Total Trainwreck

by Evie Claire

  “This is not the time or place, Carly.” He steps in front of me when I try to blow past him. Again subduing me with a body-block wrestling-type move.

  “What do you mean? He obviously wants to talk to me. How dare you two get between us?”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “He’s glad to know you’re alive after last night’s—” He drags it out, searching for words. “—episode. But he’s not ready to talk to you.”

  My heart stutters in my chest. I swallow hard and rub my hand over its struggling beat, settling into a nearby chair. “He’s that mad at me?” I focus on the floor, feeling like a fool for asking.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Carly. I’ve never seen him this pissed.”

  “But he’s mad at me. That’s good. It means he still cares.” I manage a wildly delirious smile, nodding and finally looking at Ernest. Because this is good news, right? I’ll take pissed over indifferent any day. His face bunches in a tortured way.

  “Carly, don’t.” He shakes his head.

  Maria appears at Ernest’s side, her gaze moving between us. “Is everything okay?” she asks, up-downing Ernest with obvious contempt.

  “It’s fine.” I wave away her concern. “Maria, Ernest. Ernest, Maria.” I give a forgettable introduction. Neither acknowledges the other. “What do I do?” I turn to Ernest, desperation twisting my words.

  “Nothing. You’ve already done too much.” With that he turns to leave, grinding my heart between his heel and the stone floor. I fall against the chair back, hands covering my face to hide the tears.

  “What the hell is her problem?” Maria’s voice goes icy, a sassy hand lifts to her hip. I look up to find Ernest grabbing Heather with the same forearm death grip he used on me. She side-eyes him, tucks her purse under the arm she jerks from his grasp and chugs what remains of her wine. With an entitled smile, her glare returns to me. She catches a laugh behind her hand and shakes her head like I’m beyond pathetic. In that moment, I realize I am.

  Oh, god. What the hell have I done?

  Chapter Five

  I need a drink. I mean, seriously, why the hell should I kill myself trying to hold all these frayed ends together when it is obvious they are already beyond my grasp? I slide into an open spot at the bar.

  L.A. is huge, with a million posh places to eat. What are the chances that after last night, we wind up at the same restaurant? That’s like a sign from God. Surely. A sign I can’t even begin to decipher sober.

  “Grey Goose and water with a twist,” I say to the bartender. He gives me a quizzical look. Is this idiot really going to card me? I don’t back down, instead raising my brow to wordlessly ask if there’s a problem.

  “Make that two,” Maria says, sliding into place beside me. The bartender turns to reach for the top shelf. “Are you sure, Carly?” Maria whispers into my ear.

  “I have never in my life been more sure. Besides, alcohol was never my problem. I can handle it.” My smile is light and carefree, easily telling a lie every addict knows. But considering all the ways I polluted my body last night, a simple vodka and water is like an ice cream sundae. “What about you?” I nod at the sweaty glass now in Maria’s hand. She warily eyes a lemon peel floating on top. This moment is huge for her—the end to months of sobriety. A real friend should stop her. Part of me wants to. A bigger part selfishly needs my old partner in crime.

  “Like you say, alcohol was never my problem.” She shrugs with a small laugh, repeating my denial. Raising our drinks, we salute the official end of our sobriety with a wordless toast and swallow the smooth, fiery liquid in one gulp. Our cups clink against the stone bar at the same time, ringing loudly enough to startle me. When I look into the mirror behind the bar I see two things. My face familiarly framed by bottles of booze I no longer have to resist—which makes me smile. And Spence watching us, okay mainly Maria, with mixed emotions while he continues his conversation with some impressive-looking suits.

  “Another round.” I circle my finger over our empty glasses and the bartender jumps to action. “It’s going on Mr. Hugo’s tab.” I point to Spence over my shoulder and he nods his permission to the bartender. Now the man is all smiles and places a bowl of party nuts in front of us like he wants us to stay. Please. Like we’d eat that shit.

