“I don’t trust you at all anymore,” I said. “You can go right to hell.”
“Chaz is right, June, please listen to him,” Devon urged. “If you hide away now, that’s all people will talk about—the fact that you had a meltdown on live television and couldn’t even handle going out in public.”
“I am done worrying about what people think. If you are so concerned about your image, if you’re so worried about what being associated with me will cost you, then I’ll be happy to get on a plane to Dallas right this fucking minute.”
I loved Devon. I was in love with him. But I was also shaken to my very core. I’d been forced into this interview because he and Chaz thought it was a good idea, but the worst possible thing that could happen had happened. All I wanted to do was crawl in a hole and stay there, and if I had to go all the way to Dallas to make that happen, that was just going to be my new reality.
“I don’t want you to go back to Dallas,” Devon said. “I want you to stay here with me. I want you to be happy.”
“You want me to be happy?” I put my hands on my hips, studying him through the tears that hadn’t stopped falling since I fled the studio.
“Yes. That’s all I want. For you to be happy.” He looked so anxious, but I didn’t have a shred of pity for him.
“Then take me home. Now.”
Devon only hesitated a moment before nodding. “Chaz, get the car.”
We left the studio lot in a squeal of rubber, the cameras still filming our escape.
Chapter 11
“June, you can’t stay in here forever.” Devon was studying me, his hands on his hips, his mouth turned downward in disapproval.
“The hell I can’t,” I countered. I was wrapped in an oversized terrycloth robe, tucked neatly into bed, a pile of books beside me. I wished it could’ve been fat, glossy fashion magazines, but it was too risky. My story had gone viral after the interview, and I could enjoy loads of unsolicited features on myself in the strangest of places. There were speculative pieces about my intentions with Devon, about collusion with my “long-lost parents” to get sympathy from people, even one story that decided I’d mercy-killed Nana to spare her the misery of further health declines. No, I was going to stick to classic literature for now. It was a good distraction, and it reminded me of the required English classes that I had had to take in college.
“You have to be seen eventually,” he reasoned. “Nobody faults you for what happened.”
“Everyone faults me,” I said. “Haven’t you been online?”
“I thought you didn’t have social media,” Devon said, pursing his lips.
“I don’t have to have it to see what people are saying about me.”
“What did I tell you about following that stuff?” he asked. “Just stop. It doesn’t do anyone any good—you least of all.”
“I looked like an idiot, Devon,” I sighed. “Even worse, I looked like a pathetic idiot. I thought you said that Chaz vetted this interview.”
“He thought he did, too,” Devon said, looking grim. “I’ve blacklisted Kelly. She got her scoop, but only once.”
I shrugged. “That means literally nothing to me.”
“It’s a big deal in showbiz,” he said. “She used to be Chaz’s go-to media contact. He’d feed her stuff ahead of the competition, but that’s not happening anymore. She’s out of the fold.”
“Again, I fail to see how that should make me feel any better about what happened.” I flipped a page of the novel I was marching through, not caring that I hadn’t washed the makeup off my face or the product out of my hair since my TV appearance. Nothing mattered right now. Nana was gone, I’d moved in with a movie star, and I was an international laughingstock. Taking a shower was awfully low on my list of things I needed to accomplish. Finding a new life was number one.
“June, I can’t change what happened,” Devon said, sinking down to sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m so sorry that happened to you, let alone on live television. What do you want me to do? Name anything. I will do anything to make you feel better.”
“Find me a time machine,” I suggested.
“So you can go back in time and avoid Kelly?” He smiled. “Good plan.”
“So I can go back in time and not take that pizza delivery to your hotel room in Dallas,” I said, hating myself for loving it as that smile faded.
“You can take it out on me,” he said patiently. “I can play the whipping boy for you, June. I told you I’d do anything to make you feel better, and if this is what it takes, I’m happy to serve.”
