Total Trainwreck

by Evie Claire

  Using my superhuman junkie powers, I manage to turn on the shower, unzip Maria’s bag and toss her clothes into the running water all while keeping her from breaking in on me. I toss the empty bag in the toilet and turn to my precious gleaming in my hand. I’m so distracted by its beauty, by the thought of the relief it’s about to bring, that I forget I’m trying to keep Maria out. She’s a reformed junkie with her own superpowers. In a nanosecond she bursts through the door and slaps me as hard as hell across the back of my head, catching part of my ear in the process.

  “Ouch!” I howl and drop the vial. Maria grabs it, quick as lightning, rips the top off and tosses it in the toilet with her bag.

  “You bitch!” I shriek, and sink to the floor, grabbing my head in my hands. I’m rocking back and forth, trying so hard not to cry, not to lose it. Because I can’t. If I cry over losing Devon...over losing my dad...it means I need them. It means they matter to me. And I don’t want them to matter to me when I obviously don’t matter to them! Rage flies through me, boiling hot. My mind is in a tailspin and all I see are eyes. Angry navy eyes. Sad yellow eyes. Fuck them! Fuck them all.

  But when Maria’s arms circle around me, trying desperately to calm my rocking, I lose it. Tears burst from my body and I am reduced to a blubbering sack of sorrow. I hate everybody. I hate everything. But mostly, I hate myself for being dumb enough to care about people who don’t care about me.

  “Shh...” she coos into my ear. “That’s good, Carly. Get it out. Get it all out.” She brushes my hair away from my face, placing her cheek against mine. Her cheek is cool and welcome against my hot tear-streaked face. It’s a weird thing we used to do on Life on Easy Street. The way we showed our fake sister bond during episodes that required us to comfort one another. It calms me enough to slow the hyperventilating sobs that threaten to strangle me.

  “Why? Why is my life so hard?” I cry into her golden hair. She’s all I’ve got. The only person in my life who hasn’t let me go. She’s stuck around. She and Spence. The two people I’ve blamed most for fucking up my life are the only ones who’ve cared enough to help me put it back together.

  “Life’s never easy,” she says, rocking me in her arms. “You’ve really got the shit end of the stick lately, but maybe this is life’s way of showing you how tough you really are.”

  “I’m not tough,” I snivel, wiping my nose on her shoulder.

  “Bullshit,” she says, pulling away and looking me dead in the eyes. “You’re the toughest girl I know. Come on.” She stands and offers a hand to help me up, reaching to turn off the water blasting over her clothes in the tub.

  “Sorry.” I grimace.

  “Why’d you do that, anyway?” she asks.

  “So you couldn’t leave.”

  “You owe me a new bag.” She frowns at her canvas duffel steeping in the toilet. I facepalm and shake my head. Is it even possible for me to stop fucking things up? Because I am on a roll today.

  Maria tucks me under her arm and leads me down the hallway to my bedroom. Once I’m snug under the covers, she brings me a cup of tea and closes the blinds. “Drink this and rest,” she says, turning my phone on silent. I manage to suck it down before exhaustion unlike I’ve ever felt creeps over me. I pass out cold.

  Chapter Four

  I was five the first time Dad took me to play at Papa Mel’s house. Back then Mel was a god to me. He had a black cocker spaniel named Truffles that barked on cue and a real-life ice cream shop in his pool house. He taught me how to do flips off the diving board while my dad disappeared into a back bedroom to shoot up. I never wanted to leave. He was fun, attentive and caring—everything I ever wished my own father would be.

  I was eight the first time Papa Mel took me into a back bedroom and showed me things little girls should never see. The sickening, vinegar scent of Dad’s heroin from the next room is my only clear memory from that day. The rest I’ve spent years forgetting.

  A horn honks on the street below my small bedroom balcony, startling me out of the dark places and into reality. My mind never wanders there. I don’t let it. But after seeing him this morning, I’ve lost control over where my mind goes.

