Total Trainwreck

by Evie Claire

  Of course there are a million and one people who want to talk to Spence. I tug on his arm and give him a desperate look. His brow furrows but he doesn’t ask any questions. Instead, he politely waves them off and follows a maître d’ to our waiting table. It has a reserved sign on it, because he is Spencer Hugo. Also waiting is bottle of his favorite tequila and a plate of limes.

  “Um, can we get some bread? Now?” I ask the maître d’ before he leaves.

  “Certainly,” he says with a smile, but I see the side-eye he’s giving me when he walks off. In Hollywood, bread can kill a career. Nobody, and I mean nobody, dares to touch the stuff. It’s like a black cat walking under a ladder to break a mirror kind of stuff. But I don’t care. If I don’t eat something, everything that’s in my stomach is going to be sitting on the table in a matter of minutes.

  Almost immediately, a plate of baked pizza dough twisted with cheese appears on the table. It’s not bread, not really, but they probably don’t have a decent wheat roll bathed in butter, so it’s gonna have to do. I grab the plate and start shoving them in my mouth as fast as I can.

  Spence watches with an amused grin. “Didn’t they feed you in Siberia?” he chuckles.

  “Ha, ha,” I answer with a mouth full of bread. “I’ve been fighting this stomach thing. My appetite just came back with a vengeance.”

  “Ah,” he says, but is distracted by yet another friendly face stopping by the table. He stands to speak to them, which is just fine by me. Behind the cover of his back I snarf down the remaining cheese twists and clear the crumbs with a finger. I’m licking that very finger when my purse vibrates.

  How are you feeling today, Sunshine?

  Stellar. Only puked once.

  It gets better, promise.

  I ignore his obvious conclusion that my silence on the whole situation means I have actually agreed to keep it. I have not. But I’m also not arguing with him about it anymore. My body, my problem, my solution.

  Have you heard from Moretti?

  Yes, I’m obsessed. It’s all I can think about, when I’m not thinking about my situation. But come on. Can you blame me? Once Mr. Moretti turns over his findings, one problem will practically be solved and this second circumstance will be much more bearable.

  He’s delivering his report in the morning. Where r u?

  Dinner w Spence. Iliad PR insisted.

  Like a jealous boyfriend, he doesn’t respond even though he should know I’m only here to help keep the suits happy. I’m busily working on my phone when Spence finishes his conversation.

  “Anything urgent?” he asks, nodding in the direction of my flying fingers.

  “Nah,” I say, and finish deleting the text exchange so there’s no evidence. Spence knows about Devon. He doesn’t know about the situation. I’d really like to keep it that way.

  “How’s the new house?” Spence asks, referring to the near-palatial spread in West Hollywood that is now my extremely fabulous home address.

  “Absolutely amazing. I’m never living in an apartment again. Maria found us the deal of the century.” To say that we’ve upgraded is an understatement. I now have a private infinity pool overlooking the valley, five thousand square feet and a security system to rival Fort Knox. The decorators start their renovations next week.

  “Maria and Ryan...they’re actually making a go of it?” he asks, pouring two shots of tequila and reaching for the plate of lime. God, I love this tequila. But I can’t. I shake my head and push the shot glass back across the table.

  “I can’t,” I say, studying the glass he just emptied.

  “Are you sober again?” he asks.

  I nod, and look to him with an I-can’t-believe-it-either smirk. All I want is to get knee-walking drunk and forget about all the situations in my life. The reality is I’ve actually matured enough to realize that getting plastered doesn’t fix a damn thing. That realization sucks worse than sobriety.

  “Good for you,” Spence says with a golf clap of appreciation. Oh, if he only knew the truth. I hate lying to him. But there’s no choice.

  “I guess that means no clubbing afterward?”

  I shake my head. “Maria and I promised to call it an early night. We need some girl time.” Honestly, she saw a pregnancy book Devon managed to sneak into my luggage when I was getting ready, and busted a damn gut. I was running late and promised her details once I got back. I can’t even fathom what waits for me at home.