  Dinner is forgettable. Spence’s money manager makes it clear he’s doing Spence a favor by taking me on as a client. He mainly deals with individuals above the hundred million mark. My paltry twenty million must be insulting. I couldn’t care less. But damn if this vodka isn’t the most delicious I’ve ever tasted. The flavor profile of Grey Goose must have changed in the months I’ve been sober. Finally, Mr. Too-Good-For-You Money Manager shuts his face and we can leave.

  “Where do you ladies want to go?” Spence asks, an arm thrown around each of us to steady our walk to the elevator. Devon Hayes’s bedroom, please. I stop walking when the unconscious thought registers.

  Spence’s arm urges me forward and my feet manage to move. I’m not out-of-my-mind wasted. Not yet. The scorching black hole that used to be my heart has cooled, thanks to ice-cold vodka. But I’m going to need a hell of a lot more if I’m going to get through the night without being reminded of him every five seconds.

  “Oh, we don’t know what’s cool anymore, Spence. You tell us,” Maria coos into his ear, resting a hand on his chest and cuddling into his side. Damn she’s good. Spence’s arm falls from my shoulder to push the elevator button but stays firmly around her.

  “The Nice Guy is cool, and nearby. You want to try it?” Spence offers.

  “Yes!” Maria howls, punching a party fist into the air. Damn lightweight.

  A black SUV waits in the underground parking garage. Not a single paparazzi bulb flashes when we leave. How nice to have a private dinner out for a change.

  * * *

  We exchange the refreshing calm of Soho House for drinks at The Nice Guy, a restaurant and bar that has quickly become the paparazzi chum bucket of WeHo. Everyone gets wasted inside, which is everything I need. It is impossible to walk out of the place sober. After last call, the famous patrons are loosed on the streets, making for the biggest photo op payday in town. You know what you’re getting into when you go. But it’s worth it.

  Tonight is no exception. Inside, live music warms my ears. It’s loud enough to keep a girl from getting lost in her own depressing thoughts, which is a welcome change. The room is old-Hollywood perfection—soothing wood-covered walls, a wraparound marble bar and overstuffed, kitschy-cool fabric-covered booths. Only certain people are allowed inside. The right kind of people. It doesn’t matter if the club is graveyard dead one night. If you aren’t fabulous, your ass doesn’t cross the velvet rope. Period. There’s always room to move inside. That’s unheard of in L.A. clubs. Spence has a table reserved. Of course he does.

  We slide into a corner booth. A bottle of Grey Goose, ice, Voss water and a bowl of lemon peels immediately lands on the table.

  “You enabling me tonight, Spence?”

  “You started it on your own.” He shrugs and leans over to Maria. I feel like a third wheel. So of course, Devon flashes hot across my mind. I close my eyes, squeezing them shut, forcing the image away.

  “I need drink!” I announce to no one in particular, and reach for the ice.

  Maria squeals with delight and begins waving frantically at someone she sees in the crowd. A body peels away from the dance floor and makes its way over. Covered in a full arm-and-neck tattoo sleeve, ridiculously oversized shirt, skinny jeans and a heavy gold chain his neck doesn’t appear capable of supporting for very long, a wimpy rap-star wannabe answers Maria’s call. Spence and I exchange what-the-fuck looks when his immature ass sits down and grabs the vodka bottle without invitation.

  “You remember Ryan Algood, right?” Maria
prompts hopefully.

  “Carly, what up, girl?” He leans over for a sweaty hug. I pull away.

  “No, I don’t.” I put some distance between us.

  “I played your neighbor on seasons four and five.” He says this like it means everything. Like we share DNA or something.

  “He was my first on-screen kiss!” Maria adds with a drunken giggle. I’m still blank.

  “Oh, yeah. Sure, I remember you,” I lie, hoping it will make him go away. All I want is to sit here and peacefully drown my sorrows in the comfort of a hundred strangers without being disturbed.

  “I’m a rapper now. You’ve probably heard me on the radio.” He throws up what looks like a gang sign to a posse of guys grinding against bleach blonde bimbos. They return it like the thugs they think they are. I cannot keep myself from laughing in his face. He doesn’t get the joke’s on him, smiling and laughing along with me.

  “Good for you.” I pick up my phone like something urgent just came in. He nuzzles Maria’s ear. She playfully tosses her hair, flirting for some unknown reason.

