Total Trainwreck (10 page)

Chapter Thirteen

“What do you mean we aren’t fucking for real?” I hiss through my teeth so no one hears me.

“No more, Carly.” Devon answers in the exact same way, his voice full of resolve.

We’re on set. Dressed once again as a king and a cheap whore turned courtesan. Every crew member is in place waiting for this first sex scene to take place. I’ve personally been waiting and preparing for it since I read it in the script months ago. It’s really hot. Fucking-behind-a-Grand-Hall-tapestry-with-the-entire-court-mere-steps-away kinda hot. We’ve never had such an exposed sex scene before and part of me is looking forward to it. That weird part that likes everyone knowing Devon Hayes is mine wants to brand him for the world to see.

“Well, I want to,” I demand. “Besides, I’m not wearing a crotch sock. It might accidentally slip in.” I give him my best innocent oh-did-I-do-that look. Usually it melts him. Today it pisses him off.

“We need to break for wardrobe,” he says to Gavin. The room relaxes in a synchronized sigh. “Go put it on,” he whispers to me.

“No,” I say resolutely. In my mind, being such a damned slut is just getting into character. Method actors never let their character slip. And if I wasn’t so hot and bothered down there this scene wouldn’t be nearly as awesome. I rub my thighs together, taunting the needy parts of me with just enough pressure to remind myself how badly I want this, how badly I need him. “I want to fuck you. Right now.” I hold his gaze and bite at my lip.

He groans in a low, hot sigh. It’s either desire, anger or a delicious combination of both. Crew members file past for smoke breaks. They couldn’t care less about us. Devon clenches his jaw and he continues to stare at me with hot navy eyes. The next moment he grabs my upper arm and whisks me from set. I’m trying my damnedest to stay on my feet and in my crinolines and skirts, practically running at his side. We fly down the stone hallway, our footsteps echoing in loud, demanding strides. Is this a quickie? Is he going to fuck me in the hallway? My stomach tightens and my breath comes in short, hot pants.

But we don’t stop. Instead, we burst forth into bright, streaming sunshine. I shield my eyes. Our trailers are right next to set. He rushes me up the steps to his trailer, the insides of which I’ve only seen a handful of times. We fall through the door and his lips are on mine before it closes.

My hands are trembling. I’ve been obsessing over our scene since wardrobe. It’s the only thing on my mind. Last time, fucking him was the highlight of my day, because it was the only time I got to do it. I’m too conditioned not to want it. I’m so hot, so damned hot, I can’t control the needy feeling inside me.

His lips are hard on mine at first. Sensing how desperate I am for him, they relent and begin to taste me, stroke me, feel their way down to the spot on my neck.

I need him. I so desperately need him. We’re still in costume, which makes doing this lying down difficult. But I find a way. I always do where his cock’s concerned.

I wiggle under him, turning onto my belly. His lips leave mine. I hate every second they’re gone, but there’s another part of me that needs a bigger part of him more desperately. I bring an arm up to cushion my cheek against the carpeted floor and bite down on the soft flesh of my wrist. He knows what I need. He always knows.

Without another word, he pushes the skirts aside. Taffeta crinkles over my bare skin, teasing me with a touch that’s both rough and soft. Cold air wafts over my bare ass cheeks and the backs of my legs. The sound of leather slapping leather fills my ears. He makes quick work of his laced-crotch pants. Waiting, knowing what’s coming but not being able to see it has my insides knotted tighter than a French twist.

“Hurry!” I moan desperately, unable to control the needy spasms quivering through my body. I need him. I need to feel him or I may seriously pass out or throw up. My body is so overcharged right now that I cannot handle it.

“You want me, Sunshine?” His breath warms the side of my neck. I feel him, the tip of his cock resting its hot, silken head right next to where it needs to go. Oh, he’s teasing me and it’s so not fair!

“No!” I whisper in a strained way. “I
need
you,” I plead, desperate for his touch.

His hand snakes under my waist and pulls me to my knees. Looking over my shoulder I watch him lick a finger and slide it into me.

