by Evie Claire
He’s rock hard and ready for action by the time my lips find their way between his legs. Softly, gently, I swallow the length of him, knowing no man, not even Devon Hayes, can say no to a woman when his dick is in her mouth.
* * *
I know curiosity killed the cat and that I’m a total masochist for watching this, but I had to see it one time for real—no squirrelly, fast-forwarded cell phone recording—before sending it to its fiery grave. It’s held too much power over me for too long. It only seems appropriate. Devon has found a way to know and love everything about me. I want to have that same level of connection and support for him.
He thinks I’m certifiable. A hot shower is more appealing to him. I don’t blame him for that. The night holds nothing but bad memories and years of guilt for him. Luckily, my state-of-the-art security system has a dinosaur backup system that fits the tape perfectly. I’ve pulled a chair up to the closet full of TVs, ready for the action. I insert the tape, press the sideways triangle button and wait. A TV up top flares to life. The black-and-white image of a girl fills the screen. My stomach rolls so violently I almost turn it off. But, I can’t. I need to see this. No matter how badly it hurts. I tell myself I’ll turn it off before the body bag shows up. That’s one scene I don’t need to see again.
In larger format and with better resolution, it’s beyond striking how much Dylan and I favor each other. My hair is longer than hers, but she has a nose ring exactly where mine used to be. I rub the old scar absently. She’s partying with a group of people in the VIP room. One looks like a young Heather. Devon is MIA.
The group passes a mirror and a rolled bill. Each one beams a rail up their nose or passes. Dylan takes two lines and passes. I swallow hard, knowing exactly what’s happening to her body in this moment. How much she savors the feeling of losing control.
She studies the table, letting her high sink in. Then grabs her drink, sits back and becomes the life of the party. I can see why Devon loved her. She’s fun. She’s flirty. She doesn’t give a damn what anybody thinks. In no time, she and the person I’m assuming is Heather are on the table dancing like strippers, using each other as a pole. I fast-forward through the night, stopping every few seconds to be sure I’m not missing something. Dylan takes down a massive amount of blow, but she keeps going, not once stopping or looking like she’s out of control.
The party clears, but she stays. She waves goodbye, and it is now that the drugs hit her. She sways and falls to the couch. Minutes pass. I assume she’s out cold until she pops up like the Energizer Bunny.
Devon appears. My heart sinks, knowing what’s about to happen. I watch the next painful minutes through my fingers, nerves flying through me. Devon leaves and returns. They argue. There’s the needle. The vein. The pass-out. Devon rolls her to her side to sleep it off. I should stop it. I know what’s coming next.
I’m fumbling for the stop button when a familiar figure comes back on-screen. She’s searching for something. While I watch her rummage through the couches Dylan begins to convulse. She’s shaking and foaming at the mouth. The other person rushes to her side, grabs her shoulders, slaps her a few times and then lets her fall. She pushes a veil of black hair over her shoulders. In the next second, the camera focuses clear as day on Heather Troy.
She stands over Dylan, watching her convulse, watching frothy vomit gurgle between her lips and spill over her cheek. Anybody in their right mind would roll the girl onto her side, sweep her mouth and call for help. Not Heather. She stands over Dylan, looking down with zero registered emotion as she breathes her last breath. Dylan convulses a final time, stills and goes limp. Heather waits. And waits. She turns her head to the side, obviously listening. A solid minute passes before she leans down and checks for a pulse. Of course there isn’t one. It’s then that she screams and runs from the room.
Blood turns to ice water in my veins. Unable to process what I’ve just seen, I stare blankly at the screen, trying to make it make sense. For years, Heather held this tape over Devon like she could ruin him with it. He believed her because A) who would want to watch a loved one’s death to fact-check her story, and B) who would imagine someone could be so callous...even Heather. I’m no attorney, but it seems this tape is more damning for her than for him. Unless I’m missing something.
