Total Trainwreck (18 page)

Satisfied, he returns to me, wiping his hands and smoothing himself and his suit back into place.

“I always hated that sign. This is
our
island.” He puts the emphasis exactly where it belongs, his breath labored by his efforts. God, I love this man, more than the air I breathe. I lean up on my tiptoes and plant a big ole smooch on the underside of his stubbly jaw, drunkenly taking in the smell of sweat breaking over his skin. He hikes my skirt up to my waist, pushes me behind him and bends over for me to climb back aboard.

I say nothing about his battle on the beach. That was for him as much as it was for me. A final act of defiance after marrying his lover. Fine by me. I always hated the sign anyway. What I’m wrestling with right now is how turned on I am by him and his rebel ways. If Mr. Hayes doesn’t make love to his wife in the next seven seconds, she may explode.

Chapter Twenty-One

How have I never been in here?
I think, stepping through the doorway into Devon’s bedroom. Where Heather’s...I mean,
my
room is all white, sunny cheer, Devon’s room is considerably darker in a refined but masculine sort of way. The same hardwoods gleam beneath my feet and continue up the far wall to form bookshelves on either side of the huge floor-to-ceiling window. I could lift the bottom sash and step onto the porch if I wanted to. Cream stucco walls interrupted by heavy wooden beams line the side walls. The same beams form an arched nook for his bed. A spectacularly green forest view peeks in his windows.

I grab my skirt in one hand, toss the bouquet on the bed and set off to explore. It’s relatively stark. Very few personal touches. But then again, this life hasn’t exactly been Devon’s. It’s been whatever
she
wanted. But not anymore. My victor’s smile is beyond wicked. I catch a glimpse of it in the full-length mirror and grin even wider. She thought she was so smart. Thought she’d bluff me away from Devon. I twist the bracelet on my wrist. Nope. I don’t go down that easy.

“What?” I ask when I notice Devon staring at me in the mirror from across the room.

“You are absolutely divine, Mrs. Hayes.” The name sounds so alien from his lips it doesn’t register at first. When it does, and I realize he’s referring to me, I grin like an idiot. How can I not? Hearing the possibility and promise in his voice ties my stomach in a million delighted knots, the kind that won’t come undone for weeks, if ever. The only problem is, there’s already something much deeper simmering in my belly. Something only he can fix.

“What are you doing all the way over there, Mr. Hayes?” I turn from the mirror and crook my finger at him. His chin rises in a confident way, sizing up the game I’m playing.

Slowly, he unknots his tie with one hand and pulls it from his neck. He tosses it onto the bed beside my bouquet. With each step toward me he frees a button on his shirt, revealing the tanned, taut chest I could lick all day long. He’s teasing me. Slow and delicious. Just the way I like it. Halfway across the room he stops, shrugs off his suit coat and tosses it over a chair back. He slicks his belt from around his waist and tosses it on the same chair. He’s standing before me barefoot with his shirt hanging open. Very little separates me from the bulge growing between his legs.

“Deciding where I’m going to fuck my wife for the first time.”

I startle with delight. My cheeks flush bright red. But it’s not embarrassment. It’s a carnal desire for my husband making my blood boil. I reach for the buttons that start at the nape of my neck and end at my ass crack.
Too many!
I think, wishing I had started this as soon as I said
I do
. Devon approaches and spins me away from him toward the mirror. He slides over me, his hips so close I can feel the swell in his pants.

“Let me,” he whispers over my shoulder, pushing my hair out of the way. With one skilled hand he pops the first button free. With the other hand, he bunches the skirt at my thigh and slowly begins to gather the length in his palm. The delicate lace skims over my legs, teasing with every inch. With one hand undressing from the top and one from the bottom, I have nothing to do but slide my fingers into his salt-and-pepper hair and grind my hips against him.

The only problem is his skirt-pulling goes much quicker than his button-popping. He finds my bare thigh in seconds. His fingers are cool against skin that is boiling for his touch. I swallow a gasp and lean further into him. His hand continues up to my hip bone, searching for the thin slip of fabric holding my panties together. He finds it, fists it and it disappears.

