Two Wrongs: A Second Chance Romance (Trouble by Numbers Book 2)

by Donna Alam

  That fateful weekend, the big affair was held at the MGM Grand, and both grooms looked so handsome. Todd was a senior stylist I worked with at the time, and Dylan was there for Joe, Todd’s intended, who was also my husband-to-be’s employer back then.

  It was a beautiful day not only full of love, laughter, and camp but also a day of excess man candy and champagne. And Joe’s best man was man candy extraordinaire. Dark hair and moss green eyes, so not gay, and thanks to the landscaping business he worked for while attending auditions on the side, cut like a Greek god.

  There was something exotic about him; he could’ve been from anywhere with those looks, and he could’ve been from any time. He didn’t strike me as classically handsome that day but more beautiful in the more animal sense. He has a magnetism to him, something irresistible, and his demeanour promises he’ll lead you to no good, but you’ll have such fun getting there.

  Like the gods, or maybe the devil, he was silver-tongued, too. Let’s just say our relationship didn’t so much start under a cloud of Vegas clichés but in a very posh bathroom after he’d uttered the filthiest accented sweet nothings to herald the start of any relationship.

  Meet me in the bathroom in five. Your sweet pussy and my face have a date.

  It started in the bathroom, but by the time we were hitched, I’d know him for, oh, at least fifty-two hours. At least. And he’d gotten to know me pretty well, too. Almost every square inch of me because I’d spent most of those fifty-two hours on my back. My front. My side. All fours. On my feet . . .

  When he’d suggested we put a ring on it, I thought he was talking sex toys.

  Fuck drunk—that’s what Nat would call it. Dopamined to the max because why else would I—sensible Ivy, the voice of caution, the pragmatic friend and biddable daughter—have said yes. To both marriage and sex toys. We went straight from the tacky chapel to a sex toy superstore . . . But it didn’t matter, I’d reasoned in my blissed-out state, because my heart and vagina wouldn’t be surviving the weekend anyway.

  But they both did. Only just. And is it any wonder those same parts of my anatomy were more than a wee bit excited to see Dylan again once we returned to LA? That first meetup was supposed to be a coffee while we discussed our annulment, but it was no coincidence the coffee shop I’d suggested was five minutes away from my apartment. We began to flirt, shamelessly, which was a green light for Dylan to begin with the dirty talk. About ten minutes after that, we were screwing against the wall of my living room. I don’t know what it is about his dirty mouth because swearing is usually a complete turn-off for me. And his accent? Women everywhere might be wild for that husky lilt, but I’m Scottish, for goodness’ sakes. Where I come from, that’s how we speak. Okay, maybe we’re a wee bit more broad. And maybe very few Scotsmen look like him. But being attracted to a Scotsman in LA? That’s like an Eskimo moving to Hawaii and asking for a whale steak . . . or something.

  I can’t explain it.

  That man, plus that accent, plus the gravel the Good Lord saw fit to add to his tone, equals good girl kryptonite.

  My friends tease me often. They say I’m old-fashioned, but what they mean is puritanical, but Dylan’s Ivy was never that girl. I can’t explain what the man does to me. Did to me.

  Our sex life was combustible. And hey, we were married, weren’t we? I’m certain that makes sex almost a sacrament. And as for our annulment, two weeks later, he’d moved in with me. It seemed almost a natural progression for a relationship started the wrong way around. Then a few months more and he was a sudden indie movie star. Times were good. We were happy and in love. Next thing, he’s the hottest newcomer since that sparkly vampire guy. And that was when things started to go wrong.

  Hindsight is ordinarily a bitch, but I suppose I should be thankful I never got around to telling anyone we’d married. Especially as it survived only as long as the last iOS update. I’d never even mentioned to anyone back home that I was seeing someone. We’d just existed in our own blissful little bubble, and it was heaven while it lasted. Almost perfect. Maybe I should be thankful we’d kept our marriage a secret, especially as I’ve known friends with longer hook-ups.