Sickened, I slam the cabinet door shut, still trying to make it make sense. Devon administered the drugs that sent Dylan over the edge, but he certainly didn’t sit there and watch her die. Heather did, which means...
Chills race through me. Realization blooms wild in my mind. Which means she’s just as much to blame as he is.
I leap from the chair, ready to race upstairs and erase the years of guilt he’s suffered through. Only, when I spin around, there’s a body blocking the doorway.
Devon leans heavily against the frame, shirtless, blue jeans half buttoned like he was seconds away from stepping in the shower and came to ask where the towels are. I have no idea how long he’s been here, how much he’s seen. Until I see the look in his eyes.
Oh, he saw exactly what she did.
Hollow navy orbs stare unblinking at the cabinet door covering the TV screen that played Dylan’s death seconds ago. I don’t move. Neither does he. He’s still staring, but pulls in one huge breath like he’s forgotten to breathe.
“Devon...” I have no clue what to say to him right now. His gaze falls to me, finally acknowledging my presence. He blinks wildly, tears glistening on his lashes. I rush to his side, take him in my arms and melt down the doorframe with him, cradling him as best I can. He clings to me, pulling me to him, his need for me insistent.
In my arms, my great man breaks. All the years of sleepless nights and self-blame pour out of him in streaming, silent, open-mouthed, gasping, body-wracking tears. The kind cried when a soul is finally purged of its deepest regret. All the grief and sadness and pure torture of thinking he was responsible for killing someone he loved flows out of him, soaking my shoulder and neck. No one should live under a weight like this.
“I am so sorry,” I coo into his ear, totally unaware I’m crying, too, until a sob cracks my voice. Of course I’m crying. I’ve never witnessed such emotional vulnerability from anyone. Unabashedly, he bares every ugly inch of himself. No holding back. Nothing off-limits.
He’s always so stoic and hard. Seeing him undone shatters me. Seeing him in such pain wrecks me. I love this man. Everything about him. Even his pain. It takes a great man to feel so deeply. An even greater one to admit it.
A belief that’s been a cornerstone of his world crumbled and showed itself for what it really is. In this moment, his ugliest truth has come to light as a lie. It’s rocked him to his core. Most men’s pride would make them push me away. He only pulls me closer. Together we sob on each other’s shoulders, mourning the loss of Dylan all over again, because the truth of that night makes her death even uglier and more pointless than it was before. I’ll never know her, not really, but without her I’d never know Devon either.
When the tears stop, he pulls away, heels of his palms dug into his eyes. His back straightens against the wall, his head lifts to the ceiling and his hands fall away, revealing red rims and salt-streaked cheeks. I slide into the space he’s created, placing my cheek against his bare chest, wiping my own tears against his strength. His arms find me and begin slowly stroking up and down my back.
“I loved her so much. I never would have...” He can’t say the word kill.
“You didn’t. Heather did.”
“All these years...” His voice trails off again because there are zero words for the bombshell that just exploded in his world.
“What are you going to do?” I ask, tentatively looking up. His eyes are so intense they burn right through me. He continues to stare, but his gaze loses focus. Slowly he starts nodding, a decision firming in his mind.
“Bury the bitch.”
/>
Chapter Thirty
The next morning Maria and I sit across from L.A.’s cleanest dirty attorney. In our hands we hold the smoking guns that will blow Heather’s perfect little world to smithereens—a ridiculously small price to pay for the years of lies and torment she’s put Devon through.
Last night, after they secured the tape, Devon loosed Mr. Moretti to do what he does. Heather’s cell phone was remotely wiped. Under intense questioning—I’m imagining tied-to-a-chair-in-a-meat-locker-type stuff—India insisted the tape had only been out of her vault the one time Heather requested it. Moretti can smell liars and he believes her.