  I should probably cry over the memory, show some sort of feeling. But I can’t. The events are there, but the emotions that go with them are missing. After everything I’ve dealt with in the past 24 hours, I’m nothing but numb. My last cigarette is gone way too fast. The nicotine-stained filter joins about a hundred more in an overflowing ashtray.

  I drag my hands down my face and rap my head against the weathered stucco wall. Time to pack these thoughts back in the darkness where they came from. Time to forget again. I leave a trail of clothes across my bedroom floor and dive under a scalding shower spray. In my world, showers fix everything if they’re hot enough. Ten minutes later I’m pink, pruney and perfectly in denial once again. Today, the demons of my past will have to wait. I’ve got bigger problems to solve.

  Maria is curled on the couch under a blanket when I pad into the den rubbing lotion on my hands. It’s afternoon. And I’m wondering how in the hell, with all the landmines in my life, I managed to take a three-hour nap. Without saying a word, I plop down next to her and nestle under the end of her blanket. I tuck my legs around hers like we do all the time. It feels familiar. Soothing. Until I notice she’s staring at me like I’ve just escaped the psych ward.

  “What?” I ask, wondering which of the million reasons she has to be mad she’s most pissed about.

  Her eyes narrow. She huffs at me and mutes the TV. “Feeling better?” Sarcasm. Sweet. This I can deal with. She’ll forgive me. She always does.

  “Yeah. A nap. A shower. I’m good.”

  “You’re welcome.” I’m confused by her response until she grabs a bottle from the coffee table and tosses it at me. It lands in my palm. Unisom.

  “You drugged me?” What the hell? I remember the tea she brought me. The cup I drank before I fell asleep. So this is why she isn’t lighting into me. Her smile is smug. I shake my head and open my mouth to yell at her.

  “Oh, calm down. You were a trainwreck. You totally deserved it.” She isn’t one bit sorry for drugging me. And honestly, when I think about what a raging lunatic I was this morning, I should probably thank her. If I hadn’t slept, I’d be climbing the walls by now. But, for the first time in 24 hours my brain doesn’t feel like it’s being pummeled between two bricks.

  “Maybe, but still.” I argue back because I feel like I should. She says nothing. I play with the edge of the blanket, seeing my opportunity to fix things. “Are we going to talk about it?”

  “Talk about what? You being a raging bitch. A crazy bitch. Or just a plain ole bitch?”

  “Okay, I deserve that.” I hold up my hands.

  “You’re damn right you do.” Maria slams her hand down on the comforter, pushing a gust of air over my face. “Do me a favor?”

  “I owe you at least a million of those.”

  “Next time you decide to freak the fuck out, don’t bother inviting me. I’m sick of cleaning up your messes. You’re a thankless bitch, sometimes, you know that?” Her teeth are gritted so hard her words spray spit in the air.

  I nod, sigh and look away. My stomach sours. Is that what Devon would call me, too? A thankless bitch? Hell, that’d probably be too kind for him, given the look on his face last night. Last night. Ugh.

  Maria’s absolutely right. I am thankless. I am a bitch. Once my anger flares, tunnel vision takes over and I lose all control. I don’t give a damn about anything except getting exactly what I want. I’m cruel, ungrateful, evil-hearted and downright awful. There’s a lot of collateral damage I don’t intend. Hurting Maria was the last thing I wanted to do. But she got caught in the crossfire and I didn’t care enough to stop. Truth is, I’m way too good at pushing away the people I love. Obviously. If I weren’t, I’d b
e texting with Devon about how fabulous last night was and making plans for a clandestine lover’s rendezvous. Instead, I am up to my eyeballs in heartbreak and on the verge of losing the best friend I’ve ever had. What the fuck have I done?

  “But you’re all I’ve got.” The words slip slowly from my mouth. I know it’s what she needs to hear. What I need to say. Because it’s the truth. An ugly truth that hurts too much to admit that often. Now that Devon is gone, Maria is all I’ve got.

  I hang my head in my hands, shaking it back and forth, hating myself for being the way I am. Stupid, stupid Carly! The couch shakes. Maria climbs down the length of it and rests her hand on my shoulder.

