Bombshell (Hollywood A-List #1)

by C. D. Reiss

  I reached for it to take it away, but he held the paper out of my range and took me by the waist with the other hand, pulling me close.

  “You’re going to make me crazy about you,” he said.

  “I have that effect on people.”

  He kissed me long and hard. He tasted like cold water and chips. While we were still locked, I reached for the paper, and he held it away. We laughed, kissed, and fought for the paper at the same time.

  Finally, he took his lips off mine and held me at his side. We looked at the picture together. He inspected it closely. I didn’t know what he was seeing.

  “It’s all little dots,” he said.

  “Yeah. You’re not that handsome in dots.”

  I put my hand on it and pushed it down. He crunched it up.

  “You’re a sexpot in dots,” he said. “But in real life?” He tossed the last of the paper away. “You’re still a sexpot. But more. You turned this bombshell from six years ago into a family. You’re a magician. Do you know? I wasn’t ready for that little girl, and now I am. I can still be me and have a family. I’m never going to read this article, but I bet there’s nothing in here about what you mean to me.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. I took the paper and threw it away, letting the lid of the dumpster land with a slap.

  “This town, those kids, my fucking family,” Brad said. “That house I grew up in. I feel right when I’m here. All that stuff I was doing, the parties, the . . . the women . . . was because I didn’t feel right. And you make me feel right, and I know that means you and I are going to be on the cover of magazines, but I want you to tell me you can live with it. Tell me you don’t care. Say you’ll deal with everything they say.”

  “I only care about you.”

  He pulled me to him.

  “Well, Cara DuMont, people are going to think you don’t have a heart of ice.”

  “I don’t care what people think.”

  “I do.” His palm cupped my face. “I want everyone to know what kind of person you are.” I thought he was going to kiss me, but he stopped himself an inch away. “Except in bed. That dirty little mouth is my private business.”

  “Then kiss it,” I said. “Just kiss it.”

  His kiss was defined by what he didn’t do. He didn’t crash into me or devour me. He appreciated me with that kiss. He brushed his lips against mine as if he valued every place they met. The entirety of what he wanted to say was in that kiss.

  His tongue flicked against mine, and I drew it in, opening my mouth for it. He pushed me against the car, and in a burst, my body burned for him. He breathed through his teeth, pinning my arms to the passenger window.

  “I want to fuck you right here, teacup.”

  “The engraved invitation’s in the mail.” I raised my leg over his waist and he tucked his hand behind my knee. “It says, ‘Your dick is cordially invited to come inside.’”

  He laughed, but not for long, because the hand that was behind my knee trailed over my thigh and went right under my underpants. We both gasped at the same time. I was wetter than I thought, reactive to his touch. I felt as if lightning had struck where he moved.

  “I can’t fuck you fast enough,” he said, yanking at my underpants. I got them down, pulling a leg out while he got his fly open.

  “Go.” I got my leg around his waist again. “Take it. Take it hard.”

  I barely had the last word out before he took my breath away, entering me in two fast strokes.

  He pushed forward, and I wrapped my legs around him, digging my fingers in his hair.

  Sometimes, not very often, but sometimes I looked at him and couldn’t believe he wanted me even once. Sometimes he was even more gorgeous than a human should have been allowed to be. Sometimes I felt broken and unwanted, and his desire didn’t match how I felt about myself.

  This wasn’t one of those times.

  He was as beautiful as ever, but starkly human. Flawed beyond belief. Emotional and broken. He needed me to fill his empty places and in letting me do that, he filled mine.

  My heart almost spoke through my lips, but he moaned in my ear first. I thought he’d give me pure filth, but his heart was doing its own speaking.

  “I never . . . Cara . . . I never wanted a woman like this before.”

  He kissed my neck, fucking me standing, and I couldn’t hear myself think past the roar of emotion and pleasure.

  “I just want to get inside you,” he said, lip to lip before he rammed into me again with his dick wedged between my legs and his tongue in my mouth.

