by Evie Claire
How in the hell can America love her? And why hasn’t she been exposed for what she is? Why hasn’t someone outed her and Jamie by now? Every day, they’re together for the world to see. Surely some small intimacies pass between them. Only the cover of him being Angel’s manny and the fact that she is presumably in love with the Sexiest Man Alive conceals their truth.
Ugh! Why didn’t I claw her eyeballs out when I had the chance? Tangle my fingers in those long, luxurious locks of hers and pull every one from her evil head? The wine bottle trembles in my hand. I’m shaking mad, and so pissed off about the whole damn thing I’m about to burst. The cigarette calms me as best it can, but that’s not very much. For the first time in a long time, a familiar craving creeps in. I suck at thinking things through and working them out. Running from emotion, that’s where I excel. The easiest answer is a short sniff away. Dark green glass shines against my pale grip. I roll the bottle across the carpet, watching it disappear under the bed. I fear for my fragile sobriety. If this is heading where I think it is, no one’s seen the best worst of me yet. I feel the grandest of falls coming on, like Gollum plunging into Mount Doom kinda shit. And I won’t be able to stop it.
Devon, he could stop my fall, maybe. But he won’t be able to because he’ll be facing involuntary manslaughter charges. A thought I can’t even wrap my brain around. Lala Land sucks up and spits out young girls by the hundreds each day. A girl overdosing in a VIP room is tragic, but nothing new. In my wilder days I saw it happen all the time. Hell, I once watched a loaded gurney pass through a club. Everyone slowed down long enough to grab a pic and post it to Instagram, then cranked right back up. It’s an occupational hazard when you live that life.
And if you’re dumb or desperate enough to use heroin, it’s not a question of if you will overdose, it’s a question of when. It’s the risk you take. That drug doesn’t fucking play. Plenty of party kids shoot up their buddies. No big deal. The one time I tried that shit I couldn’t physically get a needle in my vein. My hand went numb every time I tried. But I wanted it badly enough to let some kid I barely knew pop it in for me. Because that’s the kind of awful choices druggies make. A helping hand creates distance from what you’re doing to yourself. Like maybe if it’s not by your own hand you’re less of a failure. What the fuck ever. You’re still a bagged and tagged loser.
Watching Devon tap Dylan’s vein doesn’t bother me. I’ve lived that life. I get it. He thought he was helping the girl he loved. And if he were still the struggling actor he was when he sunk that lethal needle into her arm it wouldn’t be a big deal. But because he became who he is, it is a huge fucking deal. Stories like that don’t go away. Ever. It would be the lead story of every news outlet in the world.
Normal people don’t understand a user’s life like I do. They judge. They’d make him a monster before he had a chance to plead his case. In the court of public opinion he would be the sexiest murderer alive. I can’t let that happen.
I light another smoke.
But I also can’t let him go. I’m left with zero choice. I can’t let him go to jail, but I also can’t let him go. So Heather wins. That fucking bitch wins. I grit my teeth and exhale smoke in a furiously tightly held stream. She gets to keep her perfect world exactly how she wants it. Devon still dangles on her string and Jamie lies safely in her arms. Everything. Exactly how she wants it. She’s driven a wedge between us she knows will either break our relationship to bits, or force it back underground where it no longer poses a threat.
She shows up unannounced, flying in his jet no less, and pisses all over my cornflakes. I’m certain she thought I would be repulsed by what I saw. If he could kill Dylan—the love of his life—he must be the most awful of monsters. Any sane person who saw the video would think that. But looks can be deceiving. And I’m not what most people would call sane. Heather wanted to drive us apart. But her games don’t work on me.
I take a long drag of my cigarette, staring out the window at softly falling raindrops. I’m cold. I’m alone. I’m hurting. Why is it I insisted on dragging myself away from the only person in the world whose touch can fix those things for me? Understanding brightens my world like a light bulb.
I’m such a fucking idiot.