I moan and writhe against his hand, needing more, wanting more. He chuckles low and sexy. Putting a hand on either cheek, he spreads me wide. With his thumbs he digs into tightly clenched thigh muscles. I grit my teeth, not sure how much more of his teasing I can take. “Are you ready for me?” he asks low and sexy. I nod my head, eyes closed, unable to speak. A whisper of air rushes over my ass. I jump when he places a kiss down there. But he’s not done teasing me. I stifle a scream against my hand. He traces his tongue torturously slow up the valley of my vagina, then slaps my ass hard enough to leave a handprint. Okay, I am so over this teasing bullshit. Either he fucks me now or I’m going to have to do it myself.

Sensing my need about to explode like he always does, he leans back, guiding the tip of his penis to my center. My muscles immediately stiffen and I lean into him.

We groan with sheer pleasure as we slide together, him forward, me backward until we are so deep in each other I can no longer breathe. But who the hell needs air with bliss like this shooting through their body? No matter how many times I feel him from the inside it always seems like the first. He fills me so completely, touching every needy part with a caress so soft it quietly kills me. Every. Single. Time. I rub my ass over the hot, taut surface of his stomach muscles when he slides even deeper. Still not satisfied, he grips the curve of my hips and pulls me closer. I swear his cock is hitting my tonsils. He pulses himself here ever so slowly, gently working back and forth. It’s a minimalist movement, barely anything at all. But I’m so starved for him it’s enough to send shock waves radiating down my spine and guttural moans slithering from my throat. Honestly, I don’t even know what sound is coming from me. But I don’t give a damn.

I rise up onto all fours, a better position to push, and slide one hand down my belly. When I tug gently on his balls, he flexes inside me. I start rocking. He quickly picks up my rhythm. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“I love watching me slide into you,” he says. I look over my shoulder to find him licking his thumb.
Oh god!
I know what’s coming next. I bite my lip, waiting for the sensation he’s learned wrecks me. With pressure no stronger than a butterfly’s wing, he slicks his thumb over my asshole. I tense around him and cry out. God, I hate that I love this so. Our rhythm starts again but his thumb renders me incapable of keeping any pace at all. Every time it touches me I damn near explode on contact. He knows this, so he must be pretty close himself.

Inside me, the ridge of his penis is working itself against a spot that makes concentrating on anything an utter waste of time. Resigning myself to the fact that this in an orgasm he is totally claiming, I fall weakly onto my shoulders, laying my head against the carpet. I don’t dare move my ass from where it is.

It’s coming. It’s building so hard and so fast in the pit of my stomach I can’t do anything more than pant and pray. My muscles contract around his length, not wanting to let go. Not wanting to miss a single quiver. He knows what this means. And as if I’ve called its name, his penis grows inside me—harder, thicker, longer—putting even more delicious pressure on my insides. At the same time, he presses the tiniest tip of his thumb harder against my asshole. Game over.

I convulse like an epileptic under him, both loving and hating the pleasurable pain that rips through me. It’s the most mind-blowing feeling. On one hand, it feels better than anything has a right to feel. On the other, it’s like bathing in boiling tar, because you know it won’t last forever. I am beyond wrecked and collapse weakly against the floor, relishing every push he digs deeper into me. As soon as my own orgasm weakens, his comes on full force. His yell of pure pleasure rips into the empty trailer. He pulls against my hips, thrusting himself further into me. I tighten around him, threatening to come again. Why? Because something about this, something about him wanting to fill me so full, to spill himself so completely into me—knowing what could happen, and obviously not giving a shit—is a feeling I am not at all prepared for. He wants me so badly he doesn’t care how risky our lovemaking is.

I wiggle against him, coaxing him to keep at it. And just like fucking magic, my own orgasm builds again. He moans, in pain this time, because he’s ridiculously sensitive after he comes. But he knows what I’m asking for and pushes through the pain. He stills, trying not to go soft inside me. I don’t need all of him for this. This is an emotional orgasm for me. Slowly, I rock against him. My mouth hangs open, afraid to breathe, afraid to do anything other than feel the lubrication of his juices swimming inside me. It takes no time at all. In less than a minute, I fall over the edge again.

