Read Hollywood Hot Mess Online
Authors: Evie Claire
Hollywood Hot Mess
Hollywood Hot Mess
By Evie Claire
All the dirty details of former child star Carly Klein’s fall from Hollywood grace were tabloid news...and they only knew about half of it. But now she’s sober and grasping at the last chance to revive her flatlined career.
Devon Hayes is Hollywood royalty. Branded the sexiest man alive, granted his first shot at producing, he’s living a life most only dream of. But his offscreen reality is more like a nightmare and makes the twisted tales in his movie plots look tame.
When Carly and Devon are cast opposite each other, Carly is pretty sure Devon is an asshole. Devon is certain Carly is a spoiled brat. But with chemistry that would make a nun lust like a schoolgirl, these two are DTF. Classic.
As their broken parts begin to pull them together, on-screen love turns...could it be?
Into the real thing.
Faced with the prying paparazzi, vindictive agents and career-ending secrets, Devon and Carly have already sacrificed their souls for fame. Living a lie in public is a small price to pay for ecstasy in private...for now.
Part One of Two.
The story continues in
Total Trainwreck.
Don’t miss it!
This book is approximately 101,000 words
Dear Reader,
I write these letters months in advance, so when reading
this, you’re thinking about September weather, but while writing it, I’m still
trying to survive May’s downpour. That means that sometimes I miss the
opportunity to tell you about the cool things we’re doing until months
later.
The Carina Press Romance Promise is one of those things.
Implemented this past June, the promise is simple—we’re promising an HEA or HFN
on our books tagged with the Carina Press Romance Promise in the book’s
description. While we firmly believe in the necessity of a romance ending in an
HEA, we also realize that in today’s publishing world, others may sometimes call
a book a romance, but then the ending might not always deliver on the most
important of romance reader expectations. So the Carina Press Romance Promise
doesn’t mean we’re doing anything different with our romance, just that we’re
reaffirming our commitment to you, the reader, to deliver an HEA or HFN in our
romance books. Visit our website if you’re curious to find out more about this
promise.
This month, we have a variety of romance to kick off your
fall, including one debut contemporary romance author with two back-to-back
releases. Take one young fallen starlet, add one older Sexiest Man Alive costar
and you have the makings of a
Hollywood Hot Mess
by Evie Claire. And
since we know how agonizing the wait for book two in a duology can be, the very
next week we’re giving you the second part of Carly and Devon’s story, where
they’ll have to overcome ruthless Hollywood execs, a blackmailing show-mance
fiancée and merciless tabloids in what could be a
Total Trainwreck
before they get to their
happily-ever-after.
Historical romance author Amanda Weaver brings another
Grantham Girls tale this month with
A
Reluctant Betrothal
. Grace’s last chance at a respectable marriage is
about to be thwarted by her betrothed’s best friend, and as she fights for her
engagement, she finds herself falling in love with the wrong man. Don’t miss the
other books in this series,
A
Duchess in Name
and
A Common Scandal
.
This September, we have three fantastic male/male
contemporary romances to share, including one debut author! Annabeth Albert
introduced you to the #gaymers in
Status Update
and
Beta Test
. This month she wraps up the trilogy with
Connection Error
. When a snowstorm strands a video game
designer and an injured navy SEAL together at an unfamiliar airport, the two
bond while playing games, but when the heat between the pair starts rising, they
must work to decide if there’s a future together or if it’s game over on this
fling.
Can childhood best friends Marc and Anthony make a real
relationship work after eight life-altering years apart? Find out in
Say It Right
, from fan-favorite male/male romance author
A.M. Arthur.
And introducing debut author Sidney Bell with her absolutely
fantastic male/male romantic suspense novel,
Bad Judgment
, in which bodyguard Brogan Smith is drawn
into a maze of murder and illegal guns when he falls for his dangerous new
client’s gorgeous, secretive boyfriend.
That wraps up September but don’t forget we have a
significant backlist of more than 1,000 titles across romance, mystery, science
fiction and fantasy to help carry you through the chilly fall nights! Check out
some you may have missed, including contemporary romances
Chain of Command
by HelenKay Dimon and
Second Position
by Katherine Locke, historical romance
The Fighter and the Fallen Woman
by Pamela Cayne, erotic
romance
One Cut Deeper
by Joely Sue Burkhart and romantic suspense
Blamed
by Edie Harris.
As always, until next month, my fellow book lovers, here’s
wishing you a wonderful month of books you love, remember and recommend.
Happy reading!