  “We’re going to dance,” she announces without taking her eyes off him. I wave goodbye without looking up.

  “You should go,” I say to Spence. I point to the two idiots on the dance floor. “He might steal your girl.”

  Spence shrugs in an as-if way. “I don’t dance. Not even for a piece of ass. If Maria wants that douche bag, I don’t want her.” I punch his arm for referring to my BFF as a piece of tail and settle against the booth back. He reaches into his pocket to powder his nose.

  I lick my lips when the white powder pours over his hand. Last night’s high was glorious. Exactly what I needed to forget him. Spence could probably be talked into indulging me again. If not, I’m sure flirting with Ryan’s idiot posse would relieve their pockets of a line or two. So why am I not pulling my tits out and sucking every grain I can find up my nose?

  We’ve got an insatiable need...

  My asshole father’s words echo in my ear. It’s the last thing I want to hear, but it stops me. Not because I want to do anything he says. Hell, if he told me not to light myself on fire I’d strike a match just to spite him. That’s how much I hate the son of a bitch. It’s the memory of his eyes—our eyes—that stops me. Ruining my life with drugs means he wins. Him and that sick, pathetic fuck. Keeping my shit together gives me the victory. Last night I screwed up. Tonight I’m stronger than that...I hope.

  Ten minutes later, I’m about to crawl out of my vodka-soaked skin. Forgetting Devon Hayes is impossible without hard drugs. Stupidly, my drunken brain tries to interpret tonight’s sign from God. Regardless of what Ernest said, I know Devon’s looks. He was happy to see me. I was happy to see him. We are totally meant to be together. He just needs reminding.

  I scroll through my phone to find our text chain. Our last message was like 24 hours ago. He was excited about the gala.

  So excited he ignored me all night. The memory angers me enough to calm my itchy fingers. I throw the phone at my purse. No, he doesn’t get the satisfaction of knowing he’s ruined my night out. At that moment, the party gods smile on me and the lights come on, signaling last call. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  A black SUV waits outside, but we have to scale a wall of photographers to get there. On Maria’s insistence Spence guides a barely standing Ryan through the crowd. Apparently, the douche bag has charmed his way into her panties tonight. I’m not sure what happens next.

  Ryan trips on the carpet, or his own two feet. Spence falls with him, but manages to catch himself. He leans over to grab Ryan, only Ryan pops up like a damn jack-in-the-box, his elbow catching Spence’s nose with a blow loud enough to echo.

  “Fuck!” Spence grabs his nose, but not before a spray of blood rains over Maria and me.

  “Spence!” I exclaim, shocked by the sight of his blood. I drop poor Maria, and rush to him. He’s reeling, stumbling backward, blinded by the blood and the elbow blow. I grab him as best I can, but drunk in heels is no way to catch a guy twice my size. We continue to stumble backward, eventually falling flat on our asses.

  “Dude...” It’s all Ryan can say. He stands over us, a weird, drunken smile on his lips like he’s enjoying this on some level.

  “You asshole!” I yell at him. He has the gall to laugh, covering his mouth like he can’t believe his own strength. “Get the fuck out of here!”

  At that moment, Spence’s driver pushes past the cameras and leaps into the fray, knocking Ryan out of the way and pulling Spence to his feet.

  I grab Maria off the carpet. We jump into Spence’s SUV and speed away. I frantically find a cocktail napkin in my purse for Spence. He’s red faced, cussing, his head tilted back against the seat rest. I try my best to calm him, pulling his head forward so he doesn’t drown in his own blood. Maria is in some weird state of shock and denial, barely coherent and babbling like an idiot. I land a sharp slap across her cheek to bring her out of it. It works. She shuts up and leans against the door, her dull eyes fixed on me. I’m on my knees in the secluded darkness of Spence’s chauffeured backseat, zooming down La Cienega, trying to get the situation under control. The moment turns surreal. I look at them. At myself. Blood spattered, half drunk and miserable. Thrown back into a lifestyle that almost killed me. A familiar pain seizes my chest. I grab my wrist, twisting the blood-red cuff until it bites painfully into my skin. What the fuck am I doing?