  Why didn’t I tell anyone? I needed to let my family know first, and maybe if my mother had let me get a word in edgeways during one of her calls, I might have been able to fudge the details a little, maybe tell her that the man I’d been dating had whisked me away for a weekend of drunken debauchery. That we’d had such a fuck-fest—though maybe I wouldn’t have mentioned words pertaining to excessive drinking or sex, and I would’ve definitely nixed all f-words. Maybe I would’ve said we drunkenly—though again, I wouldn’t have mentioned that little nugget—declared our love for one another and promptly popped off to the tacky chapel . . . that so wouldn’t meet the requirements of the daughter of someone as pious as my mum.

  In reality, even if my mother had taken a vow of silence, there’s no way I could’ve said any of those things over the phone. I’d decided to tell them on my next visit, and when I say my next visit, I meant ours. Yep, I was planning on arriving back home with a husband in tow. I was hoping we’d put on a united front—strength in numbers and all that. Okay, maybe I was hoping to spread the blame. A problem shared is a problem halved, isn’t it? I figured Dylan could be quite charming when he has some kind of incentive to turn it on. But then he became famous almost overnight, and things started to go wrong. It seems we were never destined to make it back.

  Our marriage was an easy lie to live with especially on the other side of the world. Out of sight, out of mind. It’s much easier to be selective about the truth when your only contact is over a phone or internet connection. And I chose not to care for the first time in my life. I put my wants and desires first, desires I had no idea I was even capable of. I was happy, and that’s all that mattered. But that happiness was short lived.

  So Dylan became super famous, super-fast. There was just no getting used to that. We couldn’t even grocery shop together for fear of being snapped. Dylan’s agent, Ric, cautioned against us being labelled a thing, and while Dylan paid him no mind, I did. I didn’t want my friends and family to learn about us from the media, and I cared about him. I loved the very bones of him, and he’d worked so hard and had schlepped the audition trail for a half dozen years or more, so no way was I going to stand in the way of his fame.

  The promise of a blockbuster movie on the heels of the indie—an indie where he’d been astute enough to insist on a portion of the ticket sales—and his star began to ascend. We bought a house from the proceeds, where it was much easier to maintain our privacy. We were newlyweds; we didn’t need to leave the house, wrapped up in each other as we were. But as his star ascended, our marriage sunk like its counterweight. The tiny nothings became somethings. And the somethings? Well, they became insurmountable. At least, for me. And as they say, the rest is history. And just as painful. And as I’d confided in no one, I was by myself with this pain. Meanwhile, Dylan seemed to drown himself in women and notoriety. And his fans lapped it up. A pretty face is easier to forgive for some.

  And now, we’ve been living on opposite sides of the world for longer than we’ve been married, and I think that’s kind of symbolic. It’s been months since we’ve spoken. Months in which I’ve avoided every mention of him. I’d disabled all social media. Avoided the internet. Ignored anything with access to showbiz news. I didn’t need to know where my husband was or which skinny starlet he was boning that week or how many cameras he’d smashed.

  I didn’t need to know any of it. For the sake of my sanity mostly.

  Yes, I’m bitter. Still.

  Not only did I do him a favour by starting our divorce proceedings months ago, but I also filled out the reason on the dotted line, providing us both with more than just cause.

  Adultery, the documents read.

  All. He. Needed. To. Do. Was. Sign.

  I did the hard part; started rolling that concrete ball down the rocky slope. Why couldn’t he have
just managed that one thing in return?

  How hard is it to pick up a pen?

  I’d relinquished my rights to everything—alimony, the house—but all he returned was an envelope containing a scrawled note. Two words. The same number of syllables.

  Fuck. You.

  And then . . . nothing. Not another word for months.

  What else could I do? I don’t have money to chase him down. I don’t have his bank balance, and I had a business to build—a beauty salon to renovate and open. An income to create, not to mention a place to heal. That’s what I’d returned home for—business. I didn’t run away from LA.

  At least, I don’t think I did.

  I didn’t take the easy way out, despite my daydreams of vindication. I’m not some fame whore who’d sell their story to some celeb-stalking site. I didn’t need to introduce DMZ into either of our lives. Though, God knows I could’ve done with a cash injection, especially as I’m now kind of responsible for Fin. Poor Fin. Her own marriage problems are much more terminal and have left her emotionally battered and sleeping in my spare room.

