Total Trainwreck

by Evie Claire

  “You’d be surprised how quickly the public forgets.” He pulls a chair close to the bed, knowing me well enough to know that if he laid a finger on me right now I’d break it.

  “They never forget,” I huff.

  “Maybe not.” He agrees with a simple shrug and nod. “But they are very easily persuaded.”

  “Meaning?” I jerk my head to the side like I’ve developed an uncontrollable tic. These damn hormones do nothing for my rage. I hate the feral, nervous feeling they stir inside me, but I have zero control over it.

  “Let India work her magic. We’ll take some time off, move to the island if we have to once you start showing. You can deliver overseas under a different name.”

  “I can’t just show up with a baby.” Nice as it sounds, his plan is full of holes.

  “No. But we could adopt. No one will ever have to know it’s our baby if we don’t want them to.”

  Our baby. Did he really just say our baby? Because I’m the only one here with a case of the fat-ass and a closet full of clothes that don’t fit. I turn, fast and sharp, ready to lay his flesh open with angry, biting words. Until I see the aching look lighting his eyes. It’s desperately hopeful, eager and innocent, all at the same time. It’s enough to level a girl and all her raging crazies. I hide my face in my hands, feeling the tears coming on. Fucking hormones! Even I can’t keep up with this roller coaster.

  “You really want this baby?” My voice is raspy and muffled by my hands. He takes my wrists and uncovers my face. A frown pulls my lips down when I try not to cry. But it doesn’t work. The tears pop into my eyes and I’m a hopeless, sniveling mess. He takes me in his arms and sits beside me on the bed.

  “Babies are always miracles. Our miracle happened for a reason. Hell, yes, I want this baby. She’s going to be gorgeous, just like her mama.” He holds me against his chest. A hand sneaks over my belly, and it feels right, in a weird way that used to feel so wrong.

  Something releases inside me. Something that sends a pleasing chill over every inch. Everything about this moment is so right it doesn’t seem real. Him. Me. Us. It feels right enough to calm everything and give me a moment of total clarity. I exhale deeply into the nook under his neck.

  Hell, yes, I want it, too.

  Tears flood my eyes. I sob silently against his neck. Tears of surrender. Tears of acceptance. Tears of relief. I’ve tried to protect us. Ever since we started this crazy, insane ride, all I’ve ever wanted is to protect us from the judgment of people who will never understand. That’s the whole reason I didn’t want this baby. No one would ever see how beautiful it is. They’d judge it and deem it unworthy without ever knowing the truth. They’d hate me for ruining HeaVon. They’d hate Devon for being predictable. Just because we are two people who—in their eyes—aren’t supposed to love each other.

  Who are they, anyway?

  Nothing but a bunch of out-of-touch-with-reality idiots crying over HeaVon at this very minute. The adoring fans who see our movies and make us desirable are the same ones keeping us from true happiness. I used to care about their opinion more than anything. But in this moment I realize it doesn’t matter what they think. Not now. This situation is bigger than me. This situation is bigger than us. This situation is our baby. A child brought into this world because our love is too strong to keep it out. So what if they hate me for loving it? So what if they hate me for loving him? Let the consequences fall where they will. I’m over doing what other people want.

  He strokes my hair in a calming way, then adjusts the pillows behind me. I lie back. He stands and walks to the window, pulling the blackout curtains closed. “You need to rest. I don’t like you getting so upset. It’s not good for the baby.”

  I look at my phone and the tiny alarm clock on the screen telling me I have a wake-up call at three. It’s not even an issue when I swipe up and deactivate the alarm.

  “Good night, Sunshine,” he says, and kisses me gently. I sigh and roll over to snuggle a pillow.

  “I love you,” I whisper into the darkened room. He pauses with his hand on the door, his silhouette bathed in hallway light.

  “I love us,” he answers with a smile I can hear, and closes the door.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I awake with a start in a dark room. My phone dings. That must’ve been what woke me. Tangled in the sheets, I find it. Four thirty and a message from Maria.