“Just leave me alone. Please.” This wasn’t going to plan—if I even had a plan. I was just hurting and lashing out indiscriminately. If it were Chaz in front of me, I’d be giving him the same earful. It was awful that Devon was prepared to let me lay into him. What Kelly had done—and what my parents had done—wasn’t his fault. There was no way any of us could have suspected that was going to happen.
I guessed I was angriest at myself. Somehow, I should’ve avoided crying, should’ve avoided the tough questions, like Chaz had coached me. Of course, he hadn’t been able to coach me about what to do if my parents resurfaced in the middle of a live television interview, but there it was.
“I’ll go,” he said. “But you really can’t stay in here forever.”
He turned to leave. “Devon, wait.”
“What is it?”
“This sucks,” I said, slapping my hands against the bed, frustrated and helpless. “I love you, but this fucking sucks.”
“I know it does.”
“I’m just not ready to get back out there, okay? My life is in shambles right now.”
“I get it, June. I just hate seeing you torn up like this.”
“I wish Nana were here.” The words escaped my mouth and I gasped, covering it, wishing I could unsay them. What a ludicrous thing to wish for. Nana was dead and gone. She’d chosen to be dead. Wishing for her was no better than wishing for a time machine to fix my problems. I was a grown woman. I had to deal with this.
“It’s okay to wish Nana were still here,” Devon said. “I wish she were still here, too. Can you imagine what she would’ve done to Kelly—and your parents—if she had been there backstage? I don’t think Chaz would’ve been able to hold both of us back.
I gave an involuntary guffaw at the picture of Nana wheeling on set, her eyes blazing with a holy fury, chasing everyone away as Chaz tried to hang on to one of the handles of her wheelchair, dragged along by her rage.
Devon grinned and kissed my head. “I have to head out for a taping. I’ll bring back some takeout or something to eat. You in the mood for anything?”
“I think I could go for pizza,” I said, smiling as he laughed.
“Pizza, it is.”
I took a shower, flushing sticky products from my hair, lathering it up with shampoo and rinsing it three times until I was satisfied. I scrubbed at my face with a washcloth until the entire surface was black and tan with the makeup that had coated my face for whole days. It would be a miracle if I escaped this without a rash of pimples.
Finally, I got dressed into my own clothes, towel-dried my hair, and padded downstairs to go explore.
I should’ve been doing something—anything—else, but I was finding it nearly impossible to leave the comfort and confines of Devon’s palace. I was unsure of myself, of my place in his life. I didn’t want to get in the way of his life any more than I already had. I was well aware, thanks to Chaz, that I was a distraction—something that kept Devon from realizing his full potential.
But every time I tried to move on, tried to go back to Dallas or get away from Devon, he protested. He wanted me with him. He wanted to take care of me in spite of what Chaz was saying.
So I tried to stay out of the way. Tried to keep quiet. Hung back every time Devon asked me to go do something with him, to go make an appearance with him. I didn’t understand it. If I really was as much trouble for Devon as Chaz told me I was, I didn�
��t understand why Devon kept on asking me to go places with him. I thought he would’ve wanted me swept under a rug somewhere, so that’s what I tried to do to myself.
Hide.
But with the giant house empty and me with nothing but the remnants of my grief and my temerity over my newfound infamy, I had to keep myself distracted. It was probably ungrateful of me. Devon had done so much—was doing so much. It was a terrible way to pay back his kindness, by creeping through his house.
It made me feel bad, but it was something of an obsession. Devon was open enough that I was certain he’d answer anything about himself that I asked, but I didn’t want to ask. I preferred to explore, alone, gleaning clues about him from the things he kept in the place where he spent most of his time. He might travel a lot for promotions and filming, but something kept him coming back to this remote palace, perched on a bluff overlooking the coast. What secrets did his home contain?
He watched a lot of movies. That much was evident from both his career and the theater room in the house. We hadn’t had a chance to enjoy the deep burgundy leather seats that reclined completely, munching on a bag of popcorn from the machine in the corner.
