by Evie Claire
“Never question my commitment.” I pull an ashtray close and take a deep drag. It is everything I need after exchanging such weighty words. “I was trying to protect us.”
“I realize that, but not at the expense of life. We would’ve found a way.” He wrinkles his nose and takes the cigarette from my hand, laying it on the ashtray’s rim. I don’t object because I know how much he hates my smoking. “I will always find a way for us.” He pulls me into his lap and lays a kiss on my forehead, the protective kind that tells me I am his only concern in life. I wrap my arms around his torso, hanging my head over his shoulder and snuggling into his neck. I remember why I don’t like to talk about shit. It’s absolutely exhausting.
“Moretti is joining us on the boat for dinner tonight,” Devon says after several minutes of silence. I sit up, taking a moment to smooth my hair into place and change mental gears. This is why I need to smoke. I relight the cigarette and take another drag, carefully exhaling away from him.
“Is this what I think it is?” I ask tentatively.
He nods once, pulls his sunglasses back over his eyes and looks out to sea.
Chapter Thirty-Five
I’m freshly showered and dressed in a sea-worthy white maxi for dinner. An afternoon in the sun talking things through with Devon was exactly what I needed. It’s taken the edge off enough to make me almost normal. When I cruise into the second-floor dining room and find Devon talking over drinks with a strange man, I stop cold, knowing the next hour of my life will be a million miles from normal.
I throw my shoulders back and slap on a smile like this is just another day, because that’s what I think I should do in a situation where I’m about to sic a fixer on my worst enemy. This is a good thing, right? Every time I imagined it in my mind, it’s been delightful. The reality of actually doing it sets my nerves on edge.
“Mr. Moretti?” I make an educated guess, offering my hand as I approach him and Devon. He turns to me without a smile, takes my hand and gives me a quick appraisal.
“Miss Klein,” he says with a nod, but offers nothing more. He’s older than I thought—salty and sturdy in a sea captain kind of way. A high and tight haircut screams ex-military. Straight-as-a-board posture, overly wrought muscles and a commanding presence suggests Special Forces. I’d put him somewhere north of fifty. His handshake is firm and rigid and could easily crush every bone south of my wrist if he wanted to. Ray Donovan sexy, he is not. Intimidating as hell, he damn sure is.
“I’m so glad you’re joining us for dinner,” I say, accepting a glass of sparkling water with lime from Devon. He leans in, places a kiss on my cheek and pulls me to him. Moretti takes note of my mocktail and our embrace in a mental notebook. His scrutiny does nothing for my nerves.
“No dinner.” He gestures with his glass. “We’ll do our business over a drink.” Devon and I exchange glances. We are so out of our element here. My only reassurance is knowing we’re in this together. “The less we know about each other the better. Trust me,” Moretti explains.
“That’s reasonable.” Devon reaches for a single malt scotch and refills their glasses. “Let’s get down to it. My...” Devon pauses searching for what to call Heather. “Heather Troy has caused some real problems for us. We need her to go away.”
“For good,” I add like my balls would be made of steel if I had some.
“You want her dead?” he asks, tossing a stuffed olive into the air. It lands in his mouth with calculated precision. His brevity is a little icy, even for me and my steel balls.
“God, no,” I say immediately, looking to Devon, wondering if his direction has changed. He shakes his head in answer. “Just permanently banished from Hollywood.”
“Okay. I’ve got a lot of info on her from my previous research. Let’s see which screw you want to turn.” With a wily half smile, he produces a thick file folder bound with a rubber band from his briefcase. It slaps against the bar and he begins to flip through it.
Devon places a hand over the documents to stop his flipping. I totally expect him to draw back a nub for daring to touch Moretti’s stuff. All he gets is a scowl. “We don’t need to go over that. What’s your recommendation?”
“Permanent disfigurement.” Moretti closes the folder and raises his glass casually to his lips. “Vanity is the only thing powerful enough to stop someone like her.”