  Nope. Telling the world Dylan Duffy is married, and to me, would never have been possible. And then tell the world that he’s divorced? It’s not even funny, though I doubt I’d need to worry about retribution at the hands of his rabid fans. Not if my mother got there first. Especially after his threats—those of him exposing more than my bottom to the internet. No, I’d have to have a death wish to go public with any of this, and I’m not sick of my life. Not yet, anyway. I just have a husband I can’t shake. But once this trip is over, I’ll be set. No one will ever need to know. We’ll be over. Done. Finito. Kaput. And I think . . . I think I must be due my period because why else would my eyes be wet?

  I run the back of my hand under my nose, glad for the seating structure in first class as I blot the corners of my eyes with the edge of my thumbs. Husbands. Why the hell were they invented? All those extraneous dangly bits. Okay, maybe not that unnecessary, but also not very nice to look at. Except maybe in Dylan’s case. Smooth, long, and thick. And cut.

  I’d never been with a man sans foreskin.

  Oh, shut up, brain, shut up!

  Blame the pre-flight cocktails. Blame the in-flight champagne because Dylan’s dick should not be floating in the sphere of my brain activity these days. There are plenty of other dicks in the sea, I tell myself, which isn’t a pleasant image or analogy. But it still makes me giggle. He can’t be the only one in the world who knows how to work one, surely?

  Maybe that’s what I need to do; move on and find me a new D.

  Rather than imagining pickling Dylan’s in a jar . . .

  Because screw him. My life was back on track until I’d slid my finger under that envelope flap. A shiver had coursed down my spine as the heavy paper tore with a reluctance I’d felt bone deep.

  Leave it unopened, my mind whispered. Ignore it. Send it back.

  Apparently, God gives you that little voice for a reason. I ought to learn to listen to it.

  In my state of shock, I’d managed to keep from spilling my secrets, and though I’d thought about confiding in Fin, she could do without that right now. Instead, I sold my friends a line about prior work obligations. I told them in the vaguest terms that I needed to return for a contractual thing.

  But if you swap obligation for divorce, I’m not lying, technically.

  Okay . . . let’s just go ahead and call it lie #1038 because something tells me before this trip is over, I’ll have lied my way into hell.

  Because I’m all about the lies these days. Including the ones I tell myself.

  Chapter Six

  Ivy

  The sun is setting when the cab pulls up to the gated entrance to what is, technically, partly, still my house, I suppose. a Spanish Colonial Revival set in Toluca Lake; it’s a million miles and a couple of million dollars away from where we began. Back then, Dylan was sharing a dive with two waiters, sorry, actors, while I barely clung to the next rung of the property ladder in a glorified studio an hour out from my place of work.

  The marital home. It was one of the largest purchases he made following his first box office hit—for you and me, darlin’, he’d said—though by Toluca standards, the house is pretty modest. Three beds, three baths, and I loved every square inch of it.

  We’d banged over every square inch of it.

  ‘You want I should drop you here?’

  The cab driver pulls me from my memories abruptly, something twisting in my chest. I’d say it was my heart, but for the fact that I no longer wear it there.

  ‘What? Wait. Oh. Hang on.’ I rummage in my bag for the gate remote, praying that the battery still has life, and breathe a sigh of relief as the dark stained gate begins to slide left. ‘Front door please.’

  The driver eyes me via the rearview mirror, resigned, and at the front door, I hand him an obscene amount of cash for a journey I’d known would be ridiculous. In exchange, he deposits my case at my feet.

  Key in the lock, I begin to stress because what if Dylan changed the alarm codes? As the door swings open, I think it’s more likely his forgetful ass overlooked setting it before leaving. Again.

  ‘Honey, I’m home,’ I whisper, steeling myself to enter this world for the last time. Pushing the door a little wider, I take my first tentative step inside.

  The double-story entrance is silent; no beeping or blaring of an alarm, though there is . . . a tap-tap-tapping sound. A sound drawing nearer while getting faster, a sound my heart recognises a nanosecond before I’m flattened to the ground.

  ‘Nigel? Oh, God, it is you!’ Emotion stings my eyes—I’m so pleased I’m here right now, if for nothing else than this.