It’s not a huge orgasm. It’s not one of the earth-shaking, ground-breaking, love-my-lights-out kind of comings. It’s soft and gentle. More heat than anything else.

“Ahh...” I say when the final push settles me into that hot, blissful place. I go limp. Devon’s arms circle my shoulders and pull me up flat against him. He gingerly slides out of me and holds me close while he leans back against the couch we couldn’t make it to.

“Better?” he asks, nibbling at my ear.

“Mmm-hmm.” I cannot move. Let alone think or speak. He has wiped me out in every single way. We still wear our costumes, though they are decidedly more wrinkled than before. Wardrobe will have a fit. Makeup will have to come for touch-ups. “What do we do now?” I worry that our secret will be obvious even if we did follow the whole roof-and-walls-rule.

“We go back and finish our scene.” He lands a kiss against my cheek. “The right way.”

“Why do we have to do it the right way now?” I ask, not because I am horny but because I’m still confused by his change of direction.

“It’s an unnecessary risk. Actresses are blackballed for less. You can have me any time you want me now,” he says with a wicked smile, smoothing a length of blond hair that insists on tangling in his stubble. His reasoning is only half true. Locked away in Siberia, I can have anything I want. That makes it very easy to forget that although the ball is rolling, I’m still the other woman in America’s eyes. I frown at the thought.

“But Devon, I like making love to you in front of everyone. It makes me feel...” I pause because I’m not exactly sure how to say this. “Powerful,” I finish. He chuckles.

“Powerful?” he repeats rhetorically. He’s quiet for a moment, considering what I said. “You want everyone to know that I’m yours?” He guesses my real reason for giving zero fucks about being such an exhibitionist.

I nod against his chest, tracing my fingers along the length of his.

He sits up. Turns me to face him and takes my chin in his thumb and forefinger. “That, Sunshine, isn’t something you should worry about. It’s going to take time, like I said. But it will happen. Soon enough, HeaVon will be yesterday’s news and we’ll be conquering our own red carpets. Me and you.” He kisses me gently and my stomach turns over on itself. I grin like an idiot at the thought of dangling from his tuxedo-clad arm. It’s a dream I’ve had since the afternoon I played dress-up in Heather’s island closet, way before I knew the intoxicating power of our love.

There’s a soft knock at the door. I startle and stagger to my feet, afraid of being discovered. Devon gets up like he’s been expecting this all along. He opens the door wide enough to retrieve a small bag hanging on the knob. He pulls my crotch sock from it and hands it to me.

I stare at the nude silk in my hand.

“What?’ he asks, sensing there’s something more.

“Devon, what if I can’t do it?” I look to him, needing reassurance. “Everyone loves our movies because they’re so hot. What if I can’t do it when I’m faking it?”

“Sunshine—” he smiles at me and shakes his head dismissively “—if you give one tenth the performance on-screen that you just gave on my floor, this movie will be hotter than anything they’ve ever seen.” I shake my head and nervously twirl a tousled curl. He takes the crotch sock from my hand and kneels. He lifts my feet one and a time and then slowly threads the silky sock up my legs and into place. “You aren’t acting out there. It’s me and you. Anyone with eyes can see what we’ve got. All you have to do is remember your lines. The camera never lies.” He lands one last kiss on my forehead.

We make our way back to set several paces apart. The smell of our love clings to me, mingling with a cool arctic breeze. I inhale deeply, and pray for the patience I’ll need to make it to our red carpet.

Chapter Fourteen

“Everyone thinks you two are method actors,” Jane says when I ask her if anyone is gossiping about us on set.

I grin slyly and continue removing my eye makeup. “Not a total lie. Do they ask you about it?”

“They know better,” she snorts. “Nobody really bothers with Ernest and me. We kind of do our own thing.”

“But everybody’s talking about it?”

“I’m sure there are whispers. But who wants to lose their job and have to pay their own way home from Siberia?” She makes her point with a well-timed lip smack.