His hand slides back to my ass, pushing the torn panty aside. My insides are torn too. It doesn’t seem right that I can want him this much. That I can always be so ready. Every. Single. Time. Something must be wrong with me. Because I could fuck this man ten times in two minutes and still want more. I rub my thighs together and arch my back, pushing against him in all the right places. My hands slide around his neck and I pull him in for a kiss. My neck is about to break, strained over my shoulder like this, but I can’t find a way to leave his lips.

His hand still works down my back, freeing buttons as fast as he can. His fingers find my center and push between the thighs I’ve been clenching together. A spark shoots from my sex straight up my spine, sending a quiver over my entire body.

“I love how wet you are for me.” Devon’s fingers find what they’ve been searching for. He teases between the folds of my vagina, but doesn’t push inside. I’m desperate, breathy and panting, straining my hips further back to try to force him. “No, not yet,” he says, moving his hand away. I’m so hot I don’t even notice he’s undone my dress. He stands me up and pulls the dress from my body. I try to turn my nakedness into him, but he stops me. Instead, he places my hands on either side of the mirror. One by one, he picks up my feet to free them from the pile of lace. Carefully, he places them back on the floor spread wide.
Oh, no he’s not.

Oh, yes he is. He makes quick work of his own trouser buttons and skins his shirt. He stands behind me in all his naked glory. Without moving my hands I peer over my shoulder, biting my lip at his perfection. He’s rock hard and ready to go. I’m damp in all the right places and past ready to go.

“I want to watch us make love as husband and wife for the first time.” He steps behind me, hands splayed over my lower belly, pulling me against his length.

I nod, way too hot to do anything more. My mind is already in free fall, knowing his entering me is the only thing that will make it stop. I whimper an answer. He smiles, playfully nibbling my ear. A hand traces down my thigh. He pushes me into the glass until I’m pinioned between its icy cold and his radiating heat.
God, the sensation!
Fire and ice. His hands run down my arms, tongue runs over my ear. Gripping my wrists, he lifts them above my head and places the palms flat on the mirror, shoulder width apart. “When we start, you push back into me.” He whispers my instructions and a shiver quakes through my body.

His hands are on my thighs again. He bends at the knee, pushes between my thighs and lifts me off the ground. “Hmm...this isn’t going to work.” He disappears. I’m about to bend over and puke from all the tension built in my poor belly when he materializes once more. In his hands he holds my blue Louboutins. “Put these on.” He drops them to the floor and I do as I’m told.

Any girl who’s ever fucked in nothing but stilettos knows that the act of slipping into them—when you’re butt-ass naked and about to come all over yourself—is hands down the sexiest thing in the world. Devon knows this, too. A groan rumbles from his chest, a moan from mine. He takes my hips in his hands again, slowly parting my feet with his. I’m now tall enough that with a quick dip he finds and enters me.

“Argh!” I moan with the force of every exploding nerve ending in my body. My head flies forward, knocking against the mirror.

“Relax into me,” he instructs. I’m tensed from the uncertainty of the position. He takes a step back, coaxing me into him. I arch my back, forcing my pussy out, and open my thighs to settle further over him. He slides deeper. I widen my stance, knowing that by the end of this I’ll be holding on for dear life. He’s got a death grip on my hips, pulling me against him, refusing to let me fall. “I’ve got you,” he says again. I trust him, relaxing completely over his cock.

He begins to move, slowly at first, each thrust coaxing a moan from deep inside me. I try to lean back and kiss him, but it just doesn’t work. Not in this position. Instead, I bite my shoulder, and push so hard against the mirror it may break.

“Look at us!” Devon growls in my ear. I open my eyes and look forward. My breasts slam into the mirror every time he enters me. They jiggle like gorgeous milky jugs. My skin is pale compared to Devon’s. My eyes deep green to his vibrant blue. My blond hair falls over my shoulders and tangles in the stubble of his beard. This is us. This is us as husband and wife making love for the first time.

