Finding Love's Wings

by Derrick, Zoey

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Part Five

  Part Six

  Part Seven

  Part Eight

  Part Nine

  Part Ten

  Part Eleven

  Part Twelve

  Part Thirteen

  Part Fourteen

  Part Fifteen

  Part Sixteen

  Part Seventeen

  Part Eighteen

  Part Nineteen

  Part Twenty

  Part Twenty-One

  Part Twenty-Two

  Part Twenty-Three

  Part Twenty-Four

  Part Twenty-Five

  Part Twenty-Six

  Part Twenty-Seven

  Part Twenty-Eight

  Part Twenty-Nine

  Part Thirty

  Part Thirty-One

  Part Thirty-Two

  Part Thirty-Three

  Part Thirty-Four

  Part Thirty-Five

  Part Thirty-Six

  Part Thirty-Seven

  Part Thirty-Eight

  Acknowledgements:

  About The Author:

  FINDING LOVE'S WINGS

  Zoey Derrick

  Cover completed by Olivia Rivers with permission from www.fotolia.com. Olivia can be found on Twitter @RiversOlivia. Cover material and photos (c) Fotolia.com

  This book was edited with the help of Sione Aeschliman, Owner of Sione Aeschliman LLC out of Portland, Oregon. Sione has been my rock, my constant and the light that has kept this project moving forward, without her, this book would not be in your hands. You can visit her on Twitter at www.twitter.com/writelearndream or on her website http://sioneaeschliman.blogspot.com

  Copyright © 2013 Zoey Derrick

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:

  ISBN-13:

  The following is a fictional novel and the characters represented here are not only over the age of 18, but full consenting adults who have only coincidental resemblance to real live people. The location of this story is called Tarah, and please know that this location exists only in my head.. Or at least this version of this location, any resemblance of someplace real is coincidental and if you know of a place like this, send me an e-mail, I need a vacation.

  Finding Love’s Wings is copyrighted 2012 and 2013 by Zoey Derrick and all rights are reserved. So here is the legal jumble.. Ready?

  Without limiting rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, introduced into a retrieval system, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including without limitation photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. The scanning, uploading, and/or distribution of this document via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and is punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials. For permission requests, email zoeyderrick@gmail.com

  For Mom, without your undying support, this would not be possible. Thank you, for everything.

  PART ONE

  I have this distinct feeling that something is off, but I can't put my finger on what it is. As I pull into the parking spot near Reed's condo, the dreaded "something is not right" feeling courses stronger through my body. His car is here, right next to me, so I know he's here. And I can hear music coming from the window, which is wide open despite the ninety-five degree temperature. Typical weather for June in Phoenix, but most people would have the house closed up and the A/C blasting.

  Reed is about five feet six inches tall. Not very tall, but about two inches taller than I am. He is very broad shouldered and muscular, with that perfect V at his hips. He just has an air of sexiness about him.

  I met Reed at a bar about six months ago, and we hit it off pretty well. Really well, in fact. We ended up in bed together that same night. We've been seeing each other casually since then, but it's strange: we very rarely ever go out; it's usually just he and I in bed together. I'm not sure that we can be considered a couple, but we've been exclusive to one another since we met.

  As I step out of the car, I take a deep breath. Pulling myself together, I head for the door. It's unlocked, which isn't unusual when he's expecting me, even though I have a key to his place. But when I enter the house, I hear a strange noise. I listen carefully, and over the beat of the music there it is again: a weird mewling noise that I can't immediately place.

  "Killer Queen" by Queen is crooning through the bedroom stereo system. Reed loves his rock music, and Queen is a bit mellow for him. "Reed?" I call out. The music drones on, so I start singing quietly to myself as I make my way toward his bedroom. As I climb the stairs the music changes, though the song isn't over yet. It switches over to Adele's "Rumor Has It," but not before I catch the sounds again.

  Are you fucking kidding me? I think. This rat bastard is sleeping with someone else. The woman moaning is a dead give away. I should turn around and walk out the door.

  Instead I make my way further up the stairs, but I stop when I see that his bedroom door is wide open and catch an eye-full of the woman with him. She is mounted on top of him, riding him. Moaning like a cat in heat while she rubs at his chest. He has his hands on her breasts and is rolling her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. She throws her head back and moans again.

  I would stomp up the stairs and barge in except I feel that familiar warming between my legs as I watch this display. I feel frozen in place. After a couple of minutes I realize I'm in danger of being caught, and I decide that discretion is going to be the better form of valor, so I turn around and get the hell out of the house.

  As soon as I shut myself back in my car I start cursing and screaming at the top of my lungs. "That asshole. Why am I not surprised? He has no regard for anyone or anything. What the hell? Well I guess this explains the funny feelings. UGH!!!!! I'm so mad I could spit nails. What in the hell was he thinking? What in the bloody hell was I thinking? Oh, fuck this shit!" Driving myself the ten minutes back to my apartment is uneventful as I contemplate what to do next.

