by Evie Claire
“Actually, Carly, it is our business. Your contract clearly states that while you’re under our employment your public life will be conducted in a way that benefits our interests.” She smiles, like this softens the blow of them playing God with my life. It doesn’t. But I do vaguely remember Jerrie mentioning something about a “moral clause.” At the time I didn’t care. I was determined to clean my shit up. Now I realize what it actually means. I take a slow, calming breath.
“Spence and I have been good friends for a long time.” I place my hands in my lap, quietly collecting myself as best I can.
“Good.” The woman’s head ticks to the side and she smiles. “Spencer Hugo is the kind of friend we like you photographed with. Under better circumstances, of course. But Maria Rhodes and Ryan Algood? They do nothing for your comeback.”
“You don’t get to decide who my friends are.”
“In public, for the press, yes we do.” Her smile weakens like she hates to break this news. I shake my head and purse my lips. These assholes. I don’t owe them this. I fucked up. One, okay, two nights. There were some horrible stories in the press. But that in no way gives them this level of control over my life. Gavin places a reassuring hand on my arm. I want to slap it off, but I don’t because I’m afraid he’s the only friend I’ve got in this room.
“Carly, stories like this aren’t good for you or for Mighty.”
“How about we let my publicist decide what’s best for my image,” I snap. Truth is, Jerrie handles all my publicity, but they don’t know that. The woman from earlier clears her throat.
“Your publicist would be me.” She points to herself. “Again, it’s in the contract you obviously didn’t read.” I roll my eyes and stare at the ceiling, huffing a deep breath to quell my rising anger.
Gavin leans in, attempting to defuse the situation. “Spencer Hugo—great. He’s Hollywood royalty. But this shit...” He points at the photo and winces. I cross my arms and sit back knowing I’m a rat trapped in their maze. This decision is made. But I won’t lose lying down.
“They weren’t even fighting. He fell. But of course this is the only shot the tabloids care to run!” I slap my hand over the photo and push it away, sick of looking at it and feeling like I did something wrong.
“Details.” Gavin waves away my explanation like it doesn’t matter. Sadly, it doesn’t. People believe what they see.
“Maria and I live together,” I protest. And she’s my best friend. They can’t take her from me.
“We don’t give a damn what you do behind closed doors.” The man from earlier shoots an ice-cold look down the table from where he sits, obviously losing patience with my protests. God, I would punch his bloated face if I could.
I close my eyes, rub my temples and let out an audible moan. This is the last thing I need to deal with today. A glass of ice water appears in front of me. I take a sip. Reality sinks in and it’s a bitter pill to swallow. I have no choice if I want to keep my job. I’m way outnumbered here and totally fucked.
“I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“You always have a choice,” the man answers, lacing his fingers together on the table. The unspoken implication behind his words is crystal clear. If I refuse, I’ll be released. And sued. And lose my only chance to get Devon back. My contract clearly gives them this kind of control over me. There is nothing I can do but play the game.
“Right.” I nod and look back at Maria’s drunken image, guilt grabbing my gut. “Play the game,” I mumble to myself.
“I’m glad you’re seeing reason,” the woman says, and the entire table relaxes into their seats. “Okay, next.” She actually makes a check mark on her notepad and then moves on to the next topic like axing someone’s BFF is all in a day’s work. “The Award PreScreen Party. Everything is ready to go. We need a venue.”
Again, every eye turns to me like I hold some magical solution I have no clue I possess.
“What? You want to have it at my place?” I laugh hysterically because the idea of Academy heavyweights sipping thousand-dollar champagne on my second-hand couches is insane. This party is meant to persuade voters to nominate Mighty for an award or two. A Kardashian wedding has nothing on the level of luxe rolled out for pre-vote parties. The guests on this invite list wouldn’t be caught dead on my street in broad daylight. Only, no one laughs with me. I am so far out of my element it is physically painful. I shut the hell up and stare at my hands again.
“We think Spencer Hugo would be an excellent host.”