Not that it really matters after the true circumstances of Dylan’s death revealed themselves. The tape basically exonerates Devon while totally implicating Heather. Callously watching someone die when you could have easily prevented it has got to be illegal. At this point, Devon could theoretically walk away a free man. But why on earth would he want to when revenge like this is going to be so damn sweet?
As promised, he’s let me decide how to deal with Heather. He was up all night, sorting through the years of lies and coming to terms with his new reality. Honestly, I think he’s so disgusted by her he doesn’t even want to think about it. Fine by me. It seems only fair I get the satisfaction of destroying her after the months of mind games the nasty panty thief played with me.
“Well...” The dishonorable Maxwell Sweet is all sorts of flustered—blushing and sweating like a choir boy seeing his first titty. “Wow.” He tucks his head to the side and adjusts his collar. The pictures on my phone are making it hard for him to breathe. “And there’s a video of this, too?” He tucks his head like he doubts our claim.
“Live and living color,” Maria says with a smile, holding up her phone for him to see.
“Okay.” He clears his throat and gets all work-mode serious. “Legally, you can’t sell or distribute a sex tape without written consent from both parties.”
“But they’re going at it in a public place. That’s different, right?”
“Yes...and no.” His answer deflates me. My frustration is made clear by an exasperated exhale that turns into a rumbling groan. “Public images of an act that isn’t considered lewd or indecent can certainly be sold. Some of these pictures are fine. But when they include genitalia, breasts or penetration, that’s the line as far as California law is concerned. Nobody will touch your tape without the participants’ consent. There’s also the potential for legal action against you for shopping it around.”
“Well that sure as shit can’t happen.” No way am I giving Heather any recourse to come after me. I smack my lips and grind my teeth. “Not even Lucid? They buy everybody’s tapes.”
He shakes his head, but a small smile creeps over his lips. “Unless you don’t care about the money?”
“Please. This is so not about the money!” Nope, this is just a good-old-fashioned fuck you to my arch nemesis.
“If this is simply revenge...” He taps a pen against his desk. “There are ways to post it online that can’t be traced. You wouldn’t be able to profit off it, but if it’s what you say it is, the effect would be the same.” He sits back in his chair, straightening his tie.
This is why I came to an attorney like him.
“Oh, that’s even better!” Maria exclaims. “Ruin her for free.” We exchange a sideways glance. She’s nodding and grinning, completely unaware that it is pure spite, no longer necessity, motivating my rival’s destruction. Slowly, it sinks in just how fabulous his suggestion is. For me, it’s way more satisfying than a multi-million-dollar payday. In Hollywood, nothing is free—except a video of Heather Troy bumping fuzzies in the great outdoors with the manny. That is probably the most poetic justice ever for a lying gold digger like her.
“Do it,” I say, unable to keep the smile off my face. Maxwell gives a bemused grimace, eyes all wide, like he can’t believe what I’m agreeing to. What the fuck ever. His loosely moraled business practices are the only reason I’m sitting in his office right now.
“Done. On to the pictures. You’ve got ten to fifteen images you can legally sell.”
“Do it,” I repeat, emboldened by the confidence of knowing that in 24 hours Heather Troy will be the most vilified woman in the world. You can’t cheat on the Sexiest Man Alive and walk away unscathed in this business. Hell no. Devon’s got legions of loyal fans that will happily crucify her for this. The internet trolls will have a field day. Leaving Heather broke and with her fame quickly turning into infamy, essentially losing her most prized possessions. “Sell them to the highest bidder who can guarantee a front-page story tomorrow morning.” I sit back and take a blissfully deep breath. “And keep my name out of it,” I add with a heart-attack serious glare.
“Okay. I get a 40 percent commission on work like this.”
“Again, not about the money.” I shrug. “Unless you want it?” I ask Maria. She should get something for her efforts, even though I’m pretty certain she’s thoroughly enjoyed every second of what we’ve done.
