Total Trainwreck (14 page)

“Dylan,” I whisper, tears flooding my eyes. Chills race over me and I pant open-mouthed at the image left frozen on-screen.

“I bet you wish it was gay porn.” Heather smacks her lips like she’s awfully sorry about the whole situation and takes the phone from my frozen hand.

“That shows nothing but a girl OD’ing. Happens all the time. I should know.” I stand and cross my arms, gathering my strength, staring down at her, hoping to call her bluff.

“True. But Devon physically put the drugs that killed her into her system. That’s enough for involuntary manslaughter in California. I’ve checked.”

My stomach rolls over on itself, but I’m not about to show it. Instead, I shake my head and laugh through gritted teeth at her ridiculousness.

“See, Carly, fucked-up as it may seem, I like my life. I love nothing more than being the center of attention. This life—” she pauses “—I’ve got everything I want and then some. Only an idiot would walk away.”

Right. Needing to catch the thoughts that are racing through my head, I turn, unable to face her anymore. This is bad. Really bad. I thought Devon was being overly dramatic about the whole thing. Didn’t want to write the size check it would take to make her leave. But this? Killing your ex-girlfriend, even if it was accidental? This is a new level of fucked I am not prepared for.

But I’m not about to leave Devon drowning in this cesspool alone. I gather my wits, clench my teeth and turn back to Heather, ready to unleash all I’ve got.

“Only an idiot would stay,” I hiss. “And you’ve got to be the biggest fucking fool there is. I don’t know what you think you’ve got there, but I see nothing more than a horribly tragic accident. Dylan died. That sucks.” I spit on her accidentally, but keep on going. “But you’re the only loser here and you’re too damn blind to see it.”

“Really? I’m the loser?” She stands.

“You aren’t woman enough to keep a man like Devon without your pitiful tricks and ridiculous lies.”

“And you are?”

“You’re a fucking bitch, Heather.”

“Yes, I am,” she says, smiling with great delight. Thinking she’s winning.

“Guess what?” I ask with a snarky smile. “So am I. Your tricks, your lies, your nastiness. They don’t scare me. You don’t scare me. Devon hates you. He loves me. And I love him. And when I want something, I fight for it with everything I’ve got.” I punch my arms down by my sides and step into her space. “Go ahead. Give it your best shot, bitch. I’m not going anywhere.” I smile over gritted teeth, my jaws flexing and releasing to further emphasize my dare.

She laughs a few breathy-snotty laughs and turns on her heel. She retreats to the door and stoops to retrieve her coat. She looks back to me.

“Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

“Duly noted,” I answer, tipping my untouched wineglass.

Before she can turn around, the door swings wide. Devon stands in the doorway, eyes wide, looking like he’s seen a damn ghost when he spots Heather. His eyes fly to me, searching, making sure I’m okay. Oh I’m just fine, shooting dagger eyes at Heather’s head and wishing they were the real thing.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he growls at Heather.

“Just leaving, actually. Sorry I can’t stay, sweetie.” She leans over and places a kiss on Devon’s cheek. “See you at home next week?” she says lightly like we haven’t just gone ten rounds over the fate of the man I love.

“Get the fuck out of here.” He holds the door open and slams it the second she steps over the threshold.

My resolve crumbles the moment she’s gone. Tears flood my eyes. The wineglass falls from my trembling hand. Red wine splashes everywhere. I sink to my knees, head in my hands. This is bad. This is really fucking bad.

Chapter Eighteen

“Jane’s here,” I say softly, setting an overnight bag by my feet and shrugging into my parka. I don’t want to leave him, not like this, but I’ll never be able to think things through if I stay.

Devon nods, staring at my bag instead of me. He leans over the kitchen island, elbows resting on either side of his dinner plate, picking through the meal with a fork. The plate is full. His scotch glass is empty.

“Devon...” I don’t know what else to say. He doesn’t want me to leave. I don’t want me to leave. But I have to. I fidget with my coat toggles, trying to think of something to say that will make this okay. But there are no words. Apparently not for him either. Silently, he pushes off the counter, walks over to me and picks up my bag. Still his eyes refuse to meet mine.

