Hollywood Hot Mess (8 page)

“How long have you been in the business?” he asks.

“I got my SAG card on my first birthday, so nineteen years and eleven months?” I use my fingers to count.

“So exact,” he teases.

“I turn twenty next month.” My voice is chipper and I feel like a fraud. I’m totally fan-girling him now.

“When’s your birthday?”

“Christmas day.” I grimace at the thought of sharing such a birthday.

“You and Jesus. Who would have thought?” He salutes me with his wineglass, sloshing some over the side. Great. Mr. Perfect is getting lit.

“What about you, how long have you been acting?” I lean in toward him for the first time.

“Hmm...” He’s reaching way back in his old-man memory, one eye all squinty as his lips twist up like a little kid. “I was about your age when I landed my first role, and that was fourteen years ago.”

His words stick in my brain like peanut butter. I couldn’t have heard him right.

“Wait...how old are you?”

“Fourteen years older than you.” His head tilts forward in that you’re-not-the-brightest-bulb-in-the-pack-are-you way.

“You’re only thirty-four?” I do the math twice because I suck at numbers and it just doesn’t make sense. He can’t be that young.

“Congratulations, brainiac.” His voice drips with sarcasm. I hold a hand up to block out the gray hair curling around his temples.

He’s clean-shaven now. The trademark scruff no longer darkens his face. Not a single line creases his skin. None of those brown spots old people get, and his cheeks are still plumped with the collagen-rich skin of a young man. Well, maybe he is young. He certainly seems a lot younger when he’s had a few drinks to soften his serious edge.

“No...I mean, you look so old.”

“Thanks. You know, some people would say I’m the sexiest man alive.” His eyes go all brooding-with-desire and his mouth opens in a pout that mimics this year’s magazine cover photo. It’s so damn sexy my breath stops. He laughs at himself, wipes a hand down his face and the look is gone.

“You always play such old roles, fathers and CEO types and stuff. Playing older is career suicide in Hollywood.” I study him with newfound appreciation.

“I’m playing the game. Those are the parts I get. What they want to see. It’s work, and it’s not so bad.” He shrugs, but I can see there’s something else he’s hiding.

“What about your hair? Do you dye it?”

“Heredity.” He pulls a hand through his charcoal waves. I absently wonder if his curls are as soft as they look. “All the men in my family gray prematurely, but at least we keep it.” He holds the back of his neck and stretches his head back.

“What was your first role?” I sit back quickly when I realize how enthralled I am. Could I be any more obvious?

“Tell you what.” He sparkles with childish excitement. “Help me with these dishes and I’ll show you.”

Chapter Eight

Devon presses a button on a remote control and an oil painting slides away, revealing a flat screen. Two more button clicks and the TV comes to life.

“Promise you won’t laugh?” He sweeps his wineglass above an ivory leather couch, inviting me to sit.

“Nope. I won’t promise that.” I opt for the floor instead, pulling one of the throw pillows into my lap as I sit down between the couch and coffee table. Three cushions line the length of the couch, but Devon picks one right behind me. I’d touch his legs if I leaned back.

“
But Allison
,
you can’t go to prom with Eric.
You have to go with me.
”

Devon looks like a baby, jet-black hair and dazzling navy-rimmed eyes, playing the clichéd football star brooding over some bimbo cheerleader.

I roar with laughter.

“Okay, penguin arms! Were you fresh off the boat or was your acting coach that awful?”

“Hey, easy!” Devon grimaces. “I’d never been in front of a camera before.”

“That’s obvious!” I rock back on my bottom, momentarily brushing against his leg. An odd sensation shoots through me, radiating from where our flesh meets. I immediately pull myself forward, sobered by the touch.

“Okay, if you think I’m so horrible let’s see how good you were ten years ago.” His smile is wicked.

Click. Click. Click.

The opening credits for
Life on Easy Street
roll over the screen. Familiar music pipes into the vast, white room. My mind goes blank and I am so transfixed by the TV the sea could swallow Devon’s island and I wouldn’t know. How in the hell does he have this?
Life on Easy Street
is only in syndication on the crappiest channels these days.

I haven’t watched this in years but I know immediately what episode it is. A blond pigtailed girl plays dolls in her safe and happy make-believe world. My lips move silently, automatically recalling script from ten years ago.

I rock forward on my knees, rising up to the screen, drawn to the innocence that used to be me. God, I look happy. Not a care in the world. The way little girls are supposed to be. For a brief moment, I remember being that little girl. Before the bad things happened and life broke me.

“You were so cute. Look at those pigtails!” Devon playfully pulls at the long blond hair trailing down my back. Absently, I twist a curl at my temple, all dreamlike, staring at the TV.

“Why do you have this?” My voice is soft, a whisper he probably doesn’t hear. I want to be mad at him, to hate him for bringing my past out to slap me in the face, but I can’t. I’m so drawn to the little girl, to what I used to be. She’s who everyone loved and wanted. A little girl without a clue how horrible life could really be. I want to save her, to lock her in a box and throw away the key so my inevitable future can’t hurt her.