  A pair of heavy paws land on my shoulders, my heart’s desire now licking my face and slobbering, and unfortunately, peeing just a little bit on my shin. I don’t chastise, and I can’t blame; I’m so excited I could pee a little myself. In my case, it would be with relief because that’s my overwhelming emotion right now. I’m just so bloody relieved to find him here. Fingers tight on his hairy haunches, I bury my face in the scruff of his chest, the scent of warm and slightly unpleasant dog breath filling my nose.

  ‘You’re such a good dog.’ Yes, Nigel is a dog, not some kind of pee fetishist. And he’s not a good dog really unless you count being good at being a dog as what constitutes being a good dog. Nigel only knows three or four commands and pretty much does as he pleases unless there’s a bribe at hand. ‘Yes, you are. Such a good boy and you’re here!’ My hands push his slobbering mush away for a beat at the realisation that, ‘If you’re here, who else is?’ His coffee coloured eyes reflects my worried expression. ‘Who’s looking after you, boy?’

  And what else has he lied about?

  The place isn’t fancy enough for staff, though I expect Dylan’s got someone looking after the domestic side of things, given the gleaming floors and the evident health of the nearby potted banana plant. Pushing Nigel from my legs, I pull myself upright, determined to find out who’s looking after my pooch because despite what Dylan might say, this woolly behemoth is mine. He may have picked him up as a scrawny puppy from the animal shelter in Burbank, but he gave him to me.

  Just as surely as he’d told me he’d rehomed him.

  You left, Ivy. The fucking mutt had to go. It was either rehoming him or a trip to the doggy farm, by way of the veterinarian.

  Rehomed him, my arse; I should’ve known he lied. Who would take on something this large—something that looks like the results of a three-way between a mop, a deerhound, and a small horse? The tiny bundle he’d deposited on my lap was fluffy, black, and tiny. I was besotted, and so was he. The start of our family, he’d said. Neither of us had any idea he’d end up shedding his fur, going bald for a couple of weeks, and then turn woolly and grey and grow to the size of a Shetland pony.

  ‘He’s half poodle, half deerhound, and all daft.’ Dylan mimicked my accent, deepening his into something wild and improbable whe
n other dog walkers asked for Nigel’s breed. Along with the indecipherable accent, the beanie and sunglasses, no one could tell they were in the presence of acting superstardom.

  Bet he’s got tickets on himself these days.

  The guilt I’ve been feeling the whole journey is no longer weighing so heavy. I’ve lied to those I’ve loved, but now, it appears, so has he.

  Only he doesn’t love me anymore, does he? I push that thought to the back of my mind because no way am I replacing angry with sad.

  ‘Bastard,’ I say to the empty room with my hand still on Nigel’s thick neck . . . and a collar that I didn’t buy. ‘Did Daddy buy you a bonny pink collar, boy?’ His big eyes stare up at me as though to say, What do you think?

  I think—because DMZ; yeah, so I might’ve had a wee web stalking session in the taxi—that a certain blond singer has been hanging around my man. Dog. I mean dog. There might not have been pictures online of Talia Griff walking Nigel, but someone bought him a sparkly collar, and it’s enough to make my blood boil.

  ‘That no-good philandering fuckwitted b—’ I halt. Why is it that he is the only person in the world who can drive me to profanity? Closing my eyes, I take a deep, cleansing breath. I’m not punished for my anger; I am punished by it, I intone silently. Exhale slowly. Think calm thoughts. Conquer anger by non-anger.

  Maybe I could try some Sanskrit chants?

  ‘Knickers.’ My eyes spring open. Easier said than done today. ‘Come on, Nige,’ I say, abandoning my bags. ‘Let’s go see what else hasn’t changed.’

  The smell of home assails me as I enter the great room. A familiar scent I’d somehow forgotten, so it’s all the more shocking to be enveloped by it. It’s something intrinsic to the house itself; years of beeswax polish mixed with the perfume of the garden—jasmine and gardenia. I loved this room—from the dark beamed ceilings and floors to the massive stone fireplace it was rarely ever cold enough to light. By my Scottish standards, anyway. Pale sofas, carved end tables, and Turkish kilim rugs. Plates and dishes. Frames and art. All these things chosen with love to fill a home I once loved. With a man I once adored.