Total Trainwreck

by Evie Claire

Chapter Two

  “What the fuck is she doing here?” I storm into the kitchen where Spence leans against the counter reading the news and drinking orange juice. He shrugs and shakes his head.

  “Who?”

  “Jessica,” I manage through gritted teeth. It was all I could do not to throw scalding-hot coffee in her traitor face. But that seemed too good for her.

  “Jessica?” He looks at me sideways, not following my rage. “Oh, your Jessica?”

  “She’s not my fucking Jessica!” I whisper yell, looking over my shoulder through a glass door. She’s fallen back to sleep for the moment.

  “I’m surprised she’s here,” Spence says in a distracted way. “Last night she wouldn’t shut up about some big interview with the New Yorker.”

  “I pity whoever that unlucky idiot is,” I say, fisting my phone in anger. “Wait, why is she interviewing the New Yorker?”

  “She’s interviewing with the New Yorker. Apparently, being a hard-hitting NYC reporter is her dream job. Good riddance if you ask me.”

  “Ugh!” I huff, grinding a fist into my hand. “I want to strangle that bitch!”

  “Well, here I am.” A scratchy voice breaks into our conversation. I spin on my heel to see the reporter who tried to ruin my world standing in her party clothes, sunlight slipping over her mussed hair. Mascara runs down her cheeks, mingling with kiss-smudged red lipstick and a golf-ball-sized neck hickey. Somebody was a slut last night.

  “Please. Why would I want to give you another feature article for free?” I narrow my eyes, up-downing her with the nastiest snarl I can muster.

  “I’m sorry about the article, Carly. Really, I am.” She walks into the kitchen and reaches for a cup of coffee like she belongs here. My nostrils flare at her boldness. How dare she? Spence puts a calming hand on my shoulder. He shakes his head, telling me it’s not worth it.

  “No you aren’t. You wouldn’t be interviewing with the New Yorker if it weren’t for me. I made you.” And it’s the truth. She’d still be covering city council meetings if it weren’t for me.

  “You’re right.” She blows her coffee, watching me over the rim and thinking. “I owe you a lot, and I promise if I get this job, I’ll make it up to you. Tell her, Spence.” She looks to him like he’s going to save her. “I’m not a total bitch. I just needed my break. You know how it is.”

  “Your ‘break’ nearly cost me everything.”

  “But look at you now. Things are turning around. I hear the whispers.”

  I swallow a gasp, uncertain of which whispers she’s referring to—my career comeback or my fucking Devon Hayes? Either she’s playing nice or she’s being a raging bitch. I look at my phone, not wanting to give anything away. Spence clears his throat and looks at his watch, obviously ready for his last houseguests to get the fuck out.

  “My head is killing me,” Jessica announces to anyone who gives a shit. Spence and I say nothing. She reaches for the aspirin bottle I forgot I left on the counter. My attention snaps her way so fast the muscles pinch. Spence shrugs off the opposite counter, moving to stop her. Our eyes meet over her head, his look silently asking if the bottle is actually the bottle.

  Hmm...decisions, decisions. Should I earn my angel wings by telling her to get the hell out and find her own aspirin or should I let karma work its magic? Please. I’ve got zero fucks to give for a lying reporter who threw me under the bus to get ahead. I discreetly shake my head to stop Spence.

  “Whatever,” I say, smacking my lips and rolling my eyes. I keep my concentration on my phone like I couldn’t care less if her head actually did kill her. If I were suddenly nice, she’d know something was up. Jessica shakes four pills into her hand, tosses them on her tongue and chases them with black coffee. Oops. Spence’s eyes go hula hoop wide, but he quickly gets it under control. Four Quaaludes? In ten minutes, she’ll be tripping balls. As much as I’d love to stay for the show, I’ve got to get out of here before I bust a gut laughing at her dumb ass.

  “Spence, I need your printer,” I say.

  “Down the hall to the right.” He nods the way, his focus not leaving Jessica. He can barely hide his smile, unable to believe the sweet revenge karma just placed in my path. Hey, it’s stupid to fight fate. “You know, I actually need one of those, too.” Spence takes the bottle from her hand and replaces it with a phone. “You should call a cab.”