He also took care of himself, judging from his rock-hard body and the gym room, bristling with the latest models of exercise machines and equipment. This room was lined with mirrors so he could check on the development of his muscles, I was sure. In them, I appeared exactly as I was—an imposter, an intruder, slipping through his life, not belonging for one second.
The door to what I could only label as a study creaked open, and I wondered how often he came in here, sat at the fine chair behind the mahogany desk, poring over the books that lined the shelves around the room. I cocked my head at a thick stack of bright white pages on the desk—the only thing marring an otherwise clean surface. Was he working on something now? I didn’t think I’d so much as seen him pass by this room in the time I’d been living here.
Feeling extra guilty and sneaky, I rounded the desk to discover that it was a script. For some reason, I was intrigued. This was part of Devon’s job, perhaps the part of him I knew least about. I’d seen his teeth gleam as he grinned in promotional photoshoots and during appearances, but I’d never really witnessed the work that went on behind the scenes of his success. Scripts were are a part of that, a blueprint for a blockbuster hit.
I thumbed through this one, flipping through the pages, hefting it, trying to judge the nature of it by its weight. Were all of them this thick? This one seemed to be pretty thorough.
I paused on one of the first pages, reading through the character descriptions, attempting to get a feel for what the story was about.
Then, I sat heavily in the chair, my legs unable to support my weight.
This was a story about a girl and her grandmother, aptly named Nana, I read in the notes. The girl was average in every way, but could perhaps be a beauty given the right clothes and makeup and direction, it continued. The girl was miserable taking care of her Nana, but couldn’t get out of it, as Nana had taken care of the girl when she was younger. She leads a life of mediocrity until, by some chance, she meets a handsome movie star. The script indicated that this meeting and the details of it were to be determined. There was a handwritten note in the margin, saying that delivering pizza conveyed a sense of grunginess in the girl that would make the audience dislike her.
I read as fast as I could, rage rising in me with each page I flipped. It was all here, all of it—my encounter with Devon in the Dallas hotel room, only this character seemed to come out of it a lot better than he had. There was the sweet fangirl of a nana, even the trip to Hawaii. My eyes filling with furious tears, I scanned over her death scene, alone on a beach, her oxygen tank nowhere to be found.
How did Devon see this ending? I just had to know.
The end of the script was a load of garbage about sexual healing. I hated him for the scene in the forest with the waterfall. That had been personal. The story ended with a scene of the girl and the movie star amicably parting ways, too different to stay together, but maybe they’d keep in touch, be lifelong friends. Again written in the margin were several big question marks—the ending wasn’t set in stone, yet.
Well, I could help clear that right up for Devon.
The girl and the movie star would split, all right, but it wasn’t about to be anything near amicable. She’d kick his ass on her way out for betraying her trust in him, then she’d give an exclusive interview to one of his biggest critics, revealing in very personal terminology just how big of a jackass he really was.
America’s boyfriend? Hardly. It was more like America’s bastard.
Seething with anger, I punched Devon’s number into my phone with shaking fingers. I had no idea what I was going to say—what a person even would say in the face of such a betrayal—but this couldn’t simply be ignored.
“Hi, June, this is Chaz on Devon’s phone.”
“Put Devon on immediately,” I said. I was sick of this bullshit, sick of the constant presence of Chaz, of the idea that a person was so busy that they had someone else answer their phone for them. That wasn’t how real life worked. I would’ve preferred to just leave an angry voice mail and let Devon panic about it.
“Devon’s unavailable at the moment,” Chaz said, smooth as silk. “Is there something you want me to tell him?”
“There’s nothing I want you to fucking tell him,” I raged. “I want to talk to him, Chaz. Where the hell is he?”
“He’s filming a late-night show right now,” Chaz said. “You sound upset, June. Is everything all right?”
“No, everything’s not all right,” I barked.
“Talk to me.”
I paced through the study, eyeing the sheaf of papers on the desk, too angry to even attempt to put it into words. This was indefensible. It was unbelievable. The fact that Devon would take advantage of my situation, exploit even Nana, sent me into a blind rage.