~Angela James
Executive Editor, Carina Press
Dedication
To My Darling J: More. Always More. (It’s in print now, so I win.)
To My Precious Little Loves: You can read Mommy’s book when you’re thirty.
Dear Lovely Reader,
I know. I know. Cliffhanger endings suck. But the good news is you don’t have to wait long at all for
Total Trainwreck
, so please hold the rotten tomatoes.
The truth is, I fell in love with my characters like I never have before. There was so much I wanted to do with their love story. I simply couldn’t fit it in one book. Your patience will be rewarded. I promise Carly and Devon will get their Hollywood happily-ever-after, but let’s be honest, they aren’t there yet.
Stay with me. The good stuff is coming!
Xoxo,
Evie
Contents
Chapter One
“You look familiar,” he mumbles through yellow smoke-stained teeth. His secondhand clothes reek of stale booze and ball sweat. I hold my breath and gag.
These days, being recognized is a total crapshoot. I win some. I lose some. Today, I’ve definitely lost.
“You don’t,” I answer with obvious disgust. I tuck my nose into the neck of my shirt and devour the smell of fabric softener and Flowerbomb. I’m not playing the fame game. Not today. And especially not with him. So what if I’m rude. He’s the one polluting my airspace with his homeless funk. What the hell am I doing here?
Some genius decided to cram the only three chairs in the waiting room side by side. I’m stuck riding bitch and trying my damnedest not to touch anything in this place, especially not the losers next to me. The room is sparse and dirty. An off-white cement cube lit by buzzing fluorescent lights. It’s the kind of place cockroaches go to die and lesser criminals make their weekly probation visits. Sitting shoulder to shoulder with two of L.A. County’s finest felons is a fresh kind of hell I’m not prepared to face today.
I so don’t belong here.
To my right, Compton’s reigning ghetto queen casually eyes my Prada bag and flips through a well-worn waiting room magazine. I’ve convinced myself she wouldn’t dare try to steal it in a probation office.
“I like that bag,” she says, and pulls one similar to it from under her layers of clothing. “Is it real?”
I stare straight ahead and nod. Hers probably came from last Saturday’s swap meet. Mine came from Saks. She smacks her lips, rolls her eyes and goes back to her magazine.
“I know I know you,” Homeless Man continues. “Did you used to waitress at Rockie’s Pizza on Sunset?”
“Nope.” I don’t look at him. Instead, I grab my phone and try to distract myself from the fact that I’ve just hit rock bottom so hard I broke it.
I don’t belong here. I’m too clean, too blonde, too much of a somebody to wind up in this pack of nobodies. How in the hell did I let myself fall so far? A swell of panic rises in my belly because there’s no way out of my mess this time.
“Mmm...mmm...mmm.” Ghetto Queen stares at the back of her magazine, savoring a full-page ad like she may eat it. “I’d sure like to taste that piece of man candy.” Her voice is slow and strip-show slutty. She turns the magazine to share the delicacy with us.
The
candy
in question is America’s Sexiest Man Alive—Devon Hayes. He stares up from a cologne ad, shirtless, sprawled over a poolside lounger, exuding the kind of quiet confidence that weakens most women. His smile is easy and even though a bazillion other girls think the same thing, Devon makes you feel like it’s only for you. The man is a sexual unicorn—a mythical beast with a universal appeal Hollywood hasn’t seen in ages. Every man wants to be him because every woman wants to fuck him. He probably sucks in the sack.
I roll my eyes and shake my head, ready to explain the phenomenon of airbrushing, body makeup and strategic lighting. But before I can say a word she spreads her fat tongue on the page and slowly traces a sloppy line of spit over Devon’s photo.
Gagging for the second time in as many minutes, I curl my nose in disgust. “You know that thing is probably crawling with Ebola?” Between the two of them I am seconds away from launching my lunch.
Ghetto Queen shrugs and laughs. “I like to lick my man candy slow and sweet,” she says as if putting her tongue on a photo of Hollywood’s hottest hunk is actually making her panties wet. “I mean look at those abs! They are begging me to run up and down every dip.” She traces her fingers over Devon’s rock-hard stomach.
I bite my lip and silently watch her lacquered nails trace over his torso. My stomach knots. If she only knew. In a few weeks, I’ll be putting my hands on those abs for real. And getting paid for it. I both love and hate the idea. Not because I’m all “Team Devon”—I couldn’t care less about him and his overinflated ego. I’m still reeling from the fact that I actually have work again. Me. Carly Klein. I have a major movie role opposite that beloved golden god. It’s pretty unbelievable, considering I was tucked away in rehab until yesterday. I keep waiting for the clock to strike midnight and it all to vanish, but it hasn’t.