My palms slick with sweat. I set my glass on the bar and have a gut-check moment of ice-water reality. For all my balls and bravado, this is suddenly way too real for me. Images of Heather with an acid-burned face and Black Dahlia scars turn my stomach. I loathe the bitch, but I hate to think I’m capable of such brutality.
“Are you okay?” Devon asks, brushing the backs of his fingers softly over my cheek.
“I need some air,” I say with a weak smile, and nod toward the door. “You guys go on without me.”
“Of course. We’ll have dinner shortly.” Devon escorts me to a sliding door that leads onto the boat’s promenade. I kiss his cheek then walk to the railing, gripping it tightly and taking a deep breath of fresh air.
Devon rejoins Moretti, but leaves the door ajar.
“Sorry about that.” His voice drifts through the opening.
“No worries. Women always think they’re tough enough for conversations like this. They never are.”
“Not that one,” Devon says. “She’s hard as a rock. But these past few weeks have been awful.”
“She was Pigtails, right?” Moretti asks. “I loved that show.” There’s a pause. Ice cubes jingle against glass.
“In another life,” Devon finally answers.
That’s all I care to listen to. I walk to the front of the ship, breathing deeply and wondering why I’m being such a pussy all of a sudden. The old Carly would’ve danced on Heather’s grave before the dirt dried. Zero fucks given about the bitch. The old Carly never thought about consequences, never bothered to follow her actions farther down the road to imagine the reactions they may cause. Life was only about me. Now I’m sober and keenly aware of how brutal life can be when it wants to. My edge is gone. My guard is down. For the first time ever, I feel safe and loved. And that’s enough to knock the ice out of anybody’s veins. Even mine.
No, it’s best if Devon does this dirty work. After all, he deserves this justice much more than I do. He’ll make the decision that’s right for us. I trust him.
I’m sitting on a deck chair, arms hugged at my middle to block the cool evening breeze when Devon, Moretti and Tiny emerge from the boat’s interior. Their mood is solemn. Moretti nods his goodbye. Devon helps me to my feet and snakes an arm around my waist, pulling me close and rubbing away the goose bumps. Tiny ushers Moretti to the speedboat tethered at the stern that will carry them back to shore.
“Tiny brought fresh lobster from San Clemente,” Devon says. The chef will have dinner up in fifteen minutes.”
“What’s he going to do?” I ask, nodding toward Moretti’s disappearing back.
“The less details, the better, Sunshine. You don’t really want to know.”
“But this is it?” I check to make sure my weakness hasn’t let the opportunity slip past me. “By this time next week she’ll be gone?”
He nods his head. “It’ll look like an accident. No one will ever know or suspect it’s anything other than bad karma that’s come her way.”
“It’s about time she had some of that. I feel like my life has been nothing but bad luck since she came into it.”
“It’s not all bad, is it?” Devon takes my chin in his thumb and forefinger, pulling me in for a gentle kiss.
“Not all bad, at all.” I extend the kiss, melting into him. The breeze whips my hair through the air, covering us in blond waves.
“Wait here. I’ve got something for you,” he says, breaking the kiss and disappearing inside.
He returns almost immediately with a blanket he places over my shoulders and a large paper bag. It looks suspiciously like the bag Tiny was carrying when he arrived.
“What’s that?”
“You’ll see.” He takes my hand and leads me down one level and to the back of the boat. In the distance, the bow and stern lights of Tiny’s motorboat disappear. I’m staring out into the darkening evening light when a loud cork pop startles me. I turn to find Devon pouring two glasses of champagne. My eyes nearly cross with anger. Is he for real? Has he forgotten how hard I’m working to stay sober? For us?
“Calm down.” He holds his hands up defensively. “It’s sparkling grape juice.” His sideways smile breaks over his face. My anger melts into a poor loser’s grin. Okay, he got me.
“What’s the occasion?”
“A toast, to us.” He raises his glass and clinks it with mine. “To forgetting the past and working toward our future. Together.” He kisses me, softly, sweetly, and pulls away. Sparkling bubbles tickle my nose, a sad reminder of how much I love them. Still, I love Devon more.