My TV sister walks into the room and makes some condescending big sister remark. The audience roars when I deliver my clever comeback, and she pouts off in a huff. I smile.
Good girl
,
Carly!
And mentally pat my head.

“Oh, Mollie Ann!” Devon exclaims. “She was every pubescent boy’s wet dream. Where’s she now?” Devon is practically drooling when I turn around and smack him playfully with my pillow.

“Maria? She’s in rehab, last I heard.”

“Drugs?”

“And bulimia.”

“What a waste.”

We go back to watching and laugh along with the cued audience when little Carly delivers her last joke and the scene changes. Watching this isn’t nearly as bad as I thought. I settle back against the couch, brushing Devon’s sprawling legs.

But then I hear
his
voice, booming just out of shot. Utter panic breaks across my body in a cold sweat, stealing the air from my lungs and sucker punching me square in the gut. The bad things crawl from their dark places, making me go all hot and squirmy inside. I leap to my feet, searching for the remote because this trip down memory lane has just taken a severely wrong turn.

“
Hey!
Where’s my little Pigtails?
”

It’s him. Immediately, my body quivers uncontrollably. The sound of his voice is like a hive of killer bees raging through my ear canal, invading my brain. I can’t make it stop. I can’t get away. I can’t think. The walls blur and fall in on me. The temperature spikes. I’m in a kind of hell I can’t escape. Paralyzed with fear, I’m screaming in my head.
Run
,
Carly!
Run!

“Oh man, I loved the actor that played your dad. What was his name?”

“Melvin LaCroix,” I whisper, without any idea of how words are forming in my mouth. Then I see him, blowfish mouth, potbelly and all. Little Carly runs to him. He scoops her up in his arms and tosses her over his shoulder. She squeals and giggles with delight. It’s enough to make a girl vomit, or open a vein. I can’t watch another second and escape to the porch, hands shaking frantically as I fish in my pockets for a cigarette. Firing it up, I take a long drag to soothe my nerves.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Devon is full of concerned confusion when he steps onto the porch.

“I don’t want to watch that shit!” I spit the words over my shoulder, focusing intently on the moonlit ocean waves, trying desperately to distract myself, to keep from going
there
. But it’s no use. The damage is done. I grab the liquor drink from Devon’s hand, raising it to my lips to get rid of
his
memory the only way I know how. Scotch’s hot scent stings my nose the instant before it should splash across my tongue. Somehow I stop myself and hurl the cut-crystal glass off the porch.
Fuck!
I dig my thumbs deep into my temples, finding the tiniest sliver of clarity. With shaky breath I exhale my smoke into the black night air and grit my teeth to give me something else to concentrate on.

“We don’t have to watch it.” Devon joins me by the porch rail. I hate the feeling of his eyes on me. I sidle away from him. “I thought we were having fun.” He studies my face in the moonlight. I ignore him, taking another drag through chattering teeth. A sea bird’s call rips through the quiet night.

“Why do you even have it?” I blink back tears, walking away from him and tucking my head, so he doesn’t see me wipe them away.

“I like to study my costars’ acting styles. It helps me prepare for roles.” His steps squeak on the porch boards at my back.

I jump down the steps, trying to get away, trying to make it obvious that I don’t want or need his company right now. My head falls back. Oh, the stars are pretty here, and I try to distract myself enough to find center and push the old demons down. Inhale smoke, exhale smoke.
Calm
,
Carly.
Calm.

“Hey, I get it.” He rests an unwelcome hand on my shoulder. It totally unbalances me. I shrug it off and step away. He isn’t deterred in the least. “It’s tough being a child actor. It’s hard to make that transition.” He’s right behind me. Oh, for the love of God, why won’t he just shut up? Just shut up already and leave me alone. “You know, every child actor faces that hurdle. You aren’t the only who struggles with it.”

SHUT UP!
SHUT UP!
SHUT UP
! Oh! Good god! How can I shut him up?

Before I know it, my fingers are plucking at the buttons running down the front of my shirt. The self-destructive part of me knows men always shut up once they get what they want. And what other reason could he possibly have for bringing me to a private island?

A tear slides over my cheek. I don’t try to wipe it away. I’ve gone all hot and squirmy on the inside, and I can’t shake it. My body really isn’t my own anymore, possessed by some evil autopilot that seems hell-bent on destroying the tiny bit of Carly I’ve managed to put back together. When my naked breasts are totally bared to the cool ocean breeze, my mind lets go of reality, losing focus and shifting to a soft fuzzy place where my actions don’t register as
right
or
wrong.
Where emotion can’t touch me and memories are easily lost.

In one quick motion, I spin around to face Devon. One hand grabs his crotch, the other pulls me up level with his broad shoulders. With enough force to bust a lip, I plant my mouth firmly on his, working our lips together in a desperate way. And just like that, he’s rendered utterly speechless. Only something isn’t right. Something about the moment is so wrong I freeze against him, our bodies rigid in the moonlight. I completely expect him to take over and take from me the only thing anyone wants anymore.

He remains still, not tearing at my clothes or shoving his tongue down my throat.