  I knew you wouldn’t need that ride.

  She signs her text with the winking kissy heart emoji. Of course Maria knew. Everybody knew but me. I laugh into my hands, unable to believe I’m actually going to do this. We’re actually going to do this. I rub my belly and don’t do a damn thing about the grin breaking my face.

  A weight lifted from me while I slept. I feel free. I feel good. I feel...like I’m about to wet to my pants. Throwing the covers off, I run to the bathroom, so blinded by the overhead light I make it to the toilet by memory alone. I’m rubbing my eyes and yawning when a lamp clicks on in my bedroom.

  God, I want to run into his arms and tackle him to the ground with kisses. The black cloud that’s followed me since that damn pee stick hit my world like a wrecking ball is gone. I am sunshine and daisy fresh. And I’m pretty sure I’m about to happy-fuck the hell out of my husband.

  I gargle with a mouthful of Listerine for good measure and tumble from the bathroom all smiles and giddy happiness. Two steps into the bedroom, I freeze. The rug pulls out from under me and it feels like I’m falling, even though my feet remain on solid ground.

  Am I still dreaming? Because there is no way what I’m seeing is for real.

  “What the fuck are you doing in my house?” I say, bristling with a mixture of anger and fear. My arms instinctively rise in front of me, blocking my body from this unexpected danger. My gaze darts restlessly around the room, looking for anything that will prove I’m dreaming. Nothing. It looks exactly how it did when Devon turned off the light hours ago. Only difference is Heather Troy wasn’t standing in my room looking like a schizophrenic cat coming off her meds.

  “You little bitch,” she says through teeth clenched so tightly spittle sprays in the air. She takes a step toward me. I take one back.

  “Whoa, let’s check the crazy for a minute, Heather.” I keep my eyes locked on hers and raise my arms higher. Desperately, I swallow hard against the fear invading my brain. Distraction of any kind isn’t a good thing right now.

  “Did you honestly think you were winning your little game?” she asks, tugging nervously at a stained, tissue-thin scarf around her neck. I must say, if she weren’t so damned delusional, I might actually enjoy this. She looks like shit. And that’s being kind. Seriously, she could’ve swam from Malibu to my house in the sewer and come out looking better than she does. But the look in her eyes is so murderously savage, the only thing I can think about is getting the hell away from her. My fight or flight instincts kick in and my body is energized by the kind of adrenaline only pure dread can pour into your bloodstream.

  She raises her arm and unwinds the scarf from her neck. I take this moment of distraction to plan my escape route. My bed sits between me and the door. Heather stands at the foot of my bed and I’m not going anywhere near her. Nope, over the bed is the only option I’ve got. I glance back at her, ready to run, and see a long trail of dried blood on her forearm. Cold fear floods through me.

  Devon.

  “Where’s Devon?” I ask, fear flooding my insides.

  “Where’s Devon?” She mimics my voice in a nasty way and winds the end of the scarf around her hand. “You should be worried about yourself right now.” I watch with horrified, hollow eyes as she runs the other hand down the length of material and winds it around it. This wacko is getting ready to strangle somebody and I’ll be damned if it’s going to be me.

  With a running leap, I spring onto the bed, cros
s it in two steps and hit the ground, my feet already flying over the hardwood floors. I throw open the door, skidding through it on sock feet, and make it to the hallway. I can feel her behind me, running to catch me with the crazy hormone-spiked high of a woman ten times her size. Holy shit!

  “Devon! Devon!” I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, running as fast as I can. The back stairway comes into sight. It leads to the kitchen. Get a knife. A big one. The thought pops into my head. I visualize the kitchen drawer in my head and take off. Arms pumping, feet flying. “Devon! Help me!” I scream again. I smack against the stairway wall to stop my forward motion. She’s so fucking close I feel a rush of air wash over me. Run, Carly! Run!