What the hell was I thinking? Furiously, I fly around the room. Gathering whatever happens to land in my hand, I throw open the door and sprint down the hallway like a possessed Flo-Jo, opting for the steps because waiting on the elevator requires time I don’t have. Gasping for breath and barely able to speak, I slam my hand on the front desk counter over and over, yelling for someone, anyone.
A confused clerk, obviously fresh from a midshift nap, stumbles bleary-eyed into the light. He says something I can’t understand.
“A car!” I shout. “I need a car!”
“Excuse me?” he asks in broken English.
“A car.” I make a driving motion and point to the bank of keys behind him so he gets the point.
“There are no drivers on call at this hour.” He rubs his eye and I want to reach across the desk and grab his shirtfront to assure him of my desperation. You’ve got to be kidding me. There are at least five rental cars sitting in the parking lot reserved for use by movie staff. But this is a new desk clerk. He doesn’t know who I am.
“Gavin.” I say his name slowly so he can understand. Surely Gavin’s name is enough to get me a car. The man thinks about this. “Gavin needs a car,” I say with the sweetest smile I can muster.
“Oh,” he says, and turns to a bank of keys. He pulls a set from the wall and is about to drop it in my hand. He pauses.
“Where is Gavin?” He looks confused, like he’s finally realizing how weird this whole exchange is.
This is time I don’t have. I grab the keys dangling from his hand before he can pull them away. I run outside, find the hunk of tin with a matching keyhole and take off into the night, not exactly sure of where I’m going.
I never drive. At this hour and state of mental exhaustion it’s glaringly obvious. I fly down narrow, pot-holed roads guided by memory and sight alone. How could I be so stupid? Why in the hell did I leave him? It’s what she wanted. Exactly what she wanted. Will he forgive me for being such an idiot or has she already won?
That fucking bitch!
Eddie’s earlier driving has nothing on my speed. My foot stays pressed to the floor the entire way. Barren, snow-cloaked fields fly by at lightning speed. I get air sailing over bumps and land with a jolting bounce. But I don’t slow down, not until I see familiar porch lights burning in the distance. Gravel crunches under tires as I slide to a sideways stop at our door.
* * *
It’s dark except for a fire. My eyes struggle to adjust to the room. Devon sits on the couch, slouched low into it. His head lies back, resting flat against the top cushion. A scotch glass props on his stomach, one hand steadying it. The other hand grips the neck of a nearly empty bottle. He doesn’t move when I burst into the room. He just sits, the fire’s warm glow radiating orange against the strong lines of his cheek and jaw.
“I’m so sorry.” I fall at his feet and wrap my arms around his legs. “I never should’ve left.” My tears are back, flowing down my cheeks and soaking into his blue-jean-covered knees. Silence. The ice cubes in his glass jingle. He takes a sip and continues staring blankly at the fire.
“Only an idiot would stay.” His voice is frigid. I ignore what he’s saying because he’s obviously drunk and pissed.
“I’m sorry I let Heather get in my head. We can work through this.” I nod my head, hope sparking my eyes.
“She didn’t do anything.” His head and gaze rolls to me. Cold as pebbles frozen in a stream, his eyes stare through me like I’m not even there. “I killed Dylan.”
I flinch at his words, immediately shaking my head. I never thought a truth could sound more awful than mine. His does. Stunned by the ice
-cold reality of his words, I fall back on my ass, grabbing the coffee table for balance.
“I killed her,” he continues. “I put that fucking needle in her arm, and I killed her.” Without warning, he hurls the scotch bottle into the air. It shatters on the fire and sends flames scorching into the room. I jump and raise my arm to cover my face. What the fuck? “You were smart. Leave while you still can. I only hurt people I love.” He throws my hand off his leg and stands. Draining his glass, he throws it against the hearth. It slams into the bricks and bursts into a million glinting pieces, too.
“It was an accident.” I climb to my feet as best I can. “No one understands that life better than me. Dylan died by her own choices.”
“She died by the needle I put in her arm.” Devon grinds his teeth and stares at the fire. His posture rigid as steel. I stand helplessly at his side. Seconds pass. I don’t know what to say. My mind races in every direction, but I can’t find the words to make this right. Finally he turns. “Just leave, Carly. It’s okay. I hate me, too.”
