in the hell is an eight-year-old supposed to know any different?

“Wait a minute! Where’s everybody else?” I startle awake, blinking and rubbing my eyes for clarity. Panic floods my stomach when I see the jet is nearly empty. The twinkling lights of the runway are gone when I peer out the oval window. Nothing but a steady red wing light and a flashing white strobe interrupt the black sky zipping by.

Devon’s up front, his head still buried in a script. Ernest and a hulking black man are eating at the conference table. After a few empty seconds with no response, Devon’s head pops around the chair. His glasses sit low on his nose like a grandpa, and his reading light illuminates his gray hair to silver.

“They got called back to set last-minute. Some mix-up with something. They’ll meet us tomorrow.” He turns back around, not waiting for a reply. Now, I know exactly what game he’s trying to play. The world blurs when my eyes pull into tiny slits. He really is a fool if he thinks anything like
that
is going to happen here. I may play his whore on set, but I’ll chop his Sexiest Man Alive penis off if he brings it near me! I square my shoulders, replacing my angry glare with a smug sneer and grit my teeth. I’ll show him how this game gets played.

In a huff, I grab the stack of magazines offered for in-flight entertainment.
Newsweek.
Money.
Fortune.
At least he’s predictable—boring, but predictable.

Good thing I came prepared. I shed my leather jacket and stomp up the aisle in black skinny jeans and a tight black cami. Devon doesn’t look at me when I pass. He’s too busy pretending to work. Please! Like he really picks his own scripts.

At the front of the cabin, I arch my back in a sexy stretch, thinking I’m all Sophia Loren, butt and chest poked out as I make an exaggerated production of reaching for the bag he stored in an overhead bin. I glance over my shoulder and suck air through my teeth when his attention is still firmly on the script in his lap. Oh no, he does not get to ignore me.

I grab
InTouch
from a side pocket and close the door, flopping down in the chair across from him, ignoring the icy-cold sting of leather against my skin. My legs hang over the armrest, feet dangling in the aisle by his elbow. Still he doesn’t look at me. I clear my throat and open the magazine. Nothing. I swing my feet in the air,
accidentally
kicking his elbow.

“You actually read that trash?” he asks. I smile behind the safety of my magazine. He’s playing my game now. Quickly, I peek down at my chest to be sure the V I’ve cut in the neck of my cami shows enough cleavage to make him uncomfortable, before I lower the magazine, smiling sweetly.

“How else am I going to know what a bad girl I’ve been?” I pout, then delight when his eyes glance down at my cleavage. Immediately—not even taking time to focus on my exposed assets—his gaze pops up and catches me gloating like a sore winner.

“It’s nothing but lies invented to entertain America, Miss Klein.” He sounds like a condescending academic and I level a cold glare at him now that his attention is elsewhere. What does he know?

I flip through the magazine until I land on a two-page photo spread near the front.

HeaVon and Angel—Hollywood power couple Heather Troy and Devon Hayes took time out of their busy schedules last week for a day of family fun at the zoo with their son
,
Angel.

“All of it’s lies?” I tilt my head to the side and turn the magazine so he can see it. He looks up once again, squinting like old men do. A smile curls one side of his mouth, and he reaches for the magazine. I jerk it away, teasing him with a smile. Clearly unimpressed with my game, he tucks his chin to glance impatiently over his reading glasses. His look is so brusque I immediately bring the magazine back, fearing he might not play if I wait too long.

With an I-thought-so nod, he takes the magazine and leans back to his side of the cabin, pushing his glasses up on his forehead as he brings the magazine closer to his face. Old-man eyes must be failing him. He shakes his head and rubs his left eye before lifting his brow. The glasses fall back into place.

“Is this the current issue?” He runs his fingers over his lips as he turns back to me, resting his head on the seatback. His profile is bathed in soft light.

“I got it when I left L.A.” I pick at the black nail polish marring my cuticles.

“These pictures were taken last year when I filmed in Central Park. Heather and Angel stopped by the set. I took him to see the cats between takes.” He tosses the magazine into the air and it lands perfectly in my lap. I face forward with a huff, seething and smacking my lips in disgust. Through the corner of my eye I notice his head jerks up when I plop my grubby biker boots on the polished table in front of my chair. He says nothing and I leave them there.

HeaVon is—hands down—the stupidest relationship moniker in Hollywood
.
I bet the name was her idea. She’s obviously the cheesy fame-whore type that eats that shit up. And Angel? Poor kid. Let’s hope he’s got an Uncle Van Damme somewhere because that name is a fucking gift to schoolyard bullies.

The only thing in Hollywood that’s more ridiculous than HeaVon, is Heather Troy herself. If she came from money, she’d be a total WASP. Instead, she’s a lucky piece of white trash with a hot sugar daddy. Why the hell their fans can’t see that is beyond me.

Waifish and overly styled for a zoo trip, she steadies Angel’s back as he leans up on his tiptoes to look at the tigers. Her long, black Morticia Addams hair is topped with a thick-fringed bang. Overly aggressive black shades obscure her face. Harlot-red lipstick paints pouty, sucked-together lips, which makes her cheekbones jut out. A flowy black pantsuit covers her bony body and jewels adorn every available surface. Something about the woman disturbs me. She’s obviously got snakes in her head. You can tell it by looking at her. But let’s be honest—in Hollywood, who doesn’t?

Devon holds Angel’s hand, crisp and clean in tailored jeans, tight white T-shirt and a loose green blazer. A scarf wrapped around his neck. A gray fedora, a shade darker than his hair, pulled low over his blue eyes. Even in half profile, his grin is wide and toothy, looking lovingly down at Angel. Together, they smile and point at the striped cats.