“To us,” I repeat, drinking again. “You said ‘work.’” I grimace at the word. “What’s India’s plan?” He opens his mouth to answer when I cut him off. “You know I’m never going to trust her, right?” He closes his mouth, impatiently waiting to see if I have more to say. I’m done.
“I know that. But you trust me, right?” I shrug and nod so he’ll continue. “India doesn’t think it will take long for the world to forget Heather once she’s out of the public eye. Her fame was always tied to mine. When we wrap Mighty, I’ll embark on an insane goodwill tour—UNICEF, Wounded Warriors, Make-A-Wish—those kinds of organizations.” He swirls his glass and takes another sip. “This stuff isn’t half bad.”
“You can say that because you have an option.” I side-eye him playfully.
He chuckles and continues. “Speculation about my love life will be rampant. Be prepared for that.” He fixes me with a serious look like he fears this will be difficult for me. Of course it will, but I’ll manage. I’ll have to. Basic bitches don’t get to fuck the Sexiest Man Alive. “Some stories, India will feed to reporters off record for various reasons. Most will be press pool fabrications. Either way, those are the headlines people want to read. I suggest you stay off your websites and away from magazines if you want to stay sane.”
“And us?”
“We’ll make it work. There are ways to sneak around in this town. But, I don’t want to lie to you. In the beginning, it’ll probably be weekly visits at best. But later, when we’re both filming, that’ll be our reality anyway. We might as well get used to it now.”
I nod and roll the cool glass rim over my lips. “Does India have a PR plan for me?”
“If you’ll listen to her advice, she’ll guide you to the top of the A-list.” His answer is beyond confident.
“And exactly how painful will that process be?”
He laughs because he knows I’m right. Acting is the easy part. Playing the fame game breaks a hundred people stronger than me before breakfast. “Some of it’s simple. She wants press stories of you adopting shelter pets, to make you seem nurturing.” I laugh in my sparkling grape juice. Me? Nurturing? Next. “She wants you photographed hiking Runyon Canyon with your trainer to seem outdoorsy and hardworking. She wants you on the red carpet at every fabulous event this year—fashion week pictures backstage with designers, glamorous snaps from Cannes, après-ski parties at Sundance, bikini shots in the Hamptons.”
“Sounds exhausting. And boring as hell sober.” I inwardly gag at the thought of having to stomach a bunch of drunken idiots without being one myself. That’s going to be way worse than anorexia-inducing designer gowns and killer heels. “But if it gets me closer to us, of course.” I twist our cuff around my wrist.
“There’s one other thing.” He turns away, worrying a hand over his glass. “This isn’t her idea. She knows nothing. It’s mine.”
“What?” I’m nervous now, sensing his growing discomfort over a question that has yet to be asked.
“I want you to tell your story,” he finally says.
“Isn’t that exactly what we’re trying to cover up with Moretti?”
“Not our story. Your story.” He puts the emphasis on your with his eyebrows. I bite my lip, knowing exactly what story he means.
I shake my head. “I’m not there yet.” I stand from a lounge chair and walk to the railing, wishing I hadn’t left my smokes in the room. The boat rocks softly in unseen waves. In the distance, San Clemente is in full swing, a mountain of lights against black.
“It doesn’t have to be now. But you need to share what’s happened to you. He can’t get away with what he’s done.” There’s no need to use names here. We both know exactly who he’s talking about. I shake my head again.
“Sharing that will ruin everything we’ve been working for.”
“No it won’t. People want justice for a victim. If they knew what you’ve been through, it would completely reset your life in the public eye. No one would blame you for those wasted years. And who knows how many people would be inspired by your story. Girls who have lived through the same horrors as you may find enough strength in your confession to make their own. Just think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”
“That’s a damn big ask, Devon. Designer dresses and high heels are one thing. Reliving all that—I can’t.” He doesn’t push the topic any further. I run my hands over my face and take a deep breath, hating how much control the topic still has over my emotions.
He lets it drop. Relief washes over me. Of course, he’s right. He’s always right about stuff like this. But a step this big has to be on my own terms and in my own time. After refilling our glasses, his mysterious paper bag rustles. “Here.” Devon places a wrapped box in my hands.