I’d trusted him. I thought he was a good person. But he’d betrayed me.
For the first time since it had happened, I was glad Nana was dead. At least she wasn’t here to see her idol turn into her enemy.
“June, if you can’t explain to me what’s going on, I can’t help you,” Chaz purred, cool as a cucumber.
I inhaled once, then exhaled heavily. “What do you know about this new project of Devon’s?” I asked.
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” he said. “Devon’s getting proposals for new projects all the time.”
I bit my tongue to keep myself from lashing out. This was Devon’s problem, not Chaz’s.
“The one with the script,” I offered. “The one in the study. About the girl and her dead grandmother.”
“Ah, I was afraid this might happen,” Chaz said.
“Afraid what might happen?”
“Devon’s been e-mailing me all these notes he apparently took when he met your—what did you call your grandma?”
“Nana.”
“Oh, yes, Nana,” Chaz said quickly. “Adorable. Anyway, he contacted me a while back, when he was in Dallas, that he had an idea—an award-winning idea—for his next project, and started sending me all these messages. A little old lady in a wheelchair with a sense of fashion that never grew old. A saintly granddaughter roped into taking care of the little old lady, forced to ignore her dreams, the famous celebrity who swoops in to rescue her from mediocrity. He said it was gold, and had it developed into a script. I think he’s looking to shop it around, but I secretly suspect he’s going to try to direct in it and star. It’s probably a shoo-in for at least one trophy.”
“It’s my life,” I hissed, too appalled to shout it. “He mined my life for this thing.”
“Is that what you’re upset about?” Chaz asked. “This thing is box-office money. A sure thing.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but the doorbell rang.
“This better be Devon,” I muttered angrily, marching to the front of the house.
“What? Who better be Devon? Devon’s here with me. I have eyes on him. He’s giving a really great interview. You can catch it tonight, when it airs.”
But I didn’t process any of that. I fumbled with the locks for a few long, painful moments before ripping the door open.
My mouth fell open and I nearly dropped the phone.
“Trina Henry,” I uttered, like some kind of idiot. She glowered at me, all six feet of her, her legs tanned with just the right amount of shimmery lotion applied to them. Each one practically reached my shoulder.
“Oh, Trina’s there,” Chaz said with surprise. “Devon mentioned that she would play the girl with the mediocre life, but I told him it might be too far of a stretch. Trina’s a goddess, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I’m Trina Henry,” she said as I gaped at her. “Who the fuck are you?”
Chapter 12
I ended the call with Chaz, dazed at the arrival of every bronzed and buffed inch of Trina Henry on the doorstep of Devon’s house. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse — the interview, the horrible script about Nana and me — they did. I was in the middle of Hurricane Shitstorm. There was no escape.
I flinched and gasped as a cacophony of camera flashes blinded me, and I noticed for the first time that Trina had arrived with a platoon of paparazzi.
“Fucking vultures,” she said, grimacing and pulling her sunglasses down over her face, her blond hair falling down to frame it perfectly. “Listen, I don’t give a shit who you are. If you let me in this house right now, I will give you whatever you want. Literally anything.”
There wasn’t a tangible thing I wanted at the moment, but I stepped aside anyway. Trina all but leapt in, slamming the door behind her.
She pushed the sunglasses back up on top of her head. “So, you know me but I don’t know you. Care to introduce yourself?”
“I’m June Clark,” I said, my voice small, face to face with my biggest insecurity. Trina Henry, like her or hate her, was gorgeous. She was also Devon Ray’s ex-girlfriend. He’d assured me that he loved me for me, but when I was the one to follow someone like Trina, I had to wonder. I was average. I wasn’t wearing a scrap of makeup. My hair was still wet from my shower, and wild. I hadn’t tried to style my new cut yet. And even though Trina was harried from a car ride and a swarm of paparazzi, there wasn’t a hair out of place.
KYLE: A Mafia Romance (The Callahans Book 4) Page 46