“Nooooo,” Maria says, waving off the offer. She’ll be self-sufficient once her Valley General checks start rolling in. “My life is turning around. I don’t need karma like that.” She nods her head resolutely, resisting the temptation for an easy payday. A year ago, we would’ve taken the money and run. Now we’re superstitious enough to stay as far away from it as possible. Because in this town, the money made off ruining someone else’s career is basically blood money.
“Okay, so who gets it?” He gives an exasperated eye roll like we’re insane not taking the money. But it feels wrong to me, like I’m profiting off Devon’s pain in some indirect way. I just want her gone. Forever.
I think long and hard. Maybe Jamie should get a cut. He’s the one who delivered this nugget on a golden platter, and his sugar momma is about to melt into a pile of sticky goo. They’re going to need some cash once Devon cuts her ass off. But so far, he hasn’t asked for anything. Still, that seems like a good place to send some of it.
“How much do you think it’ll be?”
Maxwell flips through the pics again, ticking off his fingers like he’s counting. “Total? I’d say at least three million.” He shrugs like this number floats around his office all day. “Maybe more,” he adds as an afterthought. I bite my lip as I think. This is why I have agents and attorneys do all my deals for me. They are so much better at this than I am.
“Take your cut. Put five hundred thousand in a client account. Whatever is left goes to the Dylan Abbot Women’s Crisis Center. Anonymously.” Again, I give my heart-attack serious stare. “I don’t want your name associated with the donation. Create a corporation if you have to. Nothing can tie the sale of these pictures and that donation. Got it?”
He nods and scribbles notes. “Is that American and international rights? They’ll eat this shit up across the pond.”
I look to Maria, eyebrows raised in a question mark. “Yes.” She nods with me. This is why I don’t make deals.
“Done. What else?”
The word sounds like a judge’s hammer thwacking against his desk. I say nothing, the reality of the situation, of the events I’ve just set in motion, settling over me. Heather Troy is going down. No longer is she the one with the power. No longer can she continue to hurt the man I love. Now it’s our turn, and we’re going to repay her decade of lies with one swift kick to the lady bits. I think it’s called a cunt punt. My arms are already raised in a winner’s V. Score one, Carly.
I shake my head, biting at a smile.
“Then all I need from you ladies is a signed client contract, and I’m good on my end. I’ll call you once I have our buyer.”
I quickly sign the document and hand it over to Maria. Standing, I wipe my hands over my dress, smoothing it into place.
“Ladies, it’s a pleasure working with you.”
Maxwell turns on the charm, knowing we’re about to make him an even richer man.
“Oh no, Maxwell. The pleasure is all mine.” I slide my sunglasses over my eyes and float from the room on a pink puffy cloud of victory.
* * *
“It’s done!” I announce, breezing into the room like I own the world. At this moment, maybe I do. Devon hangs up his phone, amused by my grand entrance. I spread my arms wide and fall effortlessly onto the couch. He’s dressed casually in jeans and a vintage Rolling Stones tee. The one with a lip and tongue, which is fitting considering how lickable he is. His hair is damp and I can smell his body wash from across the room. It practically makes me salivate.
“Do I dare ask?” He falls down beside me, taking my feet in his lap.
“Well, you’ll be surprised to know we can’t actually sell the tape. Consent forms and all.” I roll my eyes.
“Not even to Lucid?”
“That’s exactly what I said.” I slap his bicep, pleased at the way our minds are synced. “But no. We can, however, post it online, free for the world’s viewing pleasure, and bury any trace of where it came from. Which if you think about it is even sweeter.”
“She will definitely know it’s us. Who else would release something like that for free?” He pulls my heels off and begins to rub my feet.
“I hope she does. Oh, that feels good.” I pause, enjoying the massage.
“What about the pictures?”
“Those are being sold to the highest bidder who can guarantee a front page in tomorrow’s news cycle.” Devon looks impressed.
“How much?”
“He thinks three.” I shrug.
“They’ll go for more,” he says, shaking his head. “Where’s the money going?”