  Knowing my life depends on it, I leap down the stairs, two at a time. Damn if her footsteps aren’t matching mine and gaining ground. Everything in my body is cold and tingly, and numbed to everything but the thought of that knife. This bitch is going to kill me if I don’t kill her first. “Devon!” I shout again. Good god, has she killed him? The thought springs into my mind but my body is too shaken for it to register.

  I’m halfway down the stairs when his face appears in the stairwell doorway. He’s wearing his reading glasses. His look is puzzled. Until he sees who’s chasing me. His eyes fly wide and he hurls his body up the steps. But it’s too late. She grabs my hair, jerking me backward and damn near snapping my neck.

  “Argh!” I scream, and grit my teeth, every part of me readying to fight this bitch to the death if I have to. Blindly, I reach back and grab my hair, yanking it from her hand. I win the battle, but I’ve put so much force into my yank it unbalances me. I shriek like a banshee. Frantic to reclaim my balance, I throw my weight back. It does nothing but turn me into a human seesaw. Fuck.

  I’m falling.

  In slow motion, I scramble to grasp the walls, the railing, anything that might break my fall. All I find is Heather’s elbow, which rams a crushing blow into my back. My spine curls backward around her arm, flinging my chest forward and snapping my neck.

  Devon yells and lunges for me. My feet leave the steps. Gravity takes over. There’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  I see Devon’s face twisting into a horrified snarl. I see bright crystal lights sail past overhead. I see white ceiling. And I see Heather’s hand reaching for me again. The wooden stairs smack as hard as marble against my head. I grasp at the air in vain, searching for anything to stop me. Nothing. I bounce down the steps. Each one crashes against me like boulders. My teeth rattle. My body aches. My bones crack. With each blow new pain radiates through me. It’s too much. The world turns soft and fuzzy. The walls push over me. A final lick blasts the back of my head so hard my ears hum. The world goes black.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  For the love of god, why won’t my phone shut the hell the up? A constant, unnerving chirp claws at my eardrums. Movement is impossible. My eyelids are fused shut. Every muscle is rigid dead weight, rooting me where I lie. I fight to move, but manage nothing more than a slow, raspy grunt from somewhere deep inside. The simple sound hurts like hell, scraping my throat, squishing my soggy brain. Someone stirs at my side.

  “Sunshine?” Devon’s voice echoes through a pipe a million miles long. The pain is unbearable, but I manage to groan again in answer. “Shh, you’re okay, now,” he says. Gently he strokes the hand he’s been holding for who knows how long. The dried crust on my lids releases and I force my eyes open. I blink away the blinding blur and focus on unfamiliar surroundings. It’s a medical ward, I think. Though way nicer than any one I’ve ever woken up in. The king-sized bed is plush, soft white and scented with lavender. Devon lies curled at my side.

  “Where am I?” My voice sounds like I’ve chain-smoked a carton of unfiltered Reds and gargled with rocks.

  “The Pines Private Recovery Center,” he answers. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I got hit by a bus,” I answer, and lick dry lips with a sandpaper tongue. “Water.”

  He takes a cup from the bedside table and steadies the straw at my mouth. I take small sips and finally convince my numbed limbs to move.

  “Thanks,” I say, clearing my throat. “Help me up.” He takes my hand and pulls me to sitting, adjusting pillows behind me. A vomit-inducing spasm seizes my neck and back. “Ouch!” I whimper and brace my body against the pain. “What the hell?” I grasp my head to make it stop.

  “Do you remember what happened?” His look is frantic, studying every twitch of my face like it’s a matter of life and death. It’s unsettling. Why is he so concerned? I look away. My gaze bounces around the room, trying to remember what the hell happened. I couldn’t have OD’d again, but that’s exactly what this feels like.

  The last memory I recall is lying in my bed. Snuggled under the sheets and rubbing my blooming Buddha belly. I’d decided to keep her. My hand involuntarily slides to my stomach. Devon’s gaze follows it. Something feels different, but I don’t know what. His eyes ice over. A hollow feeling grabs my gut.