“Did you work at Subway?” Homeless Man asks right in my ear. I recoil and jump to my feet.
“Stop it already. You’re creeping me out!” I give him the toughest look I can muster, wiping at the hot spot his rancid breath left on my neck. He and Ghetto Queen exchange knowing looks and smile at each other like they’ve won something. I smooth my hair and decide leaning against the wall is safer than sitting between these two lunatics. What in the hell have I gotten myself into?
“
Life on Easy Street
!” Homeless Man exclaims. Cold dread washes over me. I close my eyes and want to crawl behind the dusty plastic tree stuck in the corner. Fuck my life. I drag a hand down my face and prepare for the inevitable barrage of questions that’s coming. But when I open my eyes, the two grinning idiots are glued to the TV, and couldn’t care less about me.
What?
Homeless Man relaxes into his seat with a dopey grin on his face, utterly transfixed by the small screen. Ghetto Queen tucks Devon into her purse and turns to watch, too. You could knock me over with a fucking feather.
Most people have the luxury of running from their past. Not me. Everywhere I go my past haunts me like the ghost of lives gone wrong. Slowly, I peel myself off the wall and watch my former self—known to the entire world as lovable little Pigtails—take center stage in TV’s longest-running sitcom. My life used to be primetime TV at its finest.
Once upon a time, I was a major star. Young and innocent. Fresh as a fucking daisy before the world crushed me. Ten, maybe fifteen years ago everyone loved me—even Homeless Man and Ghetto Queen. Now, I’m standing right in front of them and they don’t even know who I am. Part of me loves that. I’m not especially proud of who I’ve grown up to be. A bigger part of me hates that no one knows, or cares, about me anymore. Weaker people would cry about that. Weak is one thing I am not.
“Hollywood!” A voice booms so loudly into the tiny room we all jump. “You’re up.” A large and in charge woman with an official-looking badge hooked to her belt waves me into a narrow cement block hallway.
It’s colder, whiter and brighter in the back. The single-file hall leads straight into an office. I am pointed in the direction of a hard plastic chair positioned opposite an overflowing desk. Piles of files and papers are pushed to either side so I can see the woman who takes a seat behind the mess.
“Carly Klein.” The woman says my name like a game show announcer. “How did you wind up in my office, little girl?” Her rhetorical question makes it obvious she hasn’t bothered to crack my file until now. “Probation since 2012, drugs, alcohol, more drugs, moving violations, speeding tickets, DUI, underage possession, controlled substance...” She rattles off my criminal record, her brow growing increasingly furrowed. “OD’d last December. Damn, girl! How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” I answer softly.
“This is the rap sheet of a grown man.” She levels a serious look across the desk.
“Or a very confused young girl with too much time on her hands,” I offer with a shrug. She looks me over and smacks her lips.
“Fair enough. You ain’t the only lost little girl to find her way to my office.” She picks up a pen and starts filling out a form. “All my kids call me Mama Moira. I’m here to help you keep your nose clean for the rest of your probation period.”
“Moira.” I shake my head. “Just Moira is better for me,” I say, immediately hating that I opened my mouth. It’s rare that people intimidate me, but for some reason, Moira does.
“Mommy issues?” She guesses the reason for my objection to her preferred title.
“Do you honestly think I’d be here if I didn’t have some sort of issues?” I sit back in my seat and try my best to look unfazed by the situation. My answer surprises Moira. She looks up from my file and taps her pen against the desk.
“I’m a counselor, too. You want to talk about those mommy issues?”
“I’ve spent the last eight months in rehab. I’m all talked out.” I twirl my hair and stare out the single, small window at a desolate dirt parking lot.
She raises an eyebrow and turns back to my chart. “Ah, New Horizons. That’s a swanky one.” She continues to scan the pages while I wonder how in the hell she has access to all of that information. “Left without doctor’s permission, I see. Why is that?”
How in the hell can she know that? What happened to patient confidentiality? “I got offered a role I couldn’t refuse,” I say, deciding now is not the time to argue with Moira.
“A movie role? Which one?” she asks skeptically. Everyone in Hollywood knows how over my career is, even a nosy probation officer.
“I can’t talk about it. They made me sign an NDA.”