The words slide slowly from his mouth with zero emotion. His eyes glaze over. His head slumps forward. Guilt, grief and anguish break his beautiful body. It’s a look I’ve never seen him wear before. A look that breaks my own heart wide open. I hate to think I added to his torment by leaving him. He turns and walks away, balancing himself on the hallway wall. Quietly as I can, I follow him to our bedroom. I linger in the shadows, watching him. What the hell am I supposed to do with this?
He stares at a bed full of rumpled sheets, shakes his head and covers it with his hands, dragging them down his face, clawing at the skin. He tries to sit on the bed, but slides to the floor until he’s sitting in an unnaturally cramped position, hands still over his face.
Good god, I think, horrified to see him have so little control over life. Devon Hayes is always in control. Always. I fly to his side, sitting beside him and pulling him into me the way he once did to me. His head finds its way to my chest and I hug my arms tightly around it. Silently he rocks against me. His body moves back and forth, muscles tensed, teeth grinding, eyes held tightly shut. It isn’t crying. It’s more like some numb, meditative state that stifles every emotion.
“You never meant to hurt her.” I smooth his hair away from his face, exposing enough skin to place a hard kiss against his forehead. He stays rigid in my arms and shakes his head where it remains rooted in my breasts. With a foot, I push against his legs, freeing him from the cramped position he hasn’t done anything about. He leans heavily against me, his weight pushing me further into the bed. I don’t move, even though it’s uncomfortable as hell. I can’t move, not when he needs me like this.
All of a sudden he stiffens and pushes out of my embrace. He sits up, emotionlessly composed.
“You should go.”
“I’m staying right here,” I say, sitting up beside him.
“I want you to go.”
“Tough shit.” I shrug, not giving a damn about his wants. I know what he’s doing. What he’s obviously done with every woman since her. I make him happy, and he doesn’t think he deserves happiness. Bullshit.
Past guilt can freeze the present glacier-hard if you let it. I was frozen in my own past, until he released me. Turns out we’re both fighting demons, just in different ways. He freed me from mine. Now I’m going to free him. If I learned anything from my dark years, it’s that getting between an addict and her drugs is pointless. Dylan’s death wasn’t his fault.
“Her death is not your fault.” I shake my head and refuse to allow any emotion into my words.
“She’d still be here if I hadn’t put that needle in her vein.”
“Maybe.” I shrug, giving his answer the justification he needs to hear. I count to five, allowing his brain time to settle. “But probably not.” I suck in a sharp breath. Time to get real. I rise to my knees in front of him and take his cheeks in my hands. “Dylan was a grown woman. She made her own choices. If you hadn’t shot her up, she’d have found someone else who would.” I clench my teeth, not sure how he’s going to take this. It’s hard to hear. Even harder to believe. But he’s got to see the truth before he can forgive himself.
His eyes roll to the side, avoiding mine, still silent. Am I losing him? I have no choice but to keep going.
“Did you want her to die?” A pang hits my chest, but I keep my words steady. His head jerks from my grasp.
“God, no. I loved her.” He glares at me like I’m fucking insane. I swallow hard and take a shaky breath. Okay. Emotion other than guilt is good. I keep going.
“Of course you did.” My voice is soft, and I hope reassuring.
He nods.
“And she loved you. But she also made you a killer. She knew the dangers. Everybody does.”
“Don’t vilify her.” His lips snarl around the words.
“I’m not vilifying her.” I hold up my hands in surrender, trying not to be jealous of a ghost. “But I’m not going to let you blame yourself for something she did.”
His eyes soften. Below them his fingers run over his lips. Encouraged by his thinking face, I keep talking.
“Dylan quit being the woman you loved the moment she decided to use. Sure she loved you. But she loved the drugs more. No amount of money or power or even love would’ve changed that. It wasn’t her you sunk that needle into. It was an irrational addict who would’ve found a way with or without you.” This next part is going to hurt like hell, but I don’t see any other way. I grab the clasp of my red leather cuff and pull it from my arm. The silvery scar glistens in the moonlight. “I’ve been Dylan.” I thrust my wrist into his line of vision. “And I’m begging you to hear me.”