  After about an hour of pacing, ranting, and trying to decide what to do, I grab my little carry-on suitcase and throw in a few changes of clothing. I need to get out of this town. Somewhere tropical. With beaches. Dammit, I need a vacation.

  On my way to the airport, driving down forty-fourth street, I come across a billboard for the upcoming Love Is Burning movie. Up there, in all his twenty-foot tall glory, is the beautiful face of Tristan Michaels.

  Looking up at his beautiful face is slowly washing away all the angst of the last couple of hours. For the last five years, I've been staring at his face in the magazines that grace the grocery store aisles. Looking at him gives me the strangest sense of security, protection, and need, but what that need is, I've never been able to figure out.

  "I bet you'd never cheat on woman with another woman while the first one is on her way over, would you?" I ask his image. Those eyes seem to see right into my soul.

  The car behind me honks. The light has changed.

  At the airport I email Mick and Beau from my phone, letting them know that I’m headed to L.A. I know they will worry when they don't hear from me tonight. Beau is my best friend and a personal assistant to me. Mick is my financial genius, and the closest thing I have to a dad.

  I received a text from Reed whil
e I was en route to the airport, asking where I was. I decide that I should reply to him. My text is dripping with an anger that I'm pretty sure I no longer feel.

  I turn off my phone as soon as I know my text has been sent to Reed. I know that leaving it on will mean I will start getting calls or emails from Reed, Beau and Mick. I need to make my escape without anyone convincing me otherwise.

  I know that before I even land at my final destination –wherever that is – Mick or Beau will have tracked the ticket. It's fine if they know the where, but I don't want them to know why. Not right now at least. Because if I'm completely honest with myself, I'm not even sure I know why I'm running.

  I make my way to the US Airways counter. After twenty minutes of shuffling through the options, I have a first class ticket on a flight from Phoenix to Los Angeles with the intention of spending the night. I'm really looking forward to going on vacation, but I have business in L.A. that needs to be dealt with first.

  From L.A. I'll be heading to Honolulu, where I will connect with a flight to Tahiti. I've been in Tahiti before — it was the summer after my mom passed away and I loved it – so when I found out the option was available I took it. However, I have no intention of staying in Tahiti, either.

  While I was there the last time, some of the locals told me about the island of Tarah, located about a four-hour boat ride or a thirty-minute helicopter hop from the Tahiti airport. Tarah is a very small, and very private, island. The island is frequently visited by celebrities and many others seeking anonymity. Someplace, I'm sure, I have no right to hide, but I'm going anyway. The island is tropical year-round and mostly inhabited by English-speaking French Polynesians and Australians, which is a huge bonus in my book.

  Walking past all the magazine shops, bakeries and coffee shops on the way to my gate, I notice one thing in common all along the way: Tristan Michaels is everywhere I turn. Whether his image is splashed all over promotional magazines for his upcoming movies or on the raunchy tabloids citing the unnecessary and nasty rumors that make their way through the world of entertainment, he is beautiful as ever and I cannot pull my eyes away from him.

  *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  "Tristan, you have to help me." I roll my eyes toward the vast, wide-open space of Nokia Theater in downtown Los Angeles. Layla, my girlfriend – well a loose interpretation of the word girlfriend – is arguing with me off in the corner of the reception area. Having just come off of the red carpet, I'm extremely irritable, and she decides that now is the perfect time for an argument.

  Thank God that everyone is converging at the bars on the other side of the room. I can see Travis, surrounded by women and fans. Thanking my lucky stars that where Layla and I are standing is devoid of any other people. Though it's a bit conspicuous.

  Layla is angry. Downright pissed, if you want the truth of it, and her face is starting to turn red.

  "I need to do no such thing, Layla. This is your damn mess, you fix it." My voice is a harsh growl. We are in the lobby of a theater, at Travis's premier for God's sake. Of all the places in the world that she can bring up this mess, she decides to do it here, tonight.

  "Tristan, I can't. They've tried and the magazine wants nothing to do with what I have to say." She is breathing heavy, her temper starting to flare. Her pupils are dilated and I have no doubt that she's high on something. This seems to be the new normal for her.

  "Well, I'm not the one in the pictures, so why should I stop this story?"

  "Because you love me? Because it affects you? Because you care about me? I don't care, pick a reason. Why would you want to see me destroyed?"

  Words fail me. As little as a year ago, I would have done anything for Layla. I would have bent over, broken, and picked up the phone right this second to have Trinity working at getting this story stopped. But no, not this time. I'm not going to defend her anymore. I can't. "There is no logical reason for me to fix your mistakes. You made it, you lay in it." I turn to walk away and she grabs my arm. I turn back to her. "Let go of me." My anger is becoming palpable. Her grip sends a shiver of disgust through my body.

  "Tristan, please." Her voice is low, pleading.