  “I’ll see you around, Carly.” Jessica follows me to the kitchen doorway.

  “No you won’t.” I wave over my shoulder and don’t even bother to look. Once I’m safely out of sight, I leap into the air and spin around, happy-dancing my ass all the way to Spence’s office. Finally, this day is looking up.

  I’m fumbling with Spence’s printer when he joins me in his office.

  “Did she take the hint?” I ask, an eager smile curving my lips.

  “That bitch, I have not missed in the slightest,” he says with an upturned nose.

  “Must be a hardship having so many groupies. Poor Spence.” I throw a pity party for him, sighing and frowning like his life sucks. He narrows his eyes, lands a soft punch on my shoulder and grins. “How the hell does this damn thing work?” For the life of me I cannot figure out how to get Spence’s printer to connect with my phone.

  “Let me,” he says, waving me from his leather office chair. “You’re not connected to the Wi-Fi.”

  I shrug and leave it in his capable hands. Below, a car pulls into Spence’s driveway. I walk to the window and watch Jessica pour herself into a cab, coffee cup in hand. “Fuck you very much,” I say in a sickeningly sweet voice, and give her my best beauty queen wave. Serves her right.

  The printer roars to life and starts shooting out pages like popcorn.

  “Carly.” Spence’s voice is weirdly chastising. “Twenty million plus a share of foreign and domestic royalties?” He scans the document, brow pulled tight.

  “Is that bad?” I ask. He snorts in disbelief.

  “You realize this will make you one of the highest-paid actresses in Hollywood? When this contract goes public it’s going to be a huge story.”

  I shrug. “Good. Maybe it will drown out all the bad press from last night.” I roll my eyes and sink into a chair. Last night. Ugh. Fuck my life. Just when I have successfully forgotten about Devon for five minutes, he finds a way to creep back in. Asshole.

  “Who’s your money manager?” he asks, bringing a pen and several pages for me to sign.

  “Money manager?” I give him an are-you-for-real smirk.

  “Right.” He grimaces and points to the first line for me to sign. “Wait. Have you read this?”

  “Jerrie did,” I say, putting pen to paper. “I don’t understand it, but I trust her.” Spence purses his lips, but says nothing.

  “Let me help you, Carly,” he says, pointing to another line on the second page. “You are about to be a very rich lady once again. You can’t tuck money like this in your panty drawer. You have to invest it.”

  “Last time my money was invested it wound up inside my mother’s plastic body and my dad’s junkie veins.”

  “Even more reason. There are ways to invest it where they couldn’t get a dime if you ran over them with a car on purpose.”

  “I like the sound of that!” I smile, signing the final page.

  “I’ll set something up, and I’ll have my assistant fax this over first thing.” Spence collects the papers, slides them into an empty leather folio and tucks it under his arm.

  “Can you give me a ride home?” I ask. Not that I particularly want to go. There’s yet another shit storm waiting there to stink up my life. The old me would run from it. The new me can’t.

  “Sure.” Spence looks me over with a frown. “Not that it bothers me at all...” He pauses. “But shouldn’t a fabulous, highly paid actress probably p
ut on some clothes before she goes out in public?”

  I look down at the sand-and-saltwater-stained T-shirt I’m swimming in. Right.

  Chapter Three

  I feel all sorts of Carrie Bradshaw walk-of-shame sexy in Spence’s crisp white button-down. It’s stylishly cinched at the waist with a thin black belt. I’m missing the unruly pillow-tousled hair and sex-sated glow. But the top is down on Spence’s steel-gray vintage Spyder, which totally makes up for it. We swerve through traffic, pop over the hills and slide down into the sunshine-soaked valley.

  “I assume you’ll be moving soon?” Spence asks, pulling into the underground parking at my prehistoric apartment complex.

  “I can’t wait. Maria’s already looking at places,” I gush, and then quickly realize Maria is probably leaving me after last night. Last night. Ugh. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll get your shirt back soon.” I slide out of the car and we exchange smiles. He revs the engine and I turn to leave. I’m halfway to the elevator when a man pops out from behind a car and blocks my way. Startled, I yelp and jump back. “Excuse me!” I snarl, clenching my teeth and balling my fists for effect. This asshole doesn’t realize whose path he’s blocking.