  I felt as if I was getting fucked on both ends, fast and hard, as deep inside me as possible.

  Never. I’d never been fucked like this.

  My lungs emptied when I cried out. His tongue was still in my mouth when I came. He held me up when my legs stiffened and my back curved like a cat’s. He sped up his motions, hitting my center over and over. I pulled away from his mouth and gulped air in his rhythm.

  “Coming inside you,” he grunted, then got just a little deeper inside me and whispered, “Cara Cara Cara. I’m sorry, Cara.”

  I thought he was apologizing for what he’d done in the past, but he wasn’t. He was apologizing for what he would do in the future.

  CHAPTER 65

  BRAD

  Cara’s phone came in the mail with a dead battery. She plugged it into the outlet by the toaster and didn’t say a thing.

  “Cara?”

  “Yeah?”

  “The phone?”

  “It’ll take just a couple of hours to charge.”

  “I left it in the hotel.” I cleared my throat, because she wasn’t getting what I was trying to say. “On purpose.”

  “Why?”

  “The pictures. If you were connected, you’d see them. It was fucked up. Very fucked up. I’m sorry.”

  Fists on hips, she leaned on one foot.

  “Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

  Mom and Nicole came in before I had to answer.

  But yes. I had more things to tell Cara. One thing. The thing I’d forgotten because I was preoccupied with an airplane-bathroom blow job. But there’s only so much a guy can do. Only so much a girl can hear. I was getting to it. I swore it. But not now. Just not now.

  Before I’d gone to the kitchen to discover the box of dyslexia books, Paula had gone over the details of my youthful stupidity in fine detail, sending me a letter from Brenda Garcia’s lawyer five years before.

  It took me an hour to decipher words that seemed created just to confuse my scrambled-egg brain.

  Mr. Sinclair,

  You have been named the father of Baby Garcia. The mother, Brenda Garcia, would like to offer you the opportunity to take a DNA test to prove paternity. Should the test prove positive, you will be held responsible for child support and have the right to visitation as set out in family court.

  You also have the opportunity to decline paternity filings, and in doing so you understand you relinquish any and all parental rights, including visitation rights to the child in perpetuity.

  Sincerely,

  Carlina Cruz, Esq.

  There had been a voluntary relinquishment form. I’d signed it with my big stupid signature. Couldn’t even pretend to deny it.

  So, I’d known. But I barely read the thing because I was distracted and Paula had just told me the deal in a sentence. Something on the order of, “You knocked up some girl and if you don’t want to have your wages garnished forever, just sign here.”

  That sounded ridiculous even in my own head. Maybe I remembered it that way, but blaming Paula wasn’t going to make me look like a saint. Not to Cara, and she was the only woman I wanted to canonize me.

  With Nicole upstairs with Cara, I tried to tell myself the story in a way that would excuse me, but nothing worked. I’d given her up. I’d said “no” to being her father, then forgotten about her before the plane even landed. I made millions while her mother had to keep her in a cabinet at C
offee Chain when she couldn’t get a sitter.

  Who does that? What kind of person? Amazing how I could decide not to think about something for so long. Maybe I’d put it out of my mind because I’d signed a hundred different pieces of paper I couldn’t understand, and that was just another in the pile. Or maybe I didn’t want to see the letter for what it was. A statement about my fitness as a father and human being. I’d been so worthless that Brenda Garcia would rather be a single mom than let me claim her daughter.

  Ken answered the phone.

  “Hello?” He sounded as if he’d swallowed a ball of yarn.

  “Dude, are you in bed?” I asked from the porch. The block was dark. No streetlights, no floodlights on front porches. LA was never this dark. “It’s midnight there.”

  “I’m in bed. Like an adult.”

  “You knew about Nicole. You and Paula. You had me sign papers on the way to shoot Everly.”

  “Yeah. You got away lucky for five years.”

  “You couldn’t remind me?” My heels rocked the porch swing. The hooks in the ceiling groaned same as they did when I was twelve.