  Chapter Six

  Nerves crawl through me. Sweat dampens my palms, disgustingly so, and I dread the inevitable handshakes waiting in my future. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I bite my cheek and swallow, trying to wake my salivary glands. This meeting has to be perfect. The contract is signed, but if this meeting goes south that means nothing—they can still walk on me for any reason. And so far, this film is the only way I see to win him back.

  Add to that pressure the fact that I’m about to see him. For the first time since Hurricane Carly hit Hollywood shores, I’m going to see Devon and actually get to talk to him. The thought makes me want to hurl.

  I’m in an elevator with a perky ginger zooming to the tippy top of Iliad Films’s sleek office building. My stomach rolls again. I grab it and the sturdy elevator wall.

  “Are you okay, Miss Klein?” She places a hand on the shoulder of my new purple J. Mendel shift. I’m hoping I look equal parts professional and fuckable. Oh, who am I kidding? I need to look 100 percent fuckable, but in a grown-up woman-who-can-handle-her-shit sort of way.

  “This elevator moves so fast,” I lie with a smile, trying to distract myself from thinking of a certain warm body waiting in the boardroom. A very, very warm body.

  The doors burst open and bright white sunshine bouncing off cool stone floors invades the elevator’s depths. I follow my escort down the hallway. My new Jimmy Choos announce every step. I may not be mentally prepared for this meeting—how could I ever be?—but I damn sure look the part.

  She ushers me into a conference room with a huge table and a killer view. Every seat but one is full. They quiet when I enter, obviously waiting on me, following my every move from doorway to empty chair with critical eyes. I’m not late. For the first time ever, I’m actually early. But the atmosphere in the room already feels hostile. Frantically, I search for a familiar face. Gavin’s is the only one I recognize.

  Where is he?

  “Carly!” Gavin rises to welcome me like we are actually friends or something.

  “Gavin,” I say, and offer a cheek for him to kiss. As much as I loathe this man, I’m not stupid—the suits around this table hold the future of our film in their hands. Even though it’s Devon’s picture, they could still kill it in a heartbeat. Gavin begins introducing people. I shake every hand that comes my way with a clammy grip, but I don’t hear a word he says.

  I’m way too distracted looking for the only person
who wouldn’t need an introduction. Why isn’t he here? Is he late? Or is he too mad at me to be in the same room?

  “Where’s Devon?” The question slips out before I can stop it. When I realize what I’ve said, it’s all I can do to keep from facepalming over my idiocy. Costars don’t care about seeing each other off set. Unless they’re up to no good. I clamp my mouth shut and try not to act like this is a question I shouldn’t be asking. It doesn’t work. The room quiets and every eye turns to me. My eyes study a hangnail I’m picking. The temperature in the room soars to a balmy five-hundred degrees. Sweat prickles beneath my hair.

  Gavin slaps a tight smile on his face. One that warns me to shut the hell up. This is no way to start a meeting with people who can ruin your life. “Sit,” he says, pulling out a chair and waving a hand over it. I do as I’m told. My ass is barely in the chair when a newspaper smacks against the dark wood table and slides to a stop in front of me.

  Love is a battlefield.

  Below the caption, a pic leaps off the page in full color. Spence stumbles away from Ryan Algood clutching a bloody nose. Below that, another one shows Spence lying in my arms as I’m telling Ryan exactly where he can go. Maria lies splayed over the red carpet like a rag doll. This is easily the worst tabloid photo I’ve ever had. Pale, drunk and stumbling from a club, I look like Eurotrash in heels. Fuck. I place an elbow on the table and rest my forehead in my palm. This is not good. Where the hell is Jerrie when I need her? An agent worth their retainer would never let me walk into a trap like this.

  “Are you fucking Spencer Hugo?” The question comes from somewhere in the sea of suits and I am so caught off guard the old Carly jumps to my defense.

  “I don’t see how that’s any of your damn business!” I snarl, unable to believe he has actually asked me this. What an asshole! He better be glad the truth of who I am—or was—fucking isn’t plastered on this headline.

  Mr. Suit laughs in my face and turns away. A woman with a softer demeanor leans in, all good-cop-like.