  “Carly.” My name sounds frantic on his lips. I roll my eyes because I am in no mood to deal with fans, especially not random creepers who hang out in my parking deck.

  “Sorry, wrong person,” I say, and try to blow past him, lowering my shoulder to push him out of my way if I have to. Today I am not Carly Klein. I am the world’s biggest idiot who has to apologize to her best friend and make the love of her life realize what an asshole he is for leaving her. That leaves me with zero time or fucks to give for an autograph whore.

  “Carly,” he says again. I spin around ready to tell him exactly where he can get off.

  But the sound of his voice oozes into my ear like hot vomit. I freeze and shiver at the ice cube slithering down my back.

  “Dad?” The word slips disbelieving from my lips, free-falls for about a lifetime and shatters on the pavement beside my bare feet. The man is toxic. I know that. Now so does everyone else.

  He’s wearing a cheap, black polyester suit over an ill-fitting dark purple button-down laid open at the collar. Perspiration slicks his bloated body. His eyes are the color of boiled corn and when he smiles, his rotten teeth are gag inducing. Busted capillaries trail down his sweaty face. He’s lost all hair upstairs except for an unruly patch up front. I don’t know whether to laugh at him or run from him. I decide to laugh because this is the sweetest justice after all the hell he put me through.

  “How’s my little girl?” he asks with relief washing over him, obviously confusing my laughter for something it isn’t. I drop the smile, replacing it with the cruelest, most hate-filled glower to ever cross my face.

  “I’m not your little girl, you asshole,” I snap, and cross my arms over my chest.

  “Carly, I need to talk to you.” He reaches for me and I spin from his grasp.

  “There is nothing you could possibly have to say that I want to hear. Ever!” I spin on my heel and continue toward the building. Damn, he’s fast for an addict. He overtakes me, and jumps in my path.

  “Carly, I’m dying,” he blurts out.

  “Good!” It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Honestly, I am glad to hear it, but I’m not prepared for the tightness that takes over my throat when the words sink in. I look away, but stop moving.

  “The doctors aren’t sure what it is and I don’t have the money for more testing,” he explains, and my mind snaps to attention at a familiar word.

  “Money. That’s always it with you. You’ve heard I’m working again and you’re here to shake me down. Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t have it yet.” I grip the one Louboutin I was able to find tightly in my hand and contemplate slamming it upside his head.

  “That’s not it. I want to tell you I’m sorry before it’s too late,” he says, trying to touch me again. The last thing I want is his hands on me. I dodge his nasty-ass fingers and kick him in the shin. Finally, he backs the fuck off. “Ouch!” he yells, and clutches his leg. I should take the chance to run. Get the hell away from him. But I don’t. Instead, I stand over him, arms crossed, waiting for him to recover.

  “Keep your damn hands off me!” I sneer. There is no amount of groveling this man could do to make me forget what he’s done. Seeing him like this—weak and wretched and possibly dying—only reinforces that.

  “Okay,” he says, holding up a hand in peace. He staggers to his feet and looks at me through eyes heavy with remorse. I have his eyes. The same shape with a hooded lid that makes them appear earnest, or sad. “I...I was a horrible father and I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But please don’t make the same mistakes I did. Me and you, we’re alike. We have this insatiable need inside us that constantly needs filling. I filled mine with drugs, and lost everything that mattered. Please, don’t make my mistakes. Fill yours with good, Carly. It’s the only way. Fill it with good and you will never run dry.” He clasps his hand together, begging me as best he can.

  I step back and look to see if anyone else is witnessing this useless bullshit. Is he for real? Or did he memorize one of the ninety-nine-cent cheese ball greeting cards at the corner store? Because this is the most pathetically lame excuse for a motivational apology I’ve ever heard. I roll my eyes. This is a total waste of my time.

  The man is lost. To me. To the world. To himself. Good riddance, if you ask me. Silently, I watch him, disgusted but not surprised by what he’s become. His eyes dart at the tiniest sound. Involuntary tics control his body. Crusty scabs cover his neck. No, I’ll never be like this man as long as I live.