  “For what? So you could blab to the press that you signed her off? You were on the edge of becoming something or nothing. And that edge? About as thin as net returns. We decided to control the damage.”

  “We?”

  “Paula. Who do you think?”

  “Jesus.”

  “Don’t Jesus me.” He seemed more awake. I thought I heard the sound of a refrigerator opening and closing. “She would’ve killed any chance you had. You would’ve moved all the way to Los Angeles to become an out-of-wedlock father. You could’ve stayed in Buttfuck Alabama and done that.”

  “Arkansas.”

  “Whatever. It wouldn’t matter, because mother and daughter would be in Los Angeles and you wouldn’t be able to move home. You would’ve been stuck in Hollywood, worse than nothing. With baggage. No time. No energy. Nothing. Brenda Garcia was a saint. She had it under control.”

  “How much did you pay her?”

  “You paid her fifty grand. On loan. I’ve been taking it out slowly as expenses. Interest-free. You’re welcome.”

  “Fifty-fucking-grand?” The amount seemed inconsequential to the responsibility of taking care of Nicole.

  “Fifty large. She was thrilled. She paid off her debts and got a bigger apartment.”

  I was playing the part of a father. All the backstory had been taken care of. I was a fraud going through the motions while other people took care of the props.

  “Is there anything else I need to know?” I asked.

  “That’s the last of it. You’re writing the rest of this story on your own.”

  I didn’t know if I hung up first or if he did. I looked at the sky and asked Brenda Garcia for forgiveness. I asked her dimples, her smile, her cheap apartment, her lousy-paying job, her discipline, and her little girl. All the things I knew about her. I’d been stingy with her, and the fact that Ken and Paula had conspired to keep it under wraps was irrelevant. They’d done me the favor they knew I’d want.

  The living room was dark. I could hear my father snoring upstairs. My mother had learned to sleep through it. And a few years of public drunkenness. And through his loyalty to the lumberyard. And letting the back of the house go to termites before he did anything about it. She’d forgiven him plenty, but she’d never had to forgive anything like this. He’d never denied his own children.

  Before Nicole, before Cara, before I became a man, that wouldn’t have meant anything to me, but now it did, and I didn’t know how to make it right.

  CHAPTER 66

  CARA

  We were leaving for Thailand right from Arkansas. I would be Nicole’s studio teacher and nanny, but she and I would return home when school started. When Brad joined us in LA to do the green screening, we would transition into our new version of normal.

  Whatever that was.

  “Can I wear my twinkling shoes?”

  She still asked even though we never said no.

  “Yes,” I said to Nicole, “you can wear your twinkling shoes. Now just put them on please.”

  I’d plugged my phone in that morning. It started dinging, bleeping, vibrating when I turned it on as three days’ worth of messages came in.

  Nicole sat right on the kitchen floor and got her shoes on. She could tie them herself, but it took forever. I scanned my screen, answered messages. Scanned again.

  Laura at West Side. Four e-mails and three texts. One long voice message.

  Jobs.

  Texted back to postpone until I got back from Thailand.

  Blakely.

  Texts and voicemails.

  Her callback had gone well.

  She got a second callback.

  Then her happiness turned to concern.

  Where are you, Cara? Are you okay?

  Quick text back of congratulations, comfort, and a good-bye.

  “Miss Cara!”

  Nicole yanked my shirt and pointed her toe.

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s a perfect bow!”

  She smiled coyly. “Double knot!”

  “The car’s outside!” Susan called from the front. Milton picked up two suitcases and Brad bounded down from the stairway to take them from him. We were going to Memphis International Airport an hour and change away, too far for his parents to drive.

  Erma picked up Nicole and kissed her cheek. They extended loving affections while I scrolled through. Junk. Spam. I thought I should call Laura back and explain about Brad and how it wouldn’t happen ever again. Maybe meet up when I got back.

  And Paula had texted, as if she hadn’t caused enough trouble.