  “Hey.” Her voice is soft. “Don’t do this. I can’t stand to see you cry. Anyone but you. You’re too tough for this shit.” She takes my chin and pulls it up.

  “I used to be.” My chin quivers in her hand. “He’s ruined me, Maria. How am I supposed to get over this?” Tears slide down my face. The hot, heavy, slippery kind that keep coming even when you aren’t sobbing. They run over my cheeks, down my neck and to the collar of my shirt.

  “I thought you two were just fucking. I had no idea how serious it was.” Maria readjusts to pull me onto her shoulder. I welcome the comfort of leaning on her.

  “I shouldn’t have fallen in love, but I couldn’t stop. And now... Now I hate him.” I sob into her shoulder. Her body stiffens at the word love. Girls like us don’t say things like that. Our addiction is all we’ve ever loved.

  “No, you don’t. You hate what he’s done to you.”

  “Same thing.”

  “If he knocked on the door right now, you know you’d forgive him.”

  Ugh. She’s right. I would. But he’d never do that. In Devon’s worldview I’m the only asshole here. His words were the most the brutal thing I’ve ever had to listen to, but I’m the one who forced an issue he warned me about from the beginning. I’m the one who pushed him to the breaking point. Devon never promised me anything other than an affair. I was the naïve idiot who thought I’d be an exception. My stupidity makes me wince.

  “He won’t come. I’ve pushed him too far this time.”

  “Then you go to him.”

  I shake my head. “Even I can’t get to Devon Hayes. As far as the world knows or cares, we’re just costars.”

  “Call him. Text him. Something.”

  I hang my head. Devon doesn’t want desperate. He doesn’t want me chasing after him. “It won’t work.” There’s got to be another way, but my poor brain is too tired for the level of scheming that would require.

  “Maybe he needs some time,” she offers like it is certainly the answer. It’s not an answer. It’s a pathetic attempt to cheer me up.

  “God, I need a drink!” I stand quickly, sick and tired of wallowing in my own misery. It’s not doing a damn thing but making my life suckier than it already is. But there’s a major problem with needing a drink, aside from the whole year of sobriety out the proverbial window I choose to ignore. I was sober when I last left the apartment. My cabinets are drier than a bone bleached in the Sahara sun. Which contributes even more to the suck factor of life at this particular moment.

  “Oh, Spence called. He’s planned dinner with his money manager tonight?” Her voice ticks up in a questioning way. She doesn’t know. Hell, I’d almost forgotten myself.

  “Yeah, I signed the contract for two more films this morning. Pretty substantial pay raise. I guess I should call him back,” I say with a frown, and run my hand down a wet lock of hair. I freeze when the thought hits me.

  The contract. I’ve got two films to shoot with Devon. That’s at least four months of rolling around in the sheets. When our flesh presses together the chemistry is way too hot to ignore. He’s never been able to resist me naked. Hope swells my chest, and for the first time all day I feel like I can see light at the top of my pit. But I’m not due on set for weeks. I file the thought away under “last resorts” because I can’t wait that long.

  “You act like Spence is sloppy seconds. I’m pretty sure his bedpost has just as many notches as Devon’s.” She chooses to ignore the news of my good fortune. I don’t blame her. It’s hard to be happy for people when your own life is stalled.

  “Oh my gosh, there were two girls in his bed this morning.” I laugh at the memory.

  “Threesome?” Maria’s interest piques. She sits up and gives me a sexy sideways glance. “What a naughty boy!”

  I wave her innuendo away and stumble to her bathroom in search of some Tylenol. Her saturated clothes peer up at me from the bathtub. I facepalm. Why am I such an evil bitch? “Hey, Maria?” I ask, staring at the sopping-wet mess. “Wanna come to dinner with us?” I offer, hoping a nice meal will make amends for being the world’s worst friend.

  “I would love to,” she says, appearing in the bathroom doorway with a hand on her hip. “But I don’t have anything to wear,” she says sarcastically, looking from me to the pile of clothes and back again.

  “Riiigggghhhhtt...” I drag the word out, grabbing the laundry hamper and stuffing the mess inside. “I guess we need to go shopping!” My smile is mischievous. The thought of maxing out my credit cards—and being able to pay it off for the first time in years—is seriously intoxicating. Because retail therapy can be just as satisfying as a fifth of vodka if you know how to do it right.