“True.” I like Jane. Over the past week she has proven herself to be tougher and ballsier than I thought. She’s got my back like a fresh-out-of-hibernation grizzly bear. Devon’s too. It’s like we’ve got our own little rat pack going. Devon, me, Ernest, Jane and Tiny. It’s beginning to feel like a family.

“Did you see this?” Jane tosses a glossy magazine on the makeup table in front of me. I flip to the dog-eared page and gasp.

“Oh. My. Gosh! She looks amazing!” I blink my eyes to be sure they are seeing what I think they are. Maria called the morning she went under the knife. All sorts of worried and needing a little pep talk. If she could have seen her
after
photo, she never would have needed my assurance.

She is nothing but sheer radiance walking into a posh club opening. I mean, really. Three people stand beside her but next to Maria they look like grandma’s macramé wall art. She pops off the page the way supermodels are supposed to. Apparently Ryan forked over the big bucks—at her insistence—for L.A.’s top plastic surgeon. But I had no idea. Her tits are beyond perfection, fully on display in a low-cut Moschino dress that looks like it was glued to her body. Her hair is brilliantly blond. The yellowed smile of a recovering bulimic is gone and in its place, a dazzling display of porcelain dentistry. She looks like a walking Barbie. Unless you’d seen her with your own eyes before, you’d never believe the hot mess she once was. I get all sorts of proud-mama warm fuzzies. I’m genuinely happy for her. And even happier that the magazine cut out the little shit-stain trailing behind her. He’s there. I know he is. But everything except the tip of his sneaker is cropped out. He’s ridiculous. But hell yeah for Maria. She’s bound to get tons of work from press like this.

“Remind me to call her tonight when the time difference is right,” I say over my shoulder.

“Certainly,” Jane answers, and pulls out her phone to make a note. “Speaking of calls, I talked with your attorney about the summons you received. The district attorney’s office needs to talk with you in person.”

“What for?” I ask, bewildered by the sudden change of topic.

“I’m not sure. Your father swore some sort of statement involving you. They’re demanding to speak directly with you.” The happy warm fuzzies of Maria’s comeback are squelched by the wet-blanket buzzkill my father always throws over my life. I mean, really. He’s supposed to be dead.

“Ugh.” I sigh and fake gag, then start mindlessly chewing my inner lip and twirling a curl. “What an asshole. Still haunting me from the grave.”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s the last thing you want to do, but I don’t think you can avoid it.” Jane shrugs, holding out my parka.

My phone buzzes.

Ready to go home?

Jane and I walk silently to our SUV. Its engine purring, tailpipe smoking, lights ablaze against black night air. When he sees us the driver hops out and opens our door. Inside, Devon and Ernest wait like every night before. I fall into the backseat, waiting for the cabin lights to dim before snuggling under Devon’s arm. Jane takes the bucket seat beside Ernest. The music turns up and Tom Petty’s voice drifts through the speakers.

“How was your day?” Devon asks like we’re an old married couple that hasn’t spent the entire day working together.

“It’s fine,” I say with a small smile. I don’t offer anything else. I don’t feel like talking. I don’t really feel like doing anything. So I settle against him. He gets the picture, turns to his phone and says nothing more.

We drive through darkness until the porch lights of our house appear in the distance. God, I need a cigarette. My insides are unsettled, like I ate something bad.
How much farther?
I fidget until the SUV stops at the door to let us out. But it can’t just be a simple drop-off. There’s more to do. There’s always more to do.

Ernest and Jane pile out of the car and head in first. I’m right on their heels, cigarette in hand, lighting up the moment I’m out of the car. Why I can’t smoke inside is beyond me. I inhale deeply. Hold in the smoke for a few seconds and then release in a slow steady stream. It’s amazing to me how right a little bit of nicotine can make the world. I take another drag and continue walking to the house.

“Hey.” Devon pulls me back so we have a sliver of privacy. “What’s wrong?” He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks deep into my eyes, face full of concern. I exhale smoke from the side of my mouth so it doesn’t blow into his face.

“Nothing. I’m tired,” I snap, and spin from his grasp. “And it’s freezing,” I add, taking his hand because I feel like I’m being a bitch. I manage to get in three quick drags before I toss the cigarette into a pot beside the door.