I never thought I’d be able to tell Devon Hayes no. I never thought I’d want to. But we’ve argued this point about six feet into the ground tonight. It’s crazy late. But I stood my ground until he relented. Jane is beyond confused by my late-night request for car service, but thankfully she never argues back. Without further protest Devon carries my bag to the door. He unlocks the heavy steal bolt and cracks the door. A rush of arctic wind blasts over us. He opens the door further for me to go first. I’m halfway through the door when he steps in my path, so close our bodies instantly fall together in the way they do.

“Please don’t go.” His face is close against mine but not in a sexy way. Eyes closed, features blank, like he’s silently praying my answer has somehow changed.

“I have to,” I answer in the same way. I place a soft kiss on his frozen cheek and step around him. An SUV sits hidden in the darkness. With its lights off I’m guided forward by the engine’s gentle hum. Jane opens the back door to help me in, spilling precious light onto my path. Devon drops the bag on the floorboard at my feet. Now he looks at me and I wish he hadn’t. Rage, hurt and sadness darken his navy-rimmed eyes. I want to cry seeing such a beautiful man so broken. More than anything, I want to hold him and tell him it’s going to be okay. To chase his fears like he does mine. But I can’t, because that would be a lie. Things aren’t going to get better for us. Not while that bitch Heather Troy still draws breath.

He threads his fingers through mine, looks down at our clasped hands on my lap and squeezes tightly. He raises the back of my hand to his lips, presses a kiss that lingers longer than a simple goodbye and turns without a word.

I’m already wiping tears when the door shuts Siberia’s icy night air outside. The car’s interior dims to black. Gravel crunches under moving tires. I can’t look back. I don’t want to know if he’s waiting in the cold, still hoping I’ll change my mind. I can’t change my mind. There is absolutely no happy ending here that I can see and staying just postpones the inevitable.

“Are you okay?” Jane asks, warily handing me a tissue. I nod weakly, my head jerking with sobs. “Want to talk about it?” she asks. I shake my head. No, I don’t want to talk about anything. I want to get wasted and run from this huge fucking problem like I always do. “Okay. Your room is ready. We’ll have you there in a few minutes.”

At this hour, Eddie can drive like a bat out of hell. We’re the only ones on the road. He breaks every speed limit and has us to the hotel in record time. It’s all a blur of tears and bumps and brake checks.

I compose myself enough not to rouse any paparazzi interest entering the hotel. Teeth grinding against each other to keep the tears from my eyes, I fly through the lobby, up the elevator and into the room Jane unlocks for me. She places the key on the desk and leaves immediately. Oh, she knows me so well! A bottle of wine and a pack Marlboro Reds sit on the desk. Ready and waiting. I grip the bottle’s neck and fire up the first of what will probably be a million cigarettes tonight.

I loosen the toggles on my parka, pop open the window and settle cross-legged on the carpet. I spit in a coffee cup to catch ashes, place it beside me and hug my knees to my chest. I still grip the wine bottle, but don’t open it. My brain is swollen from crying, thinking and raging. Where do I start sorting through the wreckage of my life? I think back to this afternoon. Our world seemed untouchably perfect. Now, a few hours later, it’s a suck fest of Hoover proportions.
That fucking bitch!
It’s all I can think. Her whiny voice and those damned bracelets clattering like wind chimes in a tornado on her bony-ass wrist. She’s nothing but a vindictive slut, carelessly living her own life any way she pleases and calling Devon to heel with the threat of exposing his secret the minute he tries to do the same.

How in the hell can America love her? And why hasn’t she been exposed for what she is? Why hasn’t someone outed her and Jamie by now? Every day, they’re together for the world to see. Surely some small intimacies pass between them. Only the cover of him being Angel’s manny and the fact that she is presumably in love with the Sexiest Man Alive conceals their truth.