“I bet they did. That way they can replace you if you fuck up.” She smiles to herself, obviously impressed by how smart she is. I want to slap that smile right off her face because she’s not so smart. They made me sign an NDA so the story wouldn’t leak before the studio was ready to release the news in one big
ta-da
moment. At least, that’s what the studio’s attorney told me. But now that I think about it, it makes zero sense. In Hollywood, publicity is everything, good or bad. How could the story leaking be bad? Unless...
“You can’t talk to me like that,” I snort, hiding my fear behind the anger everyone expects.
“This isn’t your posh little rehab, Hollywood. My house. My rules.” She writes on the label of a plastic sample cup, smiling to herself like she’s so smart. “I keep it simple. You pee dirty, your ass is going to county. I don’t give second chances. You keep your shit clean, I’ll be the best friend you never had.” She shoves a pen in my hand and I sign the form she’s filled out.
“I don’t need a best friend for four weeks.”
“Four weeks? You wish. You’ve got another year on probation.”
This is when I smile sweetly and pull out my ace—a signed and notarized waiver granting me permission to finish my probation remotely. In four weeks, my ass will be on location, filming in Europe. Moira grabs the paper from my hand.
“Where’d you get this?”
“It was couriered to my apartment this morning. I’m sure you’ll get a copy.”
“How in the hell... Probation doesn’t get waived for anyone.”
“Well, I’m not anyone. I’m Carly Klein and I’ve just been given the role of a lifetime. Special circumstances.” I nod like this is how the game gets played.
Four weeks of this shit hole. I can do anything for four weeks.
“I need your sample,” Moira says, obviously annoyed. She reads over the document again.
“Sample?”
“A pee sample for your drug test.”
“Oh, right!” I grab the plastic cup from her desk and stand.
“Leave your bag,” she barks.
“Where’s the restroom?”
She smiles and points to the door behind me. I smile back, thinking maybe she is trying to be my friend now that she knows I’m going to be famous again. The only upside of fame is that everyone sucks up to you whether they like you or not.
The overhead bathroom light buzzes to life and shines down on a rusted-out porcelain toilet, complete with a red ring around the bowl. Nice. I search for the door to close behind me, and let out an audible groan when I see nothing but bare hinges.
“What? Were you expecting a door?” Moira asks from her desk, which is perfectly positioned to watch everything that goes into a toilet. “This isn’t New Horizons, Hollywood. I gotta be sure the pee in that cup actually came out of you.”
Absolute and total mortification washes over me. Other than the toilet, there is nothing in the bathroom but a half-used roll of toilet paper. How am I supposed to pee in a cup with a stranger watching me and not touch anything in here? I so want to bail on this entire situation, but that’s not an option. So I hold the plastic cup between my chin and my chest and gingerly lay about ten layers of toilet paper over the seat, knowing people like Homeless Man and Ghetto Queen are the typical squatters over this toilet.
When I’m done nesting I pull my skinny jeans down the tiniest bit, squat over the toilet and after what seems like ten minutes manage to squeeze out a trickle of pee.
“Is that enough?” I ask, staring at the floor while I hold the cup where Moira can see.
“Yep,” she says, and I am beyond relieved.
I set the cup on her desk and dig through my bag for lip gloss. Or a piece of gum. Anything to take my mind off the utter embarrassment of being forced to piss in front of someone I don’t know in a bathroom that belongs in a gas station.
Ugh!
“You’re done,” Moira announces after she records my sample. “Same time next week.” She nods and I make a beeline for the door without a word. “Hey, Hollywood.”
I stop in the doorway and turn.
“I can be your friend if you let me.” For the first time since we met, her look is seriously sincere. Her eyes have softened and there is a spark of genuine concern. A moment of silence passes, but I interrupt anything she might’ve said with a defensive chuckle.
“Who needs a friend for four weeks?”
“You’d be surprised.” She leans back in her chair and tucks her hands behind her head. “I’ve been doing this a long time. You aren’t the first Hollywood that’s walked through my door. In my experience, it’s people like you who need a friend the most.”
“Right.” I bite my lip and fidget with the red leather cuff wrapped around my wrist. “Next week.” With that I’m out of her office, down the hall and through the waiting room into the warm sunshine as fast as my feet will carry me.
Outside I can’t find my damn pack of cigarettes. Leaning against the building, I’m about to dump my purse on the sidewalk to find one. A wrinkled hand and a brand new box of Marlboro Reds come into my line of vision. I jump and look up to see Homeless Man offering me one of his smokes.
“Thanks.” I take it and his lighter with trembling hands. After the first drag, I feel instantly better.
“First time?” he asks, leaning against the wall beside me.