Total Trainwreck

by Evie Claire

  “But Devon, I like making love to you in front of everyone. It makes me feel...” I pause because I’m not exactly sure how to say this. “Powerful,” I finish. He chuckles.

  “Powerful?” he repeats rhetorically. He’s quiet for a moment, considering what I said. “You want everyone to know that I’m yours?” He guesses my real reason for giving zero fucks about being such an exhibitionist.

  I nod against his chest, tracing my fingers along the length of his.

  He sits up. Turns me to face him and takes my chin in his thumb and forefinger. “That, Sunshine, isn’t something you should worry about. It’s going to take time, like I said. But it will happen. Soon enough, HeaVon will be yesterday’s news and we’ll be conquering our own red carpets. Me and you.” He kisses me gently and my stomach turns over on itself. I grin like an idiot at the thought of dangling from his tuxedo-clad arm. It’s a dream I’ve had since the afternoon I played dress-up in Heather’s island closet, way before I knew the intoxicating power of our love.

  There’s a soft knock at the door. I startle and stagger to my feet, afraid of being discovered. Devon gets up like he’s been expecting this all along. He opens the door wide enough to retrieve a small bag hanging on the knob. He pulls my crotch sock from it and hands it to me.

  I stare at the nude silk in my hand.

  “What?’ he asks, sensing there’s something more.

  “Devon, what if I can’t do it?” I look to him, needing reassurance. “Everyone loves our movies because they’re so hot. What if I can’t do it when I’m faking it?”

  “Sunshine—” he smiles at me and shakes his head dismissively “—if you give one tenth the performance on-screen that you just gave on my floor, this movie will be hotter than anything they’ve ever seen.” I shake my head and nervously twirl a tousled curl. He takes the crotch sock from my hand and kneels. He lifts my feet one and a time and then slowly threads the silky sock up my legs and into place. “You aren’t acting out there. It’s me and you. Anyone with eyes can see what we’ve got. All you have to do is remember your lines. The camera never lies.” He lands one last kiss on my forehead.

  We make our way back to set several paces apart. The smell of our love clings to me, mingling with a cool arctic breeze. I inhale deeply, and pray for the patience I’ll need to make it to our red carpet.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Everyone thinks you two are method actors,” Jane says when I ask her if anyone is gossiping about us on set.

  I grin slyly and continue removing my eye makeup. “Not a total lie. Do they ask you about it?”

  “They know better,” she snorts. “Nobody really bothers with Ernest and me. We kind of do our own thing.”

  “But everybody’s talking about it?”

  “I’m sure there are whispers. But who wants to lose their job and have to pay their own way home from Siberia?” She makes her point with a well-timed lip smack.

  “True.” I like Jane. Over the past week she has proven herself to be tougher and ballsier than I thought. She’s got my back like a fresh-out-of-hibernation grizzly bear. Devon’s too. It’s like we’ve got our own little rat pack going. Devon, me, Ernest, Jane and Tiny. It’s beginning to feel like a family.

  “Did you see this?” Jane tosses a glossy magazine on the makeup table in front of me. I flip to the dog-eared page and gasp.

  “Oh. My. Gosh! She looks amazing!” I blink my eyes to be sure they are seeing what I think they are. Maria called the morning she went under the knife. All sorts of worried and needing a little pep talk. If she could have seen her after photo, she never would have needed my assurance.

  She is nothing but sheer radiance walking into a posh club opening. I mean, really. Three people stand beside her but next to Maria they look like grandma’s macramé wall art. She pops off the page the way supermodels are supposed to. Apparently Ryan forked over the big bucks—at her insistence—for L.A.’s top plastic surgeon. But I had no idea. Her tits are beyond perfection, fully on display in a low-cut Moschino dress that looks like it was glued to her body. Her hair is brilliantly blond. The yellowed smile of a recovering bulimic is gone and in its place, a dazzling display of porcelain dentistry. She looks like a walking Barbie. Unless you’d seen her with your own eyes before, you’d never believe the hot mess she once was. I get all sorts of proud-mama warm fuzzies. I’m genuinely happy for her. And even happier that the magazine cut out the little shit-stain trailing behind her. He’s there. I know he is. But everything except the tip of his sneaker is cropped out. He’s ridiculous. But hell yeah for Maria. She’s bound to get tons of work from press like this.