  She looks so pathetic, broken, and for a minute I start to feel sorry for her. But it takes only a moment for her own history to go flying through my mind. She's the product of being coddled by her parents. She was handed everything in life that she ever wanted. They're extremely wealthy, and she lacks for nothing. She has never had to fight for the things she wants; she has been handed them. She doesn't know what it is like to be alone in the big bad world, and because her parents fix everything for her, she doesn't have Clue One about how to fix her own mistakes. "Why don't you go running to Daddy? I'm sure he can find a way to fix this for you."

  Her face falls immediately, and she knows exactly what I'm referring to. She knows what my life was like, and she knows that I got to this position via a single, hardworking mom. I would have graduated college with a mountain of debt had it not been for getting my role in Love is Burning.

  "Tristan, that's not fair."

  "Not fair! Not fair!" My temper flares up. "Don't you dare talk to me about fair. You have evidence of your having a good time, surrounded by I don't know how many men, one of which is the producer of your last movie. Do not ever talk to me about fair, ever again." I slowly unclench my fists and start to turn. I take a long look at her ruddy face. The woman I once thought of as drop-dead gorgeous now has my stomach acid rising, making me want to vomit. I rub my hand on my chest in an effort to soothe the ache caused by this woman. I could claw my heart out of my chest and it wouldn’t feel any better. "I've had enough of this shit," I growl at her. "If you want this story stopped, you will find a way and it will not be by my hand or my people." I turn on my heel and take two steps away from her.

  "Tristan, I'm pregnant."

  In an instant my heart swells and I start to turn toward her, wanting to embrace her. Then it hits me like a lightning bolt. Oh for fuck's sake, is she serious? The acid grows higher. "If you think that is going to bring my arms around you in a comforting, everything-will-be-all-right embrace, forget it. I'm not stupid, Layla." I lean into her ear and nearly growl at her. "For the love of all that is holy, Layla, get your shit straightened out. That goddamn article is the least of your problems."

  I back away from her. Tears are streaming down her face. A look of defeat. I turn and walk away as quickly as I can manage. I pass Tyson on my way to the door. I hold my hand up. "Don't." I walk out the door and turn to the left. I put my head down and walk as quickly as I can manage toward the back entrance of the J.W. Marriott. I'm walking at such a pace that by the time it registers on people's minds exactly who I am, I'm lost in the next crowd. I hear several girls calling my name, but I don't so much as flinch.

  Fucking Layla. She has a damn orgy with God only knows how many men, gets pregnant, and she expects me to fall to bended knee and rectify her problems. Well, Layla, have Daddy or Mommy fix your latest problem, because I could care less.

  I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. No doubt it's probably her. Or Travis wondering where I've gone. I take a brief look and see that it's Tyson. I hit send and put the phone to my ear. "Meet me at J.W."

  "Trist—" He starts to say, and I hit end. I refuse to have this conversation while walking down through the L.A. Live area of downtown.

  I need to call Trinity to give her a heads up about this story. I'm not sure what the implications will be for me, and I'm not sure that I really care. Over the last five years it has become painfully obvious that an actor's career in Hollywood can be marred by his associations as well as the stories that are written about him. Frankly, I'm to a point that all this Hollywood nonsense is old, and I'm a bit tired of it.

  My thoughts are random and scattered. I can't stay focused on one subject or another. Layla has me scrambling into hiding because I can't or won't deal with this. Why should I?

  God, she's pregnant. And for a second I was ready and will
ing to embrace her. To show her that it would be okay, that I would make it okay. Then, for another half a second after the lightning bolt struck, her drug use was flashing through my mind. She was high, even tonight. The premiere is the reason why. We had talked about it a couple of days ago, and I was adamant that we were going separate. She and I hadn't been seen arriving together in over six months. In fact, I cannot remember the last time we went anywhere together.

  Once I found out about her drug use, I slowly pulled back from my association with her. Some of the tabloids had even started questioning whether or not we were together. Layla's people denied any such allegations, and then they'd leak some random story about Tristan and Layla being seen somewhere together. They were so determined to keep us together, and it is finally time to break free. The pictures she showed me on her phone are their concrete proof, and there is nothing out there that can deny the newest accusations. For this, I'm grateful.

  I make it to the hotel about five minutes later. I walk in and the concierge recognizes me, and I'm immediately ushered straight to the penthouse. It’s my usual room, but tonight I would have taken anything. On the way up he asks, "How many nights, Mr. Michaels?"

  "One, I think. Tyson will be along shortly. Send him up, will you, please?"

  "Absolutely. Will you be needing anything right away?"

  "No, the bar will suffice. Thanks."

  I turn to my BlackBerry and text Tyson that I need my stuff from Layla's – all of it – and that I’m in my usual room. Yes, I've stayed here a few too many nights.

  Layla has a house over in Beverly Hills. It was originally suppose to be 'our' house when she bought it about a year ago, but I didn't like the house, and Layla insisted it was what she wanted. I let her buy it herself. I guess this was the start of my knowing full well that our relationship was going nowhere.