  “Come on, Miss Cara!” Nicole called out.

  Susan tapped my shoulder. “Good-bye Cara,” she said, hugging me. “I hope you come back.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to hope with her, because I’d committed myself, and hoping meant I thought we could fail. I didn’t feel that anymore.

  “I will,” I said, taking her by both shoulders. “We won’t be strangers, I promise.”

  “Good.”

  Erma crouched down to hug Nicole. She picked the girl up and swung her. I wrapped my arms around both of them.

  “Bradley!” his father yelled from the other room. “Let’s get a move on.” He came into the kitchen before he was finished with his sentence. “Like middle school all over again. Aw, sheesh, now what are the women doing? All this hugging. Where are we? California? Get in the car before you all turn us into hippies.”

  I hugged him and despite his fear of hippie-dom, he hugged me back.

  “Thank you,” he said into my ear. “You take good care of my family. Thank you.”

  “I love them,” I said without thinking.

  Brad was right behind me. He draped his arm over my shoulder when I pulled away from his dad.

  “Hands off my girl.”

  Milton put his palms up, all eight fingers spread in surrender.

  “Out,” his mom shooed us. “The front door’s wide open. We’re gonna be overrun with bugs in here.”

  We piled into the limo, which had been sent all the way from Fayetteville.

  Erma stood at the porch steps, Susan next to her. The driver held the door open for Brad. He put his arm around his mother, and she broke out in tears. Real, honest tears.

  “Why is Grandma crying?” Nicole asked suspiciously. “What’s Daddy doing to her?”

  “She’s sad he’s leaving.”

  “Grandma!” Nicole called out. Erma wiped her eyes and faced the open limo door. “Come to the airport with us!”

  “Oh, I can’t have him drive all the way back.”

  “Sure you can,” Brad said. “We have an hour in the lounge to kill. You can kill it with us.”

  “Need a ticket to get in the lounge.”

  “I’ll get you a ticket. Go get your ID and come on.”

  “The expense!” Erma protested.

  �
�I’ll get it,” Susan said, running into the house.

  “Come on, Grandma!” Nicole patted the seat next to her.

  Brad pushed her to the back of the car. “No one says no to my daughter.”

  “He made three mill on his last movie,” Milton said. “He can buy another limo ride. Go with them. I gotta clean up the mess around here. It’s like an army ran through the house.”

  Erma was not impressed. “You never cleaned a thing in your life, Milton Sinclair.”

  “I will if you git!”

  Seeing she had everyone’s approval, Erma Sinclair got into the back of the limo, next to me. Brad shook hands with his dad and Buddy, then slid in next to Nicole. Susan came back with Erma’s purse. The door closed and we were off to Thailand.

  CHAPTER 67

  BRAD

  I played with Nicole on the limo ride to the airport. She kneeled on the floor and used the seat as a table, drawing herself and her new school, her impressions of a long airplane ride, the pony I was apparently getting her, and her name. The whole name. Nicole Garcia-Sinclair. All the letters, facing the right direction, in order, right side up. We hadn’t legally changed it, but she was telling me something.

  I picked up the paper and held it up.

  “Hey, Cara,” I said. “These letters are all in the right place? Right?”

  She didn’t answer.

  She was looking at her phone.

  A plane screamed in the sky above. We were almost at the airport.

  “Let me see,” Mom said, taking the page. “They’re perfect!”

  Nicole smiled and put her head down to make more letters. And Cara slid her hand over the glass of her phone, eyes wide, chin jutting and tender at the same time, as if she wanted to weep but couldn’t.

  “Teacup?”

  She didn’t answer. She put two fingers on the glass and spread them to make an image bigger. I swallowed but nothing went down.

  Mom and Nicole chattered about the drawings. I could barely hear them through the scream of Cara’s concentration.

  She put her phone in her lap and looked out the window as Arkansas farmland whooshed by. Did she know? Was it the truth? A lie? Had Paula embellished? Made it sound worse?