My wrist looks delicate wrapped in his strong hand. Mindlessly, he runs a thumb over the thick, silver line. His shoulders loosen.
“The old Dylan, the one you fell in love with, wouldn’t want you tortured over her death.” I cup his cheek in my free hand, pulling his face up to find his eyes. “That’s not who she was. And she damn sure wouldn’t blame you.” His gaze falls down, but he nods slowly, still tracing my scar. In one quick motion he releases my wrist and stands, grabbing for the bed to steady his scotch-soaked body. I’m left palming air.
He walks to the far wall, driving the palms of his hands into his brow. I remain on my knees, watching him twist under the torment of his past. A long breath hisses through his teeth, over his lips and into the silence clutching our bedroom. When the air runs out, he stills. He stares at a blank white wall, his face equally empty, fingers again tracing his lips.
“I understand that you want to help, Carly. Honestly, I do.” His voice is tight and impassive. Way too businesslike for a conversation like this. I suck in a small breath and start to stand. He forces composure into his actor-trained limbs. Something tightens in the pit of my stomach, knowing I won’t like what he’s about to say. “But what happened between Dylan and me is none of your goddamn business.”
What? His words blast a hole straight through my heart. I fall back on my ass, sprawling against the bed we’ve made such sweet love in. He doesn’t bother to look at me. He stares straight ahead, fists rigid at his side. In soft light spilling from the bathroom door, I see his temple working overtime. I blink at the tears stinging my eyes.
What in the hell just happened? I was trying to help him. I was trying to make him see that none of this is his fault, and then he goes and tells me it’s none of my business. Fuck that.
I leap to my feet, refusing to be blown off so easily. Across the room, he snatches my duffel from the closet and disappears into the bathroom. Drawers rip open and slam shut. Bottles clatter against the counter. I charge into the small room and watch with mounting anger as he throws my things in the bag. “What the hell are you doing?”
“You should go,” he says without bothering to look up.
“I’m not going a
nywhere!” I shout, and slap a bottle of perfume from his hand.
“But you already did.” His free hand fists and slams into the counter. His eyes close. The cool composure that always comes so easily is slipping through his fingers. “You’re obviously so disgusted by what I’ve done you can’t stand the sight of me.” He swipes an arm over the countertop, clearing every trace of me. Some stuff falls in the bag, most shatters over the tile floor.
“I’m here now, aren’t I?” I argue, taking hold of my bag to free it from his grip. He stills, straightens and releases the bag with a jerk. His temples throb. He blows past me, knocking me against the door. I drop the bag and follow. “I’m not disgusted by what you did, because you did nothing. All I saw on that video was an addict killing herself.”
“You think that’s what this is about? Dylan?” He spins on his heel, bearing down on me with navy fury swirling wildly in his eyes. I step back.
“What else is there?”
He tucks his head, preparing to lay into me. Then thinks better of it and turns away, hands pulling through his hair. I reclaim the lost distance and chance touching him gently on his shoulder. He pulls away.
“I’m not like you, Carly. I don’t run from my problems.”
“Bullshit. You’re buried in your grief.”
He steps farther away and slams a fist into the wall. A blow so hard it echoes. “Every day I live with the guilt of what I did. I wake with what-ifs and sleep with should’ve beens. I also live with the knowledge that somewhere there’s a video that would probably send me to jail for murder. But I’ve made my peace with all that.”
“I don’t believe you.” I shake my head wildly, incredulity pushing my lips into a smart-ass smile.
He repays the favor with a smart-ass shrug and sits on the bed, rubbing his reddened knuckles. “Dylan’s using was her choice. I hated it, but what could I do? Her dying—her leaving me—was her choice, too. A jury may not see it that way. I finally do. So, while I appreciate your little pep talk, that’s not what this is about.”