  “I’m worried about her,” Spence mentions from behind his menu.

  “Why?” I pull the top of the page down to see his face.

  “She needs to ditch Ryan if she wants this comeback. Everybody’s talking about how hot she suddenly is.” He emphasizes everybody with wide, rolling eyes. “But after his stunt outside the club I’ve made certain no one will touch him ever again.”

  “You blackballed him?”

  “Yep.” Spence pops his lips to make the sound of a balloon exploding. It really serves him right. Who in the hell did he think he was, using someone like Spence to get his name in the tabloids? But poor Maria.

  “Oh, but his latest single went to number one in China last week.” I smile sarcastically like this is actually as impressive as Maria thinks it is. “Besides, she’s in love.”

  “I’m sure she is. Still, she deserves better.” Spence takes the wine list and begins to peruse it like this is all an afterthought. He doesn’t fool me. Maria’s still got his eye, and her ignoring him is only making the wanting worse. “What are you having? I need to pick a wine,” he says, and looks at me. “Oh, never mind. It doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “She just got a part on Valley General.” I share her news and Spence nods.

  “Valley General?” It’s the same reaction I had. Life on Easy Street won Maria two Emmys. Daytime TV is a downgrade. “Good for her.” He has a million times more tact than I do. That’s why he’s Spencer Hugo.

  We order dinner. He watches in amazement as I polish off an entire prime rib and truffle fries. Normally, I’d be embarrassed by eating like this in public, but given my current situation I don’t care. I can’t drown my sorrows in drink. I can’t cry into the shoulder of the man I love. I can’t get high. The smell of smoke makes me sick. Food is my only friend.

  “Can you bring the dessert menu?” I ask the same waiter who set my massive steak down in front of Spence when he brought it to the table. Obviously assuming a woman wouldn’t order half a cow of prime rib, let alone upgrade to the truffle fries and finish every freaking crumb. He’s lucky I didn’t order the cheeseburger. That would’ve gotten ugly in a hurry.

  With two desserts and black coffee ordered, I settle under the crook of Spence’s arm. I pat my belly, because it really is poking out now.

  “Food baby,” Spence jokes, poking me under the table.

  I giggle nervously and playfully slap his hand away before he discovers the truth.

  “Siberian food sucks. I haven’t had a decent meal in forever.”

  A commotion rattles the front doors and the flashing lights are so bright they burst into the restaurant’s quiet calm. A small group of people enter. Three bodies huddle over people in the center. I lean up in my seat to see who’s so important. The door closes. The group disperses. A head of long black hair pops free from the gaggle, a smoldering set of navy-rimmed eyes beside it.

  Fuck.

  What in the hell is Heather Troy doing here? And why is he with her? The prime rib sours in my belly. Heather loops her arm in Devon’s and they follow the maître d’. Devon’s look is pleasant enough. But only I know him well enough to notice the vein threatening to burst his temple. Oh...he’s pissed. Which means coming here was not his idea.

  Did she know we were here?

  I grab my phone and quickly pull up TMI. Yep. Spence and I are already on the front
page. That bitch. They are led to a table at the far side. All the while I watch them like a hawk, chewing on the inside of my lip and thinking. Part of me wants to run to him. He is my husband on Sardinian sand. But I know I can’t. Devon is locked into the poker game of his life and if I tip our cards it may ruin it.

  “You okay?” Spence asks, taking my hand in his.

  I nod, looking to him for help. “Should I say hey?” I ask, wondering what looks the most obvious. “If I don’t say hey, that’s weird. Right? We’re working together. But I cannot stomach that woman, Spence.”

  “You and me both,” he says through his teeth.

  I sneak a side-eyed glance in their direction. They haven’t sat down. Heather has a distracted look on her face. She searches the place. Looking for something. When she sees me, she stops, smiles and points in our direction. Fuck. The blood drains from my face when they push through the tables to where we sit. I turn away and take a deep breath, blowing it out slowly like Jane taught me.