  “Remind me to call her tonight when the time difference is right,” I say over my shoulder.

  “Certainly,” Jane answers, and pulls out her phone to make a note. “Speaking of calls, I talked with your attorney about the summons you received. The district attorney’s office needs to talk with you in person.”

  “What for?” I ask, bewildered by the sudden change of topic.

  “I’m not sure. Your father swore some sort of statement involving you. They’re demanding to speak directly with you.” The happy warm fuzzies of Maria’s comeback are squelched by the wet-blanket buzzkill my father always throws over my life. I mean, really. He’s supposed to be dead.

  “Ugh.” I sigh and fake gag, then start mindlessly chewing my inner lip and twirling a curl. “What an asshole. Still haunting me from the grave.”

  “I’m sorry. I know it’s the last thing you want to do, but I don’t think you can avoid it.” Jane shrugs, holding out my parka.

  My phone buzzes.

  Ready to go home?

  Jane and I walk silently to our SUV. Its engine purring, tailpipe smoking, lights ablaze against black night air. When he sees us the driver hops out and opens our door. Inside, Devon and Ernest wait like every night before. I fall into the backseat, waiting for the cabin lights to dim before snuggling under Devon’s arm. Jane takes the bucket seat beside Ernest. The music turns up and Tom Petty’s voice drifts through the speakers.

  “How was your day?” Devon asks like we’re an old married couple that hasn’t spent the entire day working together.

  “It’s fine,” I say with a small smile. I don’t offer anything else. I don’t feel like talking. I don’t really feel like doing anything. So I settle against him. He gets the picture, turns to his phone and says nothing more.

  We drive through darkness until the porch lights of our house appear in the distance. God, I need a cigarette. My insides are unsettled, like I ate something bad. How much farther? I fidget until the SUV stops at the door to let us out. But it can’t just be a simple drop-off. There’s more to do. There’s always more to do.

  Ernest and Jane pile out of the car and head in first. I’m right on their heels, cigarette in hand, lighting up the moment I’m out of the car. Why I can’t smoke inside is beyond me. I inhale deeply. Hold in the smoke for a few seconds and then release in a slow steady stream. It’s amazing to me how right a little bit of nicotine can make the world. I take another drag and continue walking to the house.

  “Hey.” Devon pulls me back so we have a sliver of privacy. “What’s wrong?” He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks deep into my eyes, face full of concern. I exhale smoke from the side of my mouth so it doesn’t blow into his face.

  “Nothing. I’m tired,” I snap, and spin from his grasp. “And it’s freezing,” I add, taking his hand because I feel like I’m being a bitch. I manage to get in three quick drags before I toss the cigarette into a pot beside the door.

  Inside, Jane unpacks our dinner from craft services. While she tends to that, Ernest busies himself starting a fire. I mean, are we three years old, here? Can we not take care of ourselves like adult human beings?

  A half bottle of wine sits on the counter. At least I’v
e got my nightly drink. Devon watches me with a tight expression. This is normally his job, per our agreement. But his pours are so damn scant they aren’t even worth it. I fill a proper glass and leave the rest for him. His temple throbs, but he says nothing.

  “What about Mom?” Even though I loathe the woman, I’m not above letting her handle this situation. Everyone stops to look at me because my question is beaming in from left field. I look to Jane for an answer.

  “What about her?” she asks, obviously at a loss.

  “Why can’t she talk to the DA?” I gulp my wine.

  “It has to be you.”

  “What’s this about?” Devon asks, pouring his glass while watching me with the same slightly parental glare he always does when I’m drinking. He doesn’t like it, but a deal’s a deal.

  I don’t answer, because I don’t want to talk about it. Instead, I finger through the meal Jane’s putting on plates. Oven-roasted vegetables and baked chicken. How healthy and boring.