An eternal second passes. The ocean breeze whips around us, blowing my hair into a tornado. My bare nipples rub against his faded coral shirt, sending sensations racing to the dark parts of me.

“Carly?” he mumbles beneath my lips. I fall away with a pathetic whimper. The tears come so fast I can’t stop them—blubbering, sobbing and weak against the solid heat of his chest. I melt down his body to the ground. In one easy sweep, he scoops me into his arms and carries me back to the porch, mounting the steps two at a time and easing me into a chair.

Mortification doesn’t even begin to describe it. I’ve just thrown myself at an old man who refused me and now pities me. This is a new level of hell. Jerking away from him, I pull the sides of my shirt to cover my nakedness. I am the world’s biggest fucking idiot.

“What? Isn’t that what you want?” I sniff, wiping my eyes, hands stained black with the charcoal liner running down my cheeks. “Isn’t that the reason you brought me here in the first place?” My words are ragged and clipped, caught in my chest, fighting with the sobs that rack my body. He drags a hand through his hair and leans back on the porch railing. Equally confused and horrified, his face twists like he’s trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

“I’m flattered you would think that, Carly. But no.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “That’s not the reason I brought you here.”

“Why else would you bring me here?” I pull out a cigarette and light it close to my body with trembling hands, still holding my shirt closed. He grabs the blanket behind me.

“Well, it’s Thanksgiving, and you didn’t have anyone to spend it with.” His whisper soothes me, his face inches from mine as he pulls the blanket tight around my shoulders. He reaches for a lock of tear-dampened hair hanging in my eyes, but stops himself and turns back to the railing.

“I would’ve been fine.” The words leave my mouth with a stream of smoke.

“I also wanted to get to know you better.” Devon shrugs weakly, like he’s admitting some secret.

“Yeah, I bet you did.” I sneer at him and roll my red-rimmed eyes.

“Not like that,” he says in a dismissive tone. “We’re supposed to be lovers in the movie, and you pretty much hate me. Audiences aren’t stupid. We can’t sell
The Mighty Fall
as the greatest love story in history if we hate each other.” The easy, lazy confidence is back. He sits on the rail. The remnants of my tears stain his faded coral shirt in bright pink dots.

“Why would you care?” I snort, and glare at the wet spots. “It’s a paycheck. You’re going to get paid whether this film is a flop or not.”

“It’s not just a paycheck. I’m also the producer. It’s my first solo project.”

What? That’s news. I thought Mr. Perfect just wanted all of America to want him, like every other normal actor in Hollywood. “I don’t want to act forever. The real power in Hollywood is behind the camera. But no one’s going to give me a serious shot unless I show them I can really do it.” His laser-focused determination is beyond ravenous. “This film is my chance to do that. But it has to be perfect.”

He leans off the railing and takes a seat beside me. “This film is your chance, too. This could be your comeback role. It could put you back on top. I want that for you, Carly. You deserve it.”

Why would he want that for me?

I’m already in shock when he reaches for my cigarette, taking a drag of it before handing it back. Devon Hayes smoking? This night just keeps getting weirder.

“That’s one reason I wanted you for this film. I think you’re perfect for the role, but I also think you need it badly enough to give the performance of your career.” Devon stays forward in the seat, arms on his knees, instead of sitting back where I’m shocked to silence. “If you want to.”

Want? Me
?
There are those dangerous words again.

“No one wanted me for this part. I had to fight tooth and nail to get it.” The cigarette butt is cool and damp when I take another drag, and a weird part of me loves knowing it’s from his lips.

“You did,” he acknowledges with a slow nod. “But I had to fight just as hard to give it to you. The studio didn’t want you, thought you were a liability. I’m out on a major limb for you.”

“Why?” Our eyes meet, and for the first time I feel like he sees me as a grown-up instead of a little kid.

“Because there’s a brilliant actress in you. And if you would quit hating yourself and stomping your feet like a child, the rest of the world might quit expecting you to fail and finally take you seriously.” He towers over me when he stands. The blanket falls away from my shoulders as I look up into his eyes, held there for some unknown reason. He leans down and pulls the blanket back around my shoulders. How can such a simple touch send the good kind of hot shakes skittering over my skin? My chest feels funny, like it’s both empty and full at the same time. And I want to touch him. I want to feel the warmth of his skin on my palm. But I don’t. Instead, I hug my waist tightly and try to ignore what’s happening inside.

“I need this film to be great, Carly, but I can’t do it by myself.” Gently, he rests a hand on my shoulder. It doesn’t make me go all hot and squirmy; instead, it touches something deeper in me, some tender place I didn’t know I still had. “I need you.” His eyes are lost, empty, softly focused on me with an overly earnest look I can’t remember ever seeing in another human being.

That’s the moment something inside me slips and starts to unravel, something that’s been wound like a steel cable around my chest. Devon brushes my hair away from my face and wipes a thumb over my tear-slicked cheeks. Without consciously doing it, my head leans against his palm. His face softens, but he says nothing more. He doesn’t have to. His three little words echo in my ears.
I
need you.
It’s so distracting I don’t notice him leave. But when my senses find themselves again, I’m alone in the dark.