Total Trainwreck

by Evie Claire

  Total Trainwreck

  By Evie Claire

  In a town where every illusion comes with a price, a girl can have love or fame. Carly Klein wants both.

  The A-list drama continues in this compulsively readable follow-up to Evie Claire’s Hollywood Hot Mess.

  Hurricane Carly hits the big leagues and her offscreen drama hits DEFCON-level F*ck.

  From tabloid trainwreck child star to award-nominated starlet, Carly Klein wants it all. And being silver fox Devon Hayes’s f*ck buddy isn’t cutting it anymore. The gloves are off as she comes out swinging for the man she loves.

  Devon Hayes, aka the sexiest man alive, is the toast of Tinseltown as half of a Hollywood power couple HeaVon—but he doesn’t want to be. Yet his A-list showmance lover will stop at nothing to keep their marital sham alive. So when Carly and Devon’s scorching connection off set threatens his soon-to-be ex’s dynasty, a sh*tstorm of trouble is unleashed.

  But pussing out isn’t in Carly’s DNA. Through sex tapes, murder and epic Hollywood takedowns, Carly and Devon will be together and HeaVon will burn in Hollywood Hell...

  Part Two of Two

  Dear Reader,

  I write these letters months in advance, so when reading this, you’re thinking about September weather, but while writing it, I’m still trying to survive May’s downpour. That means that sometimes I miss the opportunity to tell you about the cool things we’re doing until months later.

  The Carina Press Romance Promise is one of those things. Implemented this past June, the promise is simple—we’re promising an HEA or HFN on our books tagged with the Carina Press Romance Promise in the book’s description. While we firmly believe in the necessity of a romance ending in an HEA, we also realize that in today’s publishing world, others may sometimes call a book a romance, but then the ending might not always deliver on the most important of romance reader expectations. So the Carina Press Romance Promise doesn’t mean we’re doing anything different with our romance, just that we’re reaffirming our commitment to you, the reader, to deliver an HEA or HFN in our romance books. Visit our website if you’re curious to find out more about this promise.

  This month, we have a variety of romance to kick off your fall, including one debut contemporary romance author with two back-to-back releases. Take one young fallen starlet, add one older Sexiest Man Alive costar and you have the makings of a Hollywood Hot Mess by Evie Claire. And since we know how agonizing the wait for book two in a duology can be, the very next week we’re giving you the second part of Carly and Devon’s story, where they’ll have to overcome ruthless Hollywood execs, a blackmailing show-mance fiancée and merciless tabloids in what could be a Total Trainwreck before they get to their happily-ever-after.

  Historical romance author Amanda Weaver brings another Grantham Girls tale this month with A Reluctant Betrothal. Grace’s last chance at a respectable marriage is about to be thwarted by her betrothed’s best friend, and as she fights for her engagement, she finds herself falling in love with the wrong man. Don’t miss the other books in this series, A Duchess in Name and A Common Scandal.

  This September, we have three fantastic male/male contemporary romances to share, including one debut author! Annabeth Albert introduced you to the #gaymers in Status Update and Beta Test. This month she wraps up the trilogy with Connection Error. When a snowstorm strands a video game designer and an injured navy SEAL together at an unfamiliar airport, the two bond while playing games, but when the heat between the pair starts rising, they must work to decide if there’s a future together or if it’s game over on this fling.

  Can childhood best friends Marc and Anthony make a real relationship work after eight life-altering years apart? Find out in Say It Right, from fan-favorite male/male romance author A.M. Arthur.

  And introducing debut author Sidney Bell with her absolutely fantastic male/male romantic suspense novel, Bad Judgment, in which bodyguard Brogan Smith is drawn into a maze of murder and illegal guns when he falls for his dangerous new client’s gorgeous, secretive boyfriend.

  That wraps up September but don’t forget we have a significant backlist of more than 1,000 titles across romance, mystery, science fiction and fantasy to help carry you through the chilly fall nights! Check out some you may have missed, including contemporary romances Chain of Command by HelenKay Dimon and Second Position by Katherine Locke, historical romance The Fighter and the Fallen Woman by Pamela Cayne, erotic romance One Cut Deeper by Joely Sue Burkhart and romantic suspense Blamed by Edie Harris.

  As always, until next month, my fellow book lovers, here’s wishing you a wonderful month of books you love, remember and recommend.

  Happy reading!

  Angela James

  Editorial Director, Carina Press

  Dedication

  To an amazing man who didn’t flinch when I decided to write a book and the precious little loves who inspire me daily.

  You. Are. Everything.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Evie Claire

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  In the industrial gleam of a gray-marble kitchen lit by lights still burning from last night, I crash head-first into the biggest mistake of my life. Reality slams into my sleep-deprived, coke-soaked brain like a wrecking ball.