  Devon turns to Jane for his answer.

  “Carly’s father gave a statement to the district attorney before he died that involves her. She’s been summoned for a statement. They need her back in L.A.” Jane sugarcoats it as best she can and shrugs an apology my way. Traitor. Devon’s shock is so fierce I can feel it. This is the first he’s heard of my legal woes.

  “That sounds serious,” he says, setting down his wine to think.

  “And just what are they going to do if I don’t show? Fly to Siberia and arrest me?” Devon forgets how long I lived on the wrong side of the law. Living an addict’s life instilled a strong distrust and dislike for authority. As far as I’m concerned, they can suck it.

  “We don’t know how serious it is. They won’t talk to an attorney. Just her.” Jane continues the conversation for me. Devon drags his hands through his hair. He’s about to lose his cool with me. If this weren’t such a delicate subject, he already would’ve.

  “You have to go,” he says. “We’ll suspend shooting for a couple days. You can take my jet.” He’s trying his damnedest to get me to look at him. But I won’t. Instead, I skewer a piece of carrot and pop it in my mouth. It’s bad manners to speak with a full mouth. I shrug and shake my head. He really needs to back the fuck off. This is my problem and I’m a big girl. I don’t need him solving it for me.

  “No.” It’s all the answer he gets. My life. My decision.

  “Carly.” My name is full of disappointment and disbelief. That familiar parental disapproval is back, branded on his face. From my overflowing wineglass to my growing insolence, he’s seconds away from bending me over his knee like an unruly child. What the fuck ever. I need a smoke. This time, I don’t give a shit about rules. I grab one from a pack in a kitchen drawer and fire the damned thing up. Emboldened by wine, I decide this conversation is over.

  “Okay, you—” I point a finger at him “—need to quit looking at me like that. It is one glass of wine and one cigarette. It’s not like I’m cutting lines on the goddamn counter.” With that, I smack my lips, spin on my heel and leave.

  Fucking assholes. Like I need their judgment. I’ve got enough of that in my life already. My nerves balance precariously on the edge. I’m shaking and all I want is to get away. I don’t want to deal with it. With him. With him and my dad—no way. That’s letting the worst part of my life pollute the best part of my life. My father isn’t allowed to creep further in and fuck everything up like he always does. If Devon knew the truth, he would fucking drop it. But he doesn’t, so I’m left with few choices. Retreating to my room is about the best option I’ve got. I slam the door for good measure and take a long drag.

  They’re talking about me. I know they are. Muffled voices echo down the hallway. I roll my eyes and decide to dive into the bathtub. But first things first. I strip down, throw on a fluffy cotton bathrobe and tend to the business of chugging my wine and hot boxing my smoke. In my mind, people chant my name like I’m winning. It is actually impressive, how quickly I can take down a glass of wine. I finish and throw it on the bed without caring where it lands. The house shakes when the front door shuts. Jane and Ernest must be calling it a night. I turn to the bathroom to fill the tub. But stop in my tracks.

  He’s standing in the doorway, his face a dark mix of emotion I can’t begin to sort out. I swallow the dread that shoots up my throat. Why can’t he just leave this alone?

  Nothing he has to say about my asshole dad is worth hearing. I continue to the bathroom like he isn’t even there. The room is tiny, not a soaking tub in sight. But seeing how badly I need a bath to relax my brain, I can’t be too picky. I select some expensive-looking bubble bath Jane bought to spruce the place up and dump in the whole bottle. The smell of roses lifts off the warm water, relaxing my brain into a fuzzier state.

  Where’s my wine? I frown at the empty glass on the bed. Devon sits beside it. His eyes follow mine. He picks it up and places it on the nightstand. Silently, his gaze turns back to me. He’s holding a full glass. I guess he’s too worried about me to drink. That’s his mistake. I walk over to him, swipe the glass from his hand and take a huge swig.

  “Were you going to drink it?” I ask when I realize I’ve finished half of it. He shakes his head, still staring at me with a tight glare.