Ugh!
Why didn’t I claw her eyeballs out when I had the chance? Tangle my fingers in those long, luxurious locks of hers and pull every one from her evil head? The wine bottle trembles in my hand. I’m shaking mad, and so pissed off about the whole damn thing I’m about to burst. The cigarette calms me as best it can, but that’s not very much. For the first time in a long time, a familiar craving creeps in. I suck at thinking things through and working them out. Running from emotion, that’s where I excel. The easiest answer is a short sniff away. Dark green glass shines against my pale grip. I roll the bottle across the carpet, watching it disappear under the bed. I fear for my fragile sobriety. If this is heading where I think it is, no one’s seen the best worst of me yet. I feel the grandest of falls coming on, like Gollum plunging into Mount Doom kinda shit. And I won’t be able to stop it.

Devon, he could stop my fall, maybe. But he won’t be able to because he’ll be facing involuntary manslaughter charges. A thought I can’t even wrap my brain around. Lala Land sucks up and spits out young girls by the hundreds each day. A girl overdosing in a VIP room is tragic, but nothing new. In my wilder days I saw it happen all the time. Hell, I once watched a loaded gurney pass through a club. Everyone slowed down long enough to grab a pic and post it to Instagram, then cranked right back up. It’s an occupational hazard when you live that life.

And if you’re dumb or desperate enough to use heroin, it’s not a question of
if
you will overdose, it’s a question of
when
. It’s the risk you take. That drug doesn’t fucking play. Plenty of party kids shoot up their buddies. No big deal. The one time I tried that shit I couldn’t physically get a needle in my vein. My hand went numb every time I tried. But I wanted it badly enough to let some kid I barely knew pop it in for me. Because that’s the kind of awful choices druggies make. A helping hand creates distance from what you’re doing to yourself. Like maybe if it’s not by your own hand you’re less of a failure. What the fuck ever. You’re still a bagged and tagged loser.

Watching Devon tap Dylan’s vein doesn’t bother me. I’ve lived that life. I get it. He thought he was helping the girl he loved. And if he were still the struggling actor he was when he sunk that lethal needle into her arm it wouldn’t be a big deal. But because he became who he is, it is a huge fucking deal. Stories like that don’t go away. Ever. It would be the lead story of every news outlet in the world.

Normal people don’t understand a user’s life like I do. They judge. They’d make him a monster before he had a chance to plead his case. In the court of public opinion he would be the sexiest murderer alive. I can’t let that happen.

I light another smoke.

But I also can’t let him go. I’m left with zero choice. I can’t let him go to jail, but I also can’t let him go. So Heather wins. That fucking bitch wins. I grit my teeth and exhale smoke in a furiously tightly held stream. She gets to keep her perfect world exactly how she wants it. Devon still dangles on her string and Jamie lies safely in her arms. Everything. Exactly how she wants it. She’s driven a wedge between us she knows will either break our relationship to bits, or force it back underground where it no longer poses a threat.

She shows up unannounced, flying in his jet no less, and pisses all over my cornflakes. I’m certain she thought I would be repulsed by what I saw. If he could kill Dylan—the love of his life—he must be the most awful of monsters. Any sane person who saw the video would think that. But looks can be deceiving. And I’m not what most people would call sane. Heather wanted to drive us apart. But her games don’t work on me.

I take a long drag of my cigarette, staring out the window at softly falling raindrops. I’m cold. I’m alone. I’m hurting. Why is it I insisted on dragging myself away from the only person in the world whose touch can fix those things for me? Understanding brightens my world like a light bulb.

I’m such a fucking idiot.

What the hell was I thinking
?
Furiously, I fly around the room. Gathering whatever happens to land in my hand, I throw open the door and sprint down the hallway like a possessed Flo-Jo, opting for the steps because waiting on the elevator requires time I don’t have. Gasping for breath and barely able to speak, I slam my hand on the front desk counter over and over, yelling for someone, anyone.

A confused clerk, obviously fresh from a midshift nap, stumbles bleary-eyed into the light. He says something I can’t understand.

“A car!” I shout. “I need a car!”

“Excuse me?” he asks in broken English.

“A car.” I make a driving motion and point to the bank of keys behind him so he gets the point.