My head snaps up and I shoot a bewildered look at the woman. “Then you should ask him.”
“Well, that’s the sticky part. Spencer owns a rival studio. It wouldn’t be an appropriate ask coming from us. On the other hand, it makes complete sense for the ask to come from you.” She pauses and up-downs me. “Unless he doesn’t support your career.” Her brow furrows in a condescending kind of way that obviously challenges the great friendship I claim to have with him. What the hell? This meeting is reaching Twilight Zone weirdness.
“Of course Spence supports me,” I snap back, crossing my arms and giving her a nasty look.
“Then I’m sure he would love to throw that considerable support behind your film.”
It dawns on me why they want this. Spencer Hugo is a force unlike any other in Hollywood. He’s way too young to possess the kind of power he does. Most people, the ones who fought for their rung on the Hollywood ladder, love to write him off as a trust fund brat. Deep down, everybody knows they can’t. Because when it comes to situations like this, he really does matter. His name on an invite ensures people show up.
“Fine, I’ll ask him.” Defeat softens my voice. I can’t refuse this. Nominations are everything in this town. Mighty needs this. Devon wants this. Of course I’ll do it. I’ll do anything for him.
“Great. Gucci is dressing you.” She flips open her leather folio and pulls out a stack of papers. “Send your measurements to their assistant.” She slides a card down the table toward me. This is all going so fast. So fluid. They knew I couldn’t say no. In a daze, I sit stock-still while papers fly my way. Gavin gathers them into a neat pile and places them in my hand.
“The party is completely planned and ready to go. We just need a physical address and everything will be taken care of. Tell Spencer he won’t have to lift a finger.”
“Spence,” I say under my breath. “He goes by Spence.” But nobody in this room gives a shit. They just want to use him to further their own interests. Sadly, their interests are mine. I’m looking at the door, Gavin’s hand on my back, a stack of papers held tightly to my chest, when I finally realize I’m no longer facing the shark tank. I put on the brakes and push away from the door and his touch.
“Wait! That’s all you want from me?”
“Oh, come on, Carly. It’s not like we’re asking you to shave your head and pretend to have cancer. You’re getting off really easy.” The bloated man from earlier all but pats himself on the back for coming up with such a clever joke. His tone and condescension make my fist itch.
Using one best friend and pretending the other doesn’t exist is far from getting off easy, but Hollywood execs don’t understand that. They wouldn’t know a true friend if it bit them in the ass. I cling to the stack of papers Gavin shoved in my hands, wanting so badly to rip it to shreds and tell them where to go. I can’t.
“Pretty painless, huh?” Gavin leans in for another cheek kiss and shuts the door in my face.
Chapter Seven
The second the door closes I fall against the wall. Papers scatter to the floor and I take my head in my hands, sobbing weakly. My life is out of control again. Spinning wildly from my grasp. Now I’ve lost Devon and Maria? No way. I cannot handle this. She’s all I’ve got and they’re telling me we can’t hang out in public? Because being friends with her isn’t good for
my career? Fuck that. How the hell does Devon live such lies? It feels so...dirty. And cheap. I love Maria like a sister and the thought of losing her crushes what little remains of my heart. They can’t do this.
Footsteps echo down the hallway. I duck into the restroom to clean myself up, because crying over this is not the professional image I so desperately need. I’ll get my shit together, hail a cab, and then I can lose it. I wipe my face as best I can, sucking up my tears and slapping on an actress’s smile. Until I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Good. God. A girl with insomnia as bad as mine really shouldn’t cry. My eyes are cherry red and nearly swollen shut. No amount of wiping can fix this. Desperate, I pull on my sunglasses. It’s a total diva move, but it’s all I’ve got.
Ready to face the world, I make my way to the elevator, ignoring everyone I pass. They all think I’m a bitch anyway. The door rolls open. I step inside and the smell of him wafts over me. That unmistakably male scent that hits me harder than coke ever did. My knees weaken and I grab at the disappearing door for support. It’s an involuntary move. I swear I don’t even know it’s happening until his arms are around me to break my fall. In the struggle to stand, my glasses are knocked off my face. I look up and find nothing but a breath separating me from the love of my life.