Inside, Jane unpacks our dinner from craft services. While she tends to that, Ernest busies himself starting a fire. I mean, are we three years old, here? Can we not take care of ourselves like adult human beings?

A half bottle of wine sits on the counter. At least I’ve got my nightly drink. Devon watches me with a tight expression. This is normally his job, per our agreement. But his pours are so damn scant they aren’t even worth it. I fill a proper glass and leave the rest for him. His temple throbs, but he says nothing.

“What about Mom?” Even though I loathe the woman, I’m not above letting her handle this situation. Everyone stops to look at me because my question is beaming in from left field. I look to Jane for an answer.

“What about her?” she asks, obviously at a loss.

“Why can’t she talk to the DA?” I gulp my wine.

“It has to be you.”

“What’s this about?” Devon asks, pouring his glass while watching me with the same slightly parental glare he always does when I’m drinking. He doesn’t like it, but a deal’s a deal.

I don’t answer, because I don’t want to talk about it. Instead, I finger through the meal Jane’s putting on plates. Oven-roasted vegetables and baked chicken. How healthy and boring.

Devon turns to Jane for his answer.

“Carly’s father gave a statement to the district attorney before he died that involves her. She’s been summoned for a statement. They need her back in L.A.” Jane sugarcoats it as best she can and shrugs an apology my way. Traitor. Devon’s shock is so fierce I can feel it. This is the first he’s heard of my legal woes.

“That sounds serious,” he says, setting down his wine to think.

“And just what are they going to do if I don’t show? Fly to Siberia and arrest me?” Devon forgets how long I lived on the wrong side of the law. Living an addict’s life instilled a strong distrust and dislike for authority. As far as I’m concerned, they can suck it.

“We don’t know how serious it is. They won’t talk to an attorney. Just her.” Jane continues the conversation for me. Devon drags his hands through his hair. He’s about to lose his cool with me. If this weren’t such a delicate subject, he already would’ve.

“You have to go,” he says. “We’ll suspend shooting for a couple days. You can take my jet.” He’s trying his damnedest to get me to look at him. But I won’t. Instead, I skewer a piece of carrot and pop it in my mouth. It’s bad manners to speak with a full mouth. I shrug and shake my head. He really needs to back the fuck off. This is my problem and I’m a big girl. I don’t need him solving it for me.

“No.” It’s all the answer he gets. My life. My decision.

“Carly.” My name is full of disappointment and disbelief. That familiar parental disapproval is back, branded on his face. From my overflowing wineglass to my growing insolence, he’s seconds away from bending me over his knee like an unruly child. What the fuck ever. I need a smoke
.
This time, I don’t give a shit about rules. I grab one from a pack in a kitchen drawer and fire the damned thing up. Emboldened by wine, I decide this conversation is over.

“Okay, you—” I point a finger at him “—need to quit looking at me like that. It is one glass of wine and one cigarette. It’s not like I’m cutting lines on the goddamn counter.” With that, I smack my lips, spin on my heel and leave.

Fucking assholes. Like I need their judgment. I’ve got enough of that in my life already. My nerves balance precariously on the edge. I’m shaking and all I want is to get away. I don’t want to deal with it. With him. With him and my dad—no way. That’s letting the worst part of my life pollute the best part of my life. My father isn’t allowed to creep further in and fuck everything up like he always does. If Devon knew the truth, he would fucking drop it. But he doesn’t, so I’m left with few choices. Retreating to my room is about the best option I’ve got. I slam the door for good measure and take a long drag.

They’re talking about me. I know they are. Muffled voices echo down the hallway. I roll my eyes and decide to dive into the bathtub. But first things first. I strip down, throw on a fluffy cotton bathrobe and tend to the business of chugging my wine and hot boxing my smoke. In my mind, people chant my name like I’m winning. It is actually impressive, how quickly I can take down a glass of wine. I finish and throw it on the bed without caring where it lands. The house shakes when the front door shuts. Jane and Ernest must be calling it a night. I turn to the bathroom to fill the tub. But stop in my tracks.