  “We need to talk,” he says in a stern voice, taking the drink from my hand. I protest, pulling it back. He grasps it again. It slips through my fingers. In one swig he finishes it and places the empty glass in my hand. Nothing left to argue about there. At least I’ve still got my smoke. I take a drag and blow the smoke daringly close to his face. He doesn’t even flinch.

  “We can talk after my bath.” I walk away, waving a hand behind my head.

  Devon’s too damn fast. He darts in front of me, turns off the water and shuts the door in my face. I close my eyes, suck in the wave of air that rushes over me and stumble backward to the bed under the guidance of his insistent hands. The wineglass falls to the floor and rolls across the carpet. Concentrating on its fluid movement distracts me.

  I groan and roll my eyes. He’s really going to make me do this.

  “I’m sorry about your father. I should’ve mentioned it before, but I know how you feel about him. I’d hoped you’d talk to me when you were ready.” The bed jostles under his weight. I cross my arms over my chest and release an impatient breath.

  “You’re right. I will talk to you when I’m ready. That’s not now.” I punctuate now with a raised brow.

  “Okay. When?” he asks patiently.

  “Probably never.”

  “Then that’s not going to work.”

  “My father is a fucking asshole. There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Was,” he interrupts. “Was a fucking asshole.”

  “Was,” I repeat, my anger growing. “He ruined everything in my life. And letting him into our world gives him the chance to shit all over it like he always does.” Sitting on the bed is suddenly unbearable. I leap to my feet and pace the room, cigarette back to my lips. “This...” I wave a hand frantically between us because I need physical release. “Us. Is the only good thing in my life. He doesn’t get the chance to take it from me.”

  “He can’t take anything from you. He’s gone.”

  “Oh, he’ll still find some way to fuck it up. He’s not a normal human being. He’s a monster.” My arms are crossed tightly over my chest. I hunch forward, pacing and shaking my head.

  Devon remains iceberg calm. So stoically passive he looks like a statue.

  “I realize he’s an awful man and he hurt you. I hate him for that. But you can’t heal from this...” He pauses and fixes me with a look that stops my pacing. “We can’t heal from this if you don’t let me in.” I catch a gasp behind my hand and side-eye him with a heavy mix of doubt and hope.

  What did he just say? He holds my gaze, steady a
nd firm, letting his simple words break through my bullshit. It levels me to the reality I don’t like to see. My truth is ugly. And being real enough to acknowledge it hurts like hell. I’ve never wanted to share it before, only forget. But the word we rattles me. And not in the bad way I expect it to. Devon isn’t the enemy here. I rub my temples and sigh.

  “You wouldn’t say that if you knew the truth.” My cigarette ash is about a mile long. I bend to retrieve the wineglass and toss the butt in the purple residue.

  “Try me,” he says with easy confidence.

  I open my mouth to speak, but quickly shut it. Because I don’t know what to say. My father’s abuse was neglect. He never laid a hand on me. Hell, he was the life of the party when he was sober enough to stand. It was what he didn’t do that cut my scars to the bone. I shake my head and bite my lip, staring at nothing.

  “Carly, nothing that happened to you was your fault. You know that, right?” He stands, walking to the far side of the room, giving me space to vent. Everyone loves to tell me it’s not my fault. Like it’s some big Eureka! moment I haven’t had yet. Bullshit. I’ve been in rehab and therapy long enough to come to that conclusion on my own. I realize what an asshole my father was for doing what he did. I damn sure wasn’t the one shooting heroin into his veins. That’s on him. Fair enough.

  But what no one can ever tell me is how to erase the hurt I’ve spent a lifetime running from. The worthlessness only a father choosing drugs over protecting his only daughter creates. Because that’s the bitch of this situation. Being born my father’s daughter is nothing but bad fucking luck. Forgetting the happiness he stole and the nightmare he left in its place is a mountain I’m still climbing, barefoot in knee-deep snow. And for every sober step forward, I slide two back. The only answer I’ve ever found is making those snow-covered mountains disappear up my nose. That’s not an option anymore.