This, I totally can’t handle. Devon studies my red-rimmed eyes and the tears flooding back into them. I whimper to stop the involuntary sobs that shoot up my throat. Without missing a beat, he tucks me under his arm and ushers me out of the elevator and through to a nearby door.
His touch is everything, but I am in no way prepared for it. Tears stream down my face. I cover them with my hands to hide my weakness. I’m settled into a chair. A handkerchief’s soft folds brush against my cheek. He rests a hand on my shoulder then steps away. It happens so fast I can’t process the emotions. My eyes stay glued to the floor. The room quiets. We’re alone.
I have about two seconds to get my shit together. Devon doesn’t do drama. Devon also doesn’t get the satisfaction of knowing how badly he’s wrecked me. For the second time, I suck it up and fake enough composure to hide my internal meltdown. Later—I’ll lose my shit later.
Devon leans against a desk several feet away. He holds out my sunglasses. “You’re probably going to need these.” His expression is unreadable. Stony and stoic, but his temple throbs, which tells me he’s hiding just as much behind his composure as I am.
“It’s not what you think,” I say off-handedly, taking the glasses and dropping them in my bag. “I’ve got pink eye.” Damn, my super-junkie lie-on-the-fly powers are still strong. Even I’m impressed with this one.
“Pink eye?” Devon repeats, not believing a word of it. “That sucks.”
I shrug and look away. The office we’re in obviously belongs to one of the suits I left in the boardroom. It’s grand and fabulous and everything I’d expect from a fancy Hollywood type. But Devon leaning on the desk in a crisp gray shirt and black pants is, without a doubt, the best this office has ever looked. My thighs press together when the tanned expanse of chest peeking over an unused top button catches my eye. I know what lies beneath that button. And that shirt. And those pants. I let out a shaky breath and force my eyes away. But it’s too late. My addiction to this man roars back to life. All the need. All the want. All the desperation.
“How did your meeting go?”
“All in all, pretty fucking awful. They don’t want me hanging out with Maria. Say it’s bad for me and for Mighty.” I rest a hand that would much rather be tangled in his hair on my knee. A knee I didn’t realize was bouncing a hundred miles an hour until now. I root the heel of my Jimmy Choo to the floor, and struggle to remember why it is I’m so pissed at him.
“What?” He stands and starts toward me, but stops. “Don’t listen to them, Carly. I know how much Maria means to you. Iliad’s PR woman is a total tyrant. I’ll talk to them.”
“Oh, no.” I wave away his concern. “It’s just in public. They don’t give a damn what I do with her behind closed doors. It’s a lot like your life, I guess. I’m just not as comfortable living a big fat lie as you are.” The words shoot from my mouth before I even know they’re in there. Immediate regret washes over me, followed by resentment. And I remember why I’m so pissed.
A breath that sounds like a growl rushes out of him between tightly clenched teeth. He turns, stalks several paces away, then turns back with military precision. His hands are in his hair, trying to rip it from his scalp. Navy eyes smolder so hot they scare me. I have no clue what’s coming next.
“You are, without a doubt, the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met. I never once lied to you. Sure, things got way more complicated than either of us intended. But you’ve known from the beginning our relationship came with limitations.” He stops cold, chopping a decisive hand through the air at the same time he realizes they can hear him in the hallway. His tone softens. “You never had a problem with it before. Until the night of my gala—a night I’m trying to right the biggest wrong in my life—suddenly you decide you do and you ruin everything.” He leans in closer, our cheeks touching, and whispers the next part in my ear. “Did you ever stop to think what it did to me to see you heading down the same road that killed Dylan?” He straightens, forcing his composure once more. His eyes turn dull navy. “Don’t you dare sit there and act like this is all on me. You don’t do something like that to someone you claim to love.”