He’s standing in the doorway, his face a dark mix of emotion I can’t begin to sort out. I swallow the dread that shoots up my throat. Why can’t he just leave this alone?

Nothing he has to say about my asshole dad is worth hearing. I continue to the bathroom like he isn’t even there. The room is tiny, not a soaking tub in sight. But seeing how badly I need a bath to relax my brain, I can’t be too picky. I select some expensive-looking bubble bath Jane bought to spruce the place up and dump in the whole bottle. The smell of roses lifts off the warm water, relaxing my brain into a fuzzier state.

Where’s my wine? I frown at the empty glass on the bed. Devon sits beside it. His eyes follow mine. He picks it up and places it on the nightstand. Silently, his gaze turns back to me. He’s holding a full glass. I guess he’s too worried about me to drink. That’s his mistake. I walk over to him, swipe the glass from his hand and take a huge swig.

“Were you going to drink it?” I ask when I realize I’ve finished half of it. He shakes his head, still staring at me with a tight glare.

“We need to talk,” he says in a stern voice, taking the drink from my hand. I protest, pulling it back. He grasps it again. It slips through my fingers. In one swig he finishes it and places the empty glass in my hand. Nothing left to argue about there. At least I’ve still got my smoke. I take a drag and blow the smoke daringly close to his face. He doesn’t even flinch.

“We can talk after my bath.” I walk away, waving a hand behind my head.

Devon’s too damn fast. He darts in front of me, turns off the water and shuts the door in my face. I close my eyes, suck in the wave of air that rushes over me and stumble backward to the bed under the guidance of his insistent hands. The wineglass falls to the floor and rolls across the carpet. Concentrating on its fluid movement distracts me.

I groan and roll my eyes. He’s really going to make me do this.

“I’m sorry about your father. I should’ve mentioned it before, but I know how you feel about him. I’d hoped you’d talk to me when you were ready.” The bed jostles under his weight. I cross my arms over my chest and release an impatient breath.

“You’re right. I will talk to you when
I’m
ready. That’s not now.” I punctuate
now
with a raised brow.

“Okay. When?” he asks patiently.

“Probably never.”

“Then that’s not going to work.”

“My father is a fucking asshole. There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Was,” he interrupts. “Was a fucking asshole.”

“Was,” I repeat, my anger growing. “He ruined everything in my life. And letting him into our world gives him the chance to shit all over it like he always does.” Sitting on the bed is suddenly unbearable. I leap to my feet and pace the room, cigarette back to my lips. “This...” I wave a hand frantically between us because I need physical release. “Us. Is the only good thing in my life. He doesn’t get the chance to take it from me.”

“He can’t take anything from you. He’s gone.”

“Oh, he’ll still find some way to fuck it up. He’s not a normal human being. He’s a monster.” My arms are crossed tightly over my chest. I hunch forward, pacing and shaking my head.

Devon remains iceberg calm. So stoically passive he looks like a statue.

“I realize he’s an awful man and he hurt you. I hate him for that. But you can’t heal from this...” He pauses and fixes me with a look that stops my pacing. “
We
can’t heal from this if you don’t let me in.” I catch a gasp behind my hand and side-eye him with a heavy mix of doubt and hope.

What did he just say? He holds my gaze, steady and firm, letting his simple words break through my bullshit. It levels me to the reality I don’t like to see. My truth is ugly. And being real enough to acknowledge it hurts like hell. I’ve never wanted to share it before, only forget. But the word
we
rattles me. And not in the bad way I expect it to. Devon isn’t the enemy here. I rub my temples and sigh.

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew the truth.” My cigarette ash is about a mile long. I bend to retrieve the wineglass and toss the butt in the purple residue.

“Try me,” he says with easy confidence.

I open my mouth to speak, but quickly shut it. Because I don’t know what to say. My father’s abuse was neglect. He never laid a hand on me. Hell, he was the life of the party when he was sober enough to stand. It was what he didn’t do that cut my scars to the bone. I shake my head and bite my lip, staring at nothing.