  “Know what, Dad? We’re nothing alike. You can rot in hell for all I care. I’m done with you.” I shake my head and walk to the elevator, filled with the quiet confidence of knowing how right I am. He doesn’t follow.

  “I’m going to make things right for you, Carly. You’ll see!” he calls after me. I step into the elevator, select my floor and turn to find him watching me from the curb with a longing smile.

  “Don’t bother,” I deadpan, internally gagging one final time at his yellowed eyes. I think I’m all balls and steel. Until the doors slide closed. The moment they do I break. Leaning forward, grabbing the metal handrail for support, I choke on sobs that come from nowhere. How dare he show up after all he’s put me through? Dying, my ass. He’s too fucking stubborn for that. Besides, there’s no heroin in hell. He’d never last.

  Tears shed over him are an absolute waste. I suck it up, gritting my teeth against the pain. The elevator slows. I straighten, push my shoulders back and dry my cheeks. He doesn’t get to ruin my life anymore. Especially not today. There’s about a million other people ahead of him in line for that.

  I walk down the breezeway to my apartment, fuming and swallowing the sobs still waiting in my throat for release. Fuck tears. Fuck him. Fuck everything. Except what’s on the other side of this door. This I have to save, because the way life is looking, she’s all I’ve got.

  I stop at the door, realizing I don’t have a key. Fuck. I land a soft knock against the reinforced metal.

  The door sucks open, but all that greets me is the cold unwelcome of Maria’s retreating back. Not good.

  Two packed bags sit by the door. They aren’t mine. My stomach somersaults. Ten minutes ago, I was somewhat certain about life. Signing that contract saved my career, enough scheming would’ve put me back in Devon’s arms, and Maria always forgives me. Now the only certainty in my life is the rage bubbling in my veins.

  I charge into the apartment. Maria perches on the couch, arms crossed, glaring at me like I am the living Lucifer.

  “Let’s hear it! Let me have it!” I yell at her, throwing my hands in the air. Maria’s taken aback by my rage, clearly not expecting me to come in like a raging
bull ready to fight. I’m sure she was thinking I’d slink in, begging her forgiveness like I always did before. Because that’s what a normal friend does. And until I saw her bags waiting to leave, I would’ve. I slam the door shut behind me, kicking it for good measure. Only, it feels too good, the release I get. I kick it again. And again.

  “Carly, what’s wrong?” Maria leaps off the couch but I spin from her clutches and charge into the den.

  “Dear old Dad showed up this morning,” I say in an oddly charming voice.

  “Whaaaattt...” The best thing about Maria? There’s no explanation needed. She knows exactly what this means. This should comfort me, but the word dad punches me in the throat. Tears swell again. Tears I refuse to let fall. I need a distraction.

  Without a word, I sink to my knees, unzip one of Maria’s bags and start tossing her carefully folded clothes everywhere.

  “Carly, stop!” she yells, and starts shoving things back in the bag I unpacked. I try to stop her, but she yanks the bag away and sends me flying backward on my ass. Right. I cannot deal with all this shit. Not today.

  My mind flips to the only thing in this entire apartment I actually want. I had forgotten I had it, but seeing Jessica, who is most definitely tripping her fucking face off right now, made me remember. Where did I put it?

  Maria follows me into my room. She’s talking to me...something about my dad being an asshole, and that not being an excuse for me to self-destruct...but I don’t really hear her. I drag a chair over to my closet and reach for my old cross-body purse on the top shelf. The purse I was carrying on my first day out of rehab. Because where else would a girl keep her only vial of blow? I never threw it away. I should have left it in the coffee shop. But I didn’t.

  I climb back down, clutching my prize and grinning like an idiot.

  “What?” Maria asks, her face contorted.

  I hold the vial between thumb and forefinger, wiggling it back and forth with a slaphappy smile.

  “No! Carly, no!” she yells, and lunges for me. This time I’m quicker. I dart from the room. Her clothes litter the den. I grab the fully packed bag as I sprint by and head straight for her bathroom. Maria is chasing after me, but I make it there before she does. Only, she gets a foot in the door before I can shut it. Addicts are strong as hell when they want to be. And right now, I want to be.