  Fuck. What did I do? Did I go through with it after all? Did I change my mind and make that call to Maria? No, I would remember that. I close my eyes and dig frantically through bleary memories. No, I woke up late. I missed my appointment.

  “Carly?” My name breaks over his tongue. Heartache hangs heavy on his face, pulling everything but the farthest corners down. Those parts tense with an anger more violent than I’ve ever seen. I look deeper into his eyes, terrified I’ve done something wrong. But, his anger isn’t directed at me, because he’s trying as hard as he can to hide it. It’s his throbbing temples that give him away.

  This kind of anger is reserved for one person in his world. Heather. Her crazed face flips a switch in my mind and everything turns crystal clear. I raise my gaze slowly to the ceiling. A shaky, sweaty kind of heat slides down my neck and over my body. Those awful moments return to me like a dream. A dream that happened to someone else, because that’s what it feels like. A distant memory I watched through someone else’s horrified eyes.

  I’m in my room, but she is, too.

  I’m running, but she is, too.

  I hit the stairs. She’s right behind me. Fuck.

  My stomach rolls and it all comes flooding back. The terror. The struggle. The fall.

  I nod my head and purse my lips against the frown tugging them down.

  “The doctors say you’re fine. Nothing permanent. Just some major bruising.”

  “Where is she?” I ask through gritted teeth.

  “I’ve taken care of it,” he says through teeth gritted even harder.

  “Where is she?” I ask again.

  “Gone.”

  “I want to press charges. That bitch isn’t getting away with this.”

  “Okay.” Devon’s voice is calm, but I can tell there’s a but coming. “It’s your decision, but you need to think about it.”

  “What is there to think about? She broke into my fucking house and tried to kill me.”

  Devon nods in agreement. He’s rolled over onto his belly and propped on his elbows so I don’t have to move to see him.

  “Why did she do that?” he asks. I look at him like he’s Forrest Gump kinda slow.

  “She hates me.” My dumbfounded glare is all sorts of sideways, not at all following his crazy.

  “And why does she hate you?”

  What the hell? Did Devon hit his head, too? “Um, because I’m ruining her life?”

  “Exactly,” Devon says. He tucks his chin and looks at me in the sobering kind of way that drives a hard truth home. I wrinkle my brow for a moment. Where is he going with this? When it finally clicks my brow releases and my brain feels like it’s going to explode. No. Fucking. Way.

  She’s going to get away with this. She’s going to get away with attempted murder because she knows I won’t risk our careers to out her.


  That! Bitch!

  I grab the first pillow I get my hands on and hold it as tight as I can over my face, screaming into it all the rage I would hurl at her if I could. That bitch! That fucking bitch! How is it she always manages to walk away scot-fucking-free? She tried to kill me. Her crazy, nut-job, schizophrenic ass broke into my house and tried to murder me. Had Devon not been there she would’ve killed me and done God knows what else. And just because she didn’t succeed, I’m supposed to act like it never happened? Fuck that. Pussing-out isn’t in my DNA.

  I shake my head against the pillow, still screaming. The machine hooked to me starts beeping faster. Faster. Too fast. It’ll alert the nurses. Devon tries to calm me.

  “Carly.” His tone is pleading. Desperate almost. “Think about his.” He places a hand on my arm. The warning in his words slows my blind rage.

  I check my anger and try to follow my scenario further down the track. Say I didn’t forget it. What next? I’d call LAPD and file charges against her like any sane person would. Breaking and entering. Trespassing. Attempted murder. I’d get the justice I want.

  As soon as it’s processed, the report would be public record. The tabloids would pick it up, and our private business would be smeared throughout the world. I’d lose everything I’ve worked so hard rebuilding. News outlets would crucify me. Public opinion would turn. I’d be a slut. Devon would be an asshole. But poor Heather would appear to be justifiably crazy over losing him. I’d irreparably fuck up our careers in the process. And undo everything we’ve done to get our happily-ever-after.