  “Hey, guys!” Heather’s tone is fake and full of tasteless self-important bravado. Finally, something other than food making me puke. “Mind if we join you?”

  I should say yes, but I’m too lost in the cold blue eyes staring at me from behind her. Hell no, I don’t want to sit within a mile radius of Heather Troy. But if it means having Devon at my table? Hell, yes.

  “Sure,” Spence says warily. I turn away and look at nothing, still practicing my controlled breathing to keep from lighting into her.

  “Will you take our picture?” Heather asks the waiter. She hands her phone over, and before I know what’s happening she squeezes into the booth beside me and smiles for a pic. Devon sits on the other side of Spence. “Oh, this is so going on Instagram,” she says like she’s an irresponsibly oversharing teenager.

  “I don’t want that—” I start to say, but she cuts me off.

  “Too late!” she smiles. “It’s a great pic,” she says, turning to me so I can see the image on her screen. Not that I give two shits, but out of habit I look. Sure, it’s great of her. Devon and I, on the other hand, look like we’ve just tripped some acid that is melting our fucking faces off. Great. Just what I need. It’s insurance for her. If our secrets ever get out, a picture like this makes me look like a home-wrecking Elizabeth Taylor while she gets to be innocent and sweet Debbie Reynolds. Smart play, you evil bitch.

  My desserts arrive, but I’m too nauseated by my present company to eat. I push them away.

  “You should eat.” Devon speaks up, pushing the desserts back to me.

  “Funny, I’ve lost my appetite.” I push the plate back. He doesn’t say anything, but slides it my way again, pleading with his eyes.

  “Easy, she might pop. She just killed a 14-ounce steak and fries!” Spence laughs good-naturedly, trying to cover up the awkward turtle that is stuck on its back flailing wildly atop our table.

  The moment is brutally uncomfortable. Everyone here knows Devon and I are fucking. Heather thinks she has a victory to gloat over since Devon didn’t accept her terms. Why else would she want to come here if not to throw it in my face? She doesn’t have a clue about Mr. Moretti or my situation. I’d love nothing more than to rub it in her face, but we can’t tip our hand...yet. And Spence, bless him, is removed enough to realize how very dangerous our secrets are.

  I’m staring into space, furiously contemplating all this when something shiny catches my eye. Heather is still on her phone, fingers flying over the screen. On her hand, her left hand no less, sits a diamond large enough to solve the national debt. I stare at the thing until I can’t breathe.

  “Let me out,” I say to Heather, pushing against her side. Damned circular booths. It’s all so cool and trendy until a girl needs to make an exit in a hurry and has to go through her arch nemesis on the way. Heather graciously scoots out and lets me pass.

  I tuck my purse under my arm and dash to the restroom, threatening to body tackle anyone who gets in my way. What. The. Fuck.

  In the restroom, I lock the door behind me and try to calm my brain. I’m nervous and sweaty and all sorts of falling apart. My damn hormonal nerves cannot handle this. Okay, think, Carly. Calm down, and think. I pace the length of the restroom, hands on hips trying to figure out what to do. What I want to do is light into that bitch Fight Club style. But I can’t. My only option is to remove myself and regroup. I pull out my phone to text Spence to meet me at the back exit. There’s a knock on the door.

  “Go away,” I shout.

  “Carly, it’s me,” Devon says through the door.

  Relief washes over me. I crack the door wide enough to pull him in and lock it back. I fall against him, pulling the sweet smell of his chest into me. His arms are around me, pulling me into him.

  “Why the hell are you here and what the fuck is that on her finger?” I say, almost in tears. “I can’t handle this shit right now.”

  “I had no clue you would be here,” he says, stroking my hair back. “She said she wanted to discuss the settlement.”

  “She knew I was here. It’s all over TMI,” I say through gritted teeth. “What about the ring?”

  “What ring?” Devon asks, genuinely confused.