“There are no drivers on call at this hour.” He rubs his eye and I want to reach across the desk and grab his shirtfront to assure him of my desperation. You’ve got to be kidding me. There are at least five rental cars sitting in the parking lot reserved for use by movie staff. But this is a new desk clerk. He doesn’t know who I am.

“Gavin.” I say his name slowly so he can understand. Surely Gavin’s name is enough to get me a car. The man thinks about this. “Gavin needs a car,” I say with the sweetest smile I can muster.

“Oh,” he says, and turns to a bank of keys. He pulls a set from the wall and is about to drop it in my hand. He pauses.

“Where is Gavin?” He looks confused, like he’s finally realizing how weird this whole exchange is.

This is time I don’t have. I grab the keys dangling from his hand before he can pull them away. I run outside, find the hunk of tin with a matching keyhole and take off into the night, not exactly sure of where I’m going.

I never drive. At this hour and state of mental exhaustion it’s glaringly obvious. I fly down narrow, pot-holed roads guided by memory and sight alone. How could I be so stupid? Why in the hell did I leave him? It’s what she wanted. Exactly what she wanted. Will he forgive me for being such an idiot or has she already won?

That fucking bitch!

Eddie’s earlier driving has nothing on my speed. My foot stays pressed to the floor the entire way. Barren, snow-cloaked fields fly by at lightning speed. I get air sailing over bumps and land with a jolting bounce. But I don’t slow down, not until I see familiar porch lights burning in the distance. Gravel crunches under tires as I slide to a sideways stop at our door.

* * *

It’s dark except for a fire. My eyes struggle to adjust to the room. Devon sits on the couch, slouched low into it. His head lies back, resting flat against the top cushion. A scotch glass props on his stomach, one hand steadying it. The other hand grips the neck of a nearly empty bottle. He doesn’t move when I burst into the room. He just sits, the fire’s warm glow radiating orange against the strong lines of his cheek and jaw.

“I’m so sorry.” I fall at his feet and wrap my arms around his legs. “I never should’ve left.” My tears are back, flowing down my cheeks and soaking into his blue-jean-covered knees. Silence. The ice cubes in his glass jingle. He takes a sip and continues staring blankly at the fire.

“Only an idiot would stay.” His voice is frigid. I ignore what he’s saying because he’s obviously drunk and pissed.

“I’m sorry I let Heather get in my head. We can work through this.” I nod my head, hope sparking my eyes.

“She didn’t do anything.” His head and gaze rolls to me. Cold as pebbles frozen in a stream, his eyes stare through me like I’m not even there. “
I
killed Dylan.”

I flinch at his words, immediately shaking my head. I never thought a truth could sound more awful than mine. His does. Stunned by the ice-cold reality of his words, I fall back on my ass, grabbing the coffee table for balance.

“I killed her,” he continues. “I put that fucking needle in her arm, and I killed her.” Without warning, he hurls the scotch bottle into the air. It shatters on the fire and sends flames scorching into the room. I jump and raise my arm to cover my face. What the fuck?
“You were smart. Leave while you still can. I only hurt people I love.” He throws my hand off his leg and stands. Draining his glass, he throws it against the hearth. It slams into the bricks and bursts into a million glinting pieces, too.

“It was an accident.” I climb to my feet as best I can. “No one understands that life better than me. Dylan died by her own choices.”

“She died by the needle I put in her arm.” Devon grinds his teeth and stares at the fire. His posture rigid as steel. I stand helplessly at his side. Seconds pass. I don’t know what to say. My mind races in every direction, but I can’t find the words to make this right. Finally he turns. “Just leave, Carly. It’s okay. I hate me, too.”

The words slide slowly from his mouth with zero emotion. His eyes glaze over. His head slumps forward. Guilt, grief and anguish break his beautiful body. It’s a look I’ve never seen him wear before. A look that breaks my own heart wide open. I hate to think I added to his torment by leaving him. He turns and walks away, balancing himself on the hallway wall. Quietly as I can, I follow him to our bedroom. I linger in the shadows, watching him. What the hell am I supposed to do with this?