  * * *

  Hours later Spence’s chauffeured SUV pulls to a stop in front of Saks to pick us up for our dinner. Maria and I stride like catwalk models from the revolving door, dressed head to toe in designers we can’t pronounce, certain we look absolutely fabulous. Maria is smiling like the old Maria Rhodes, and Devon Hayes is the last thing on my mind. The chauffeur takes our shopping bags and holds our doors. I splurged—even bought us new Louis Vuitton duffels. Because why not? I’m rich, bitch.

  “How hot does Maria look in that dress?” I slap Spence’s arm playfully, because he has yet to take his eyes off her. Maria fakes a demure blush—a trick I’ve got to get her to teach me—and slides into the backseat with a smile. It is indeed true that serious shopping has the same effect on the female brain as hard drugs. I should know. Looking at Maria and me, you’d think we just took down a lion’s share of pills and booze.

  “Where ya taking us for dinner, Spence?” Maria asks. We share a second-row bucket seat, because who wants to ride way in the back by themselves?

  “Look at you two,” Spence says admiringly. “I knew you couldn’t stay mad at each other forever!” He laughs at us good-naturedly. “My investment guy is meeting us at Soho House.”

  “Soho House?” Maria exclaims. I swallow my excitement, trying to act like this isn’t such a huge deal. Soho House is a members-only VIP club. Cool kid central for the entertainment industry. It’s so exclusive no one has the first clue how in the hell you become a member. It just appears one day in your life and you’re like, okay, maybe I am a badass! The best part is no paparazzi and no annoying hanger-on types. Just creative industry professionals. Which is totally what I am these days.

  We pull into an underground garage and are whisked up to the penthouse level in a plush elevator that reeks of Hollywood money. The foyer greets us like an old friend. It’s carefully crafted to make you think you are dining at your coolest companion’s personal home. It’s beyond fabulous, but in a comfortable, relaxed way that is so anti-Los Angeles. The materials are real—reclaimed herringbone wood floors, worn-to-perfection armchairs and couches you want to sleep on. A pergola-covered rooftop garden teleports you to Tuscany. But the most coveted seat in the place is one along the sweeping 360-degree view of L.A. Natives have a love-hate relationship with this town. But when you see the city from the top floor, far enough away to drown out the annoying people that populate it, you fall in love all over again.

  We’re enjoying the view, waiting on Spence’s money manager
to meet us, when I see him.

  My throat constricts. My insides crumble. My heart ricochets off my brain and crashes to my toes. And apparently I’ve lost the ability to think clearly, because I’m running across the room to him before I realize what I’m doing.

  Devon Hayes sits at a prime table under the Tuscan pergola. Like the king he is, slightly above the crowd, on display for all to see. Beside him, an untouched salad and water glass branded with harlot-red lipstick sit at a place that should be mine—a place I so desperately want to be mine. The whore it belongs to is MIA.

  His face turns down. Swirling his scotch, he looks a million miles away and absolutely miserable. My god, I need him. I want him. I have to have him. And I’m seconds away from getting him when a body blocks my path.

  I’m totally blindsided, caught off guard and beyond confused. Hands grip my forearms and forcefully push me back to a quiet alcove.

  “No!” I protest being dragged away. Devon hears my cry. His head snaps around like a whip and for one glorious second our eyes lock. Immediately, the miserable cloud hanging over him blows away. Relief lights his face. His mouth falls open to speak. A single hand rises in my direction. The next second, Tiny appears at his side, places a hand in his lower back, whispers in his ear and begins to lead him away.

  Devon breaks our gaze and doesn’t look back. Tiny ushers him to a nearby exit and they’re gone. Just like that, he’s out of my life again. I fight against the hands that hold me.

  “Shh. Calm down and I’ll let you go.” It’s a familiar voice. One I’ve heard plenty of times.

  “What the hell, Ernest?” I jerk away, shocked by his strength considering I tower over him in heels.