  Countertops overflow with fallen soldiers, broken glass and cigarette butts. Music thumps from recessed ceiling speakers. With each thundering beat my brain threatens to shatter my skull. I slap at a wall switch when I enter through open French doors, and the room goes quiet. But silence is unnerving with everything swimming in my head. I crank the music back up and the dead bodies littering Spence’s Malibu mansion start to stir.

  My green silk dress lies in tatters at the bottom of the infinity pool. One killer Louboutin sticks heel first in a wall. I’m Darth Vader mouth breathing thanks to the endless lines of snow that kept me up all night. My nose is swollen and red enough to guide Santa’s sleigh. Blowing it produces nothing but a fine mist of blood-tinged snot. Beach sand and seawater cling to the T-shirt and boxers I’m wearing, because that’s what happens when a girl comes to on a deserted beach at dawn. My skin is chafed raw, but the discomfort somehow feels appropriate.
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br />   Last night should’ve been so perfect. Instead, it now proudly sits atop my Worst Ever list with an entitled smile. I can still see him, his image burned into my brain like a brand. Standing in the hallway, staring at me in Spence’s arms, his body as rigid as his face. The memory of his icy blue eyes boring into me like I’m his biggest regret seizes my heart. I grab at the pain searing through my chest and steady myself on a nearby chair. What. The. Fuck. Have. I. Done?

  Tears spring into my eyes. I bow my head to hide the shame and sorrow that twist my face. Last night. Oh, god, last night! A night that should’ve been everything has brought me back to nothing. My knees weaken at the thought. I sink into the chair and take my head in my hands. I’m not a crier. I’m not this weak. But if I don’t get the pain out of me somehow, I’m going to blow. So I sit in the discarded ruins of last night and let the tears fall. For a brief moment it helps, until...

  “No fucking way! Carly Klein?” One of the rousted bodies recognizes me. In this personal moment of utter despair, being famous is the last thing I need or want. I suck up my tears, wipe my face and shoot a withering look his way.

  “Fuck off!” I snarl, and turn for the kitchen.

  God bless Spence’s coffeepot. It’s full and hot and everything I need. I pour a cup, steal a pair of sunglasses off some lifeless idiot’s head and retreat to an empty second-floor balcony with the intention of getting my shit together. I sit down in a plush chair for a mental pep talk. Surely, I can find a way out of this. The caffeine will focus my brain and I’ll be able to think clearly. There’s gotta be a way to fix what I’ve done. I close my eyes to think. Immediately, I’m overwhelmed by a memory. His eyes. His damned navy blue eyes. So cold, so judging, so fucking mean. My stomach rolls and threatens to blow.

  No, I’m too keyed up. Reality doesn’t mix with my current state. The coffee needs time to chase the coke from my blood. But if I keep sitting here, I’m going to crawl out of my skin. That’s not an option. Instead, I turn down the hallway and head for the master bedroom at the end. The smell of sex masked by a morning shower fills my nose. A blonde and a brunette lie tangled in soft white sheets. Spence steps from the bathroom, fresh as an altar boy, fixing a cuff link in place.

  “Carly!” He beams, looking at me like I’m everything. I side-eye the bed-headed beauties stirring in his sheets. He rolls his eyes and walks over to the bed, picking up discarded clothes on the way. “Ladies!” he shouts, ripping the sheets away and tossing the clothes over their nakedness. “Time to go!” They immediately wake, pull something over their bodies and stagger from the room without so much as a goodbye. How pathetic. I sink onto the soft sheepskin rug between Spence’s bed and a large stone fireplace.

  “Have fun last night, Babygirl?” He leans down and places a kiss on the blond rat’s nest covering my head.

  “I fucked up, Spence,” I say, blowing on my coffee and taking a sip. He stops, up-downs me and falls into a nearby chair. He smells like heaven. Rich, woodsy, spicy and clean. I’ve never felt dirtier. “Why do I insist on fucking up everything good in my life?”

  “You mean Devon or your sobriety?”

  “How do you know about him?”

  “Carly.” He chastises me like this is a ridiculous question. Considering how well he knows me, it is.

  “Both,” I admit with a frown.

  “Well, number one, I’d say Devon Hayes is not the best thing that’s ever happened to you. I am. And number two, everybody slips on the road to recovery. No big deal.” He gives me a sobering look over a coffee cup that has materialized from thin air. “You fall down. You get up. Life goes on.”

  “Only, I always seem to be falling.” I bury my head between my raised knees, wondering why I insist on being such an idiot.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ll find your feet.” He rests his coffee on a side table and rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Fuck, last night was the hardest I’ve gone in a long time.”

  “You going somewhere?” I ask, admiring his dark blue suit.

  “Yeah. A board meeting to discuss upcoming projects.” He takes out his phone and scrolls through emails.

  “You’re actually working these days?”

  His head shoots up and he fixes me with a quizzical look. “I’ve always worked. You were just too wasted to realize I was gone.”

  “You’re a trust fund kid. Why bother?” I dismiss his answer with a shrug.