His words scorch through me, turning to ash my own anger. I’m leveled by the wounded look in his eyes, and immediately filled with disbelief that a man like him could love me so much. I’ve been blindly obsessed with my own pain, never once considering his. Assuming his silence was more to protect his carefully crafted imaged from the danger of an association with me. It never occurred to me his heart could break as easily as my own.
“I’m sorry,” I stammer, too stunned to cry. Sorry is useless—way too little, way too late. He stalks away, arms crossed, fingers working over his lips. “Devon, I’d never intentionally hurt you.” I leap to my feet and follow him. “The night would’ve been fine if I hadn’t had to endure hours of Heather hanging all over you. When I did, it only reinforced every reason we shouldn’t be together. You loving me makes zero sense. You and Heather seem right. It was more than I could handle.”
“How can you even question my life with Heather? You know the lie we live.”
“True, but I would rather French kiss a cobra than endure the HeaVon show in person for a single second. Watching your lover with someone else is the harshest hell there is.” I place my hand on his shoulder. The muscles relax under my touch. “I should’ve left. I’m so sorry I ruined things for you.”
He stares at my hand resting on him, an internal conflict playing over his face. With a sigh he turns, takes my hand and holds it as he peers down into my eyes. The storm cloud is lifting. The old Devon slowly returns, but it’s clear I’ve scared him. Wariness lingers in his gaze. Hesitation marks the moment he should take me in his arms.
He raises a hand to my cheek, brushes a cool finger down the length of it. “No, I shouldn’t have insisted you come.” He looks defeated. “You mean so much to me. I don’t want to lose you. But this is what my life is, and it’s not going to make you happy.”
“You always make me happy.”
“On set, yes. Here, no.”
He’s right. On set we are blissfully out of touch with our reality. Out of touch enough to pretend our happily-ever-after is within reach. In reality, I’ll only ever have half of him.
Can that be enough?
I was fine with the situation at the gala until Heather rubbed it in my face. I could’ve sucked it up and dealt with it because I knew the truth of everything. But when she started hanging all over him and he acted like he enjoyed it, I fucking lost it.
“You can tell Heather to lay off when I’m around. You accept Jamie. S
he needs to accept me.”
Skepticism lights his sideways stare. “Really? That’s enough to make you happy?”
“No, but it’ll help. We’re due back on set in a few weeks. We’ll figure it out then.” I realize what a cop-out this is, but I cannot stand to be crossways with this man. Once we’re on set we’ll find our normal and figure a way out of this. I know we will.
“Okay, I’ll talk to her.”
His arms circle my lower back and he pulls me close. The familiar, insatiable need rises from my core and I’m pulling at his buttons before his lips find mine. When they finally do his hands slip lower, under my ass, raising me up level with him. My legs circle his back.
A knock lands against the door, but neither of us let go. Ernest sticks his head in.
“Devon, they’re waiting on you,” he says, his head turned to give us some privacy.
“Give us a second.” Devon’s words vibrate against my lips so he doesn’t have to break the kiss. He brushes a hand over my bare ass cheek and groans his disappointment at having to let me go. But he does. “So we’re good? For now?”
I bite my lip. Of course we’re good. I’m incapable of denying this man anything when I’m in his arms. I nod. He leans in for another kiss—one of the good ones that sings sweetly from my lips to the tips of my toes.
“This isn’t over,” he promises with a wicked grin.
My feet find the floor. I wipe my lipstick from his mouth. A naughty thought crosses my mind, because that’s what he does to me. With an even wickeder grin, I hike up my skirt, loop my thumbs over the hip strings of my purple La Perla thong and pull down, slowly stepping my Choos from the tangle of lace. I wad them into a purple ball and slowly tuck it into his breast pocket. “Sweetheart, it’s just starting,” I tease, then readjust my skirt and saunter casually from the room. Devon is reduced to open-mouthed, dumb staring. Score two, Carly.
* * *
Later that evening I get a text.