“What’s this?” I eye him with a smile, forgetting my anxiety and wondering what he’s up to.
He shrugs in a sneaky way. I tear the paper away, open the box and find a beautiful hand-painted wooden sailboat nestled in tissue paper. I lift it out, careful of the delicate sails rising from its hull. Devon turns it in my hand so I can read the letters along the bowline.
“Phoebe Grace,” I say aloud, recognizing the name immediately. Devon produces a slim white candle and a lighter from his pocket.
“I thought we should set her free.” He waves a hand toward the ocean. “Give her an opportunity to find her way through this world.”
The silence that claims our moment is deafening. I stare blankly at him in the darkness. From out of nowhere emotion floods me. My face cracks, my eyes water, my throat closes. I hide the tears behind a hand then realize what a bitterly sweet moment he’s made for us. What could be more fitting than standing beside the man I love saying goodbye to our individual pasts and embracing our shared future?
“I think that’s perfect.” I hold the boat out so he can attach the candle to its deck. We walk to the edge of the boat, peering out over the waves. This man is a genius. Water is pure. Water is rebirth. Water is the opportunity to cleanse yourself and start anew. He takes the mini ship from my hand, replacing it with a lighter.
“You do the honors.”
I accept with a nod and strike the flame. My heart is heavy in that full kind of way you get when your emotions have yet to firmly decide which way they will fall. It’s a moment full of sadness and hope, as tender as it is brutal. “I would’ve found a way to love you, little girl. I know I would have.” Tears stream over my cheeks unchecked. The blanket slides from my shoulders, exposing them to cool night air. A shiver runs through me. But it’s not from the cold. It’s the lingering grief that’s been gnawing at my soul. Melted by the flame, it breaks and releases its hold.
The candle flickers to life. Devon bends to set the boat in the water. I bend with him, needing to feel the sensation of
actually letting go. Together, we ease the painted wooden vessel into the black water. It bobs and dips, but finds its sea legs and starts floating away. A breeze catches the delicate cloth sails, pushing it farther, faster, into the night and onto her own path. She takes with her a constant, dull ache that’s lingered in my heart way too long.
Devon helps me to my feet, pulls me into him and rocks me slowly back and forth. He lays a hard kiss against my hair, which is everything. Enveloped in the night’s silence we mourn one final time and then close the book on all the heartaches we’ve known. We watch the flame disappear into the night, knowing she takes with her all the wrongs from our past and every promise for our future. Our future. Just us and an obstacle-free path leading to our happily-ever-after.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Six days ago I started a cleanse. There’s enough cayenne-lemon water in my system to degrease a Gulf oil spill. My stomach howls for relief so loudly I fully expect the creature from Alien to pop out of my belly any minute. Five days ago, Christian Dior’s private jet, laden with racks of designer clothes, arrived at Bob Hope Airport. I was their first stop. Three amazing gowns are tailored to my exact measurements—one for the red carpet and two for the after parties. A stylist told me Anne Hathaway had her eye on one I chose. I’m a nominee this year. Anne can suck it. Sorry, not sorry.
Four days ago, I had a run-through with hair and makeup. They assure me a smoky eye and dewy nude lip will land me on every Look of the Night list. I know nothing about this, which is why I pay them. Three days ago, I visited St. Tropez’s Sun Suite at the Four Seasons. Armed with a swatch of dress fabric and pics from hair and makeup, my spray tan was customized to perfection. Two tepid showers later I still reek of cat piss and coconut, but my skin is sun-kissed sexy and totally gorge.
Yesterday, I raced around Hollywood trying to avoid the paparazzi. My mani, pedi, brow sculpting, facial and massage had to be scheduled at different locations. If I stay too long in one spot, the other customers inevitably tweet my location. Then I’m fucked. Rule of thumb—don’t stay more than an hour at any spa. It’s the only way to stay one step ahead of the vultures. All they got were a couple shots of a girl dashing to an SUV in a hoodie and sunglasses. It could’ve been anyone.