  “Thanks, asshole.” He smirks. “Not everybody wants to live off what their parents did.”

  “Like anyone could accomplish more than the great Vincent Hugo.” I make a sarcastically grand wave toward an oil painting of Spence’s dad hanging nearby.

  “Yeah, my dad was the fucking tits in this town. Everyone expects me to fuck it all up. Which is exactly why I won’t.” He tips his coffee cup at his dad’s portrait. Looking at the two of them, I see the same determined edge sharpening their features. “We had eight films gross over two hundred million each last year. Do you have any idea what that means?”

  “You’ve got more money than God?” I ask, bored by Spence’s annoying ambition. He grunts and reaches into his breast pocket, dropping the topic because he knows how pointless business talk is with me. Especially when he’s got his hand in that pocket. For the first time all morning my head stops pounding. I sit up on my knees, right in front of him. He pours a pile of white powder on the soft flesh between his thumb and index finger, leans over it and sniffs.

  I smile, extending my hand to let him know I need a little pick-me-up too.

  “Nope.” He shakes his head, screws the top on and tucks the glass vial away.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not enabling you. You don’t want this. Not really.”

  “How dare you sit there and lecture me? You inhale coke like air.”

  “Because I am a high-functioning addict. I can use and not lose my shit. You can’t.” He leans back in the chair, grabs his coffee and raises the cup to his lips.

  “You damn sure enabled me last night!”

  “That downhill slide was your own fault.”

  “Fuck you, Spence!”

  “Okay. Now?” He eagerly looks over to his disheveled bed and back to me. I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. It’s impossible to be mad at him. I turn around and lean against his knees. He tries to straighten my hair, but gives up when his fingers stick in the hairspray-shellacked tangles. “How’d you get my undershirt?” he asks, recognizing the white tee covering my body.

  “Pfft.” I shrug. No clue. An aspirin bottle sits on the table with his coffee. I crawl to my knees and grab it. Every heartbeat pulses in my brain, crushing it against the immovable limits of my skull. Hard-drug hangovers are the worst. More coke is the quickest fix, but Spence is right. I don’t need it. If I want to have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting my life back in order, I’ll have to do things the old-fashioned way.

  “That’s not what you need.” Spence shakes his head with a mischievous smile.

  “Aspirin?” I look at him sideways. I can’t have his coke or his aspirin? What the hell?

  “Quaaludes,” he says, nodding at the bottle in my hand. I pop the top and peer in. They look just like aspirin.

  My smile grows wider. “Really? How very Valley of the Dolls of you, Spence.”

  “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Best working high ever.”

  “Why the aspirin bottle?”

  “You see the randoms that end up at my house. I never leave the good stuff in prescription bottles.” He takes another sip of coffee and adjusts his shirtsleeve.

  From far away, a familiar ringtone drifts down the hallway. My heart leaps into my throat and I dash from Spence’s room. It’s Devon. Has to be. He’s calling me to tell me how sorry he is. How awful he treated me and that he’ll do whatever
it takes to get me back. In my mind, he’s already forgiven.

  Surprisingly, the downstairs is nearly empty. A maid team busies themselves cleaning. My phone sits on a sparkling countertop, buzzing and blaring against cool stone. I grab it and answer breathlessly.

  “Hello?” God I need to hear his voice. Just the sound of it curling warmly into my ear.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?” Her voice is slow, measured and full of barely held restraint. Of course it’s Jerrie. Calling to kick me when I’m down—her favorite pastime.

  “Good morning to you too, Jerrie.” I groan, trade the aspirin bottle for a cigarette and make my way onto the porch.

  “Why, Carly? Why? Why? Why?” She asks me like I actually had a choice about my behavior last night. She should know me better by now. But then I remember that nobody knows about me and Devon. Even though he’s the asshole, this shit storm’s only raining on me. I sink into a chair, pulling my knees into my chest, and try to think of an answer that will satisfy her.

  “Because I needed to,” I say weakly. “Everybody slips on the road to recovery, Jerrie. No big deal. At least I’m not hiding it.” Spence’s leather heels echo down the hallway and into the kitchen. Jerrie lets out a sigh that could blow over boulders.

  “Are you sober now?” she asks.

  “Meh...soberish,” I answer. Honestly, on a scale of zero to a Hasselhoff hamburger, I’m a three.

  “Well, you better get your soberish ass in gear. You have until noon to sign your contract extension or that twenty million is gone. And after last night’s antics, I highly doubt that offer will come again.”

  “Fuck!” I mumble under my breath. I totally forgot about that. In the hazy fog of my why-is-Devon-being-so-mean-to-me pity party yesterday, I totally forgot about signing that damned contract. “I’m doing it right now,” I yell, and hang up. I pull the contract up in my email at the same moment a lingering body comes to life several patio chairs down. The brunette rolls over and I come face-to-face with the wicked bitch of the West.