  “That goddamn rock on her left hand that could choke a fucking whale!” I scream, needing the release. He shrinks back like I’m the crazy one. I whip out my phone, pull up TMI and, sure enough, the ring is already front-page news, filled with insinuations that nuptials are soon to follow.

  “Fuck,” Devon says, slowly scrolling my phone. “I had nothing to do with this. She must’ve bought it for herself.” He says this like diamond shopping is an everyday occurrence in their world.

  “Are you fucking stupid? Don’t you see what that bitch is doing? This story is everywhere. It only makes it harder for you to leave her. How in the hell is she always one step ahead?”

  Devon steps away, dropping my phone in an outstretched hand. A wounded look wrinkles his forehead and I realize once again, her antics are doing nothing but driving a wedge between us. Exactly what she wants.

  “I’m sorry. It’s these damn hormones. I’m already starting to show.” I pull the dress tight across my belly so he can see a tiny swell below my navel. His hand slides down to the bump and he caresses it. The wounded look fades further with each stroke. “Devon, I’m falling apart here. I can’t do this.” I try to shrug out of his embrace, but he holds me so tightly I’m stuck.

  “You don’t have to do it,” he says. I startle and look up to him. Has he changed his mind? Has he relented and realized how crazy having a baby is? “We are going to do this,” he clarifies, and I realize he hasn’t changed his mind one bit.

  “I’m going to see Dr. Goldberg tomorrow,” I say as plainly as possible. Devon rubs my belly again.

  “I wish I could be there,” he says absently, obviously assuming my appointment is a routine prenatal exam. For once, I love Devon’s jaded reality. He’s not used to the world giving him anything other than exactly what he wants. It makes the lie easier, if that’s even possible.

  I shake my head and push his hand away, frustrated at him. Frustrated at our situation. Frustrated at life. “It’s nothing.”

  He pulls me back to him when I try to turn away. “It’s everything,” he says. And when he holds me like this, softly and sweetly, the way every woman with a situation wants to be held by the man who put her situation there, it seems right. He plants a kiss on my lips. After all the anxious shakes rattling my body, the feel of him instantly calms me. I relax and exhale against his mouth. Our lips stay softly connected, warm and wet, neither moving. It’s enough to make me want to quit fighting him. To say yes. Fuck all the idiots. Let’s just run away and live our lives how we want to. But that isn’t reality.

  “Everything will look different tomorrow, I promise.” He nuzzles the spot below my ear. Our spot. “Moret
ti may have something.” At this news, my heart leaps for joy, and the world no longer seems out to get me.

  “This is it, Devon. I know it is.” I take his hand in mine, squeezing it tightly with excitement. I place a gentle kiss on his knuckles, my lips lingering, imagining all the possibilities of what Moretti’s something could be.

  Our moment is interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Shit,” I say under my breath. “How the hell are we going to get you out of here?” The moment’s perfection is gone, and once again reality turns me frantic.

  “I’ll just walk out.”

  “With me right beside you. Brilliant,” I joke. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  My face is twisted into the most horrible expression I can muster when I exit the restroom. I hold a hand over my mouth like I’m about to gag.

  “Do not go in there!” I exclaim through my disgust. “Someone puked everywhere. I’m going to tell the manager.”

  Everybody hates puke. The poor girl waiting in line flees like it’s the bubonic plague. I tap my heel against the door and leave. I arrive back at the table but don’t bother to sit down.

  “I’m ready,” I say without looking in Heather’s direction. Spence has boxed my dessert and is laughing with a guarded expression at whatever she’s just said. Again, all the vomit rises at the sound of her voice.

  “Heather invited us to Angel’s birthday party this weekend,” Spence says, sliding around the table to stand.

  “Oh, lucky us.” I smile and enthuse over the invite with all the bitchy fakery she would. “I’ll be sure to put that on our calendar.” I can’t help the involuntary head snap that punctuates my sentence. She’s lucky I don’t come across the table and shove that diamond down her throat. Instead, I take the high road—an eye-roll-punctuated up-down.

  “You guys leaving so soon?” Devon asks, rejoining us at the table.