I’m not prepared for the sensation that claims my insides. I’m nowhere near orgasm, but seeing us like this and knowing what it means pulls a clenching sensation from deep inside me. I tighten around his length. His thrusts grow faster. “Is this how you like to be fucked, Mrs. Hayes?”

At the word
fuck
I clench again. He fills me on the next deep thrust and hits the swollen spot that makes me explode. I groan against the mirror, pushing into him to feel every pulse, loving the icy cold pressed against my cheek and the heat of our body-slicking sweat against my back. Over and over I quake and quiver with the throbbing of his length. When it eases I hang limply in his arms. Sensing I need a break, but not ready to release me just yet, he carefully rights me.

My knees buckle, but I hold tight to the mirror. He takes me in his arms. My frozen front hits his blazing torso. The sensation is euphoric. He holds me close, lifting me and wrapping my legs around his waist. He carries my spent body to the bed, clearing the flowers and his tie with one sweep. He carefully lays me over the soft white sheets.

“You okay?” he asks. All I can do is nod. How could I not be okay? The mattress shakes. His body covers me. Its heat and weight push life back into my rubbery bones. I raise my knees to the sides to make room for him. I turn the corner from orgasm bliss and regain my senses. I lace my fingers through his hair, pulling hard at the back of his head like I know he loves.

“I’m better than okay.” My weak smile says it all. And the moment the tip of his penis reaches my center, I’m ready to go again. He pushes into me, the slickness of my first orgasm coating the way. He fills me deep and full, pushing out a moan. I throw my head back and let it slide from my throat in a slow, hypnotic wave.

His tongue finds the shallow dip where my neck meets my chest. It slides up and finds my mouth coming down. Our lips work together, reviving me further.

We pick up the familiar rhythm of us. In and out. Building a fire in both of us again. I pull him to me. Pull my husband to me. He’s close, growing larger with every push. He takes my hand from his hair, clutches it and pins it to the mattress under his. Our fingers intertwine. He squeezes my hand and I know he’s about to come.

“Come with me,” he coaxes, cooing into my ear. He releases my hand and reaches down for my ankles. Conscious of my heels, he raises my legs until the backs of my thighs lie over his abdomen and my knees drape over his shoulders. He plunges into me and in this new position his cock pounds my G-spot with every thrust. I’m already swollen from the first orgasm. Already primed for another. “Carly,” he says. My breathing picks up. My heartbeat pulses with his every thrust.

I cry out, a low and hollow sound. It’s coming. And it’s going to be huge. He feels me heating around him and picks up speed. Again and again, he hits the spot and my entire body clenches. I grab his shoulders, pulling him into me, wanting to feel him next to me when we come.

He falls through my legs, his warmth lying over my chest again. Our lips lock together. With the next thrust we both blow. Moans and groans rip through the night air. His body is heavy on top of mine. When the spasms release our bodies, we relax into the sheets. Our breath rocks our sweat-soaked bodies. We’re too exhausted to move. I kick my heels off, kiss him gently on the cheek, snuggle my arms around him and fall asleep with my husband’s cock still inside me.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Forty-eight hours away from this frozen wasteland isn’t enough. You can’t take a girl to an island, marry her in secret, fuck her newlywed brains right out of her head and expect her to be excited about coming back to subarctic weather.
Ugh!
The only bright spot in my life is the serious bling my Mediterranean husband locked onto my left wrist. I cannot get enough of this thing. I play with it more than I played with my old leather cuff. It is beyond gorgeous.

“Whew!” A makeup artist holds up her hands to keep from going blind when the sun hits my diamonds and beams a ray of light into her eye. “That thing is dangerous!” she teases, leaning over to admire my new jewels. “Where’d you get that?”

“Cartier,” I say, casually holding up my wrist like it’s nothing and everything. A stylist walks over to join the admiring.

“Gorgeous,” she agrees. “But we need it off for this scene.” She hangs my next costume on a nearby rack. I look down at my wrist. Fuck. I don’t have the key to get this thing off. Devon does. And that is a secret these peons absolutely cannot know.

“Sorry, you’ll have to find a way to work around it. Without the key, these bracelets don’t come off.”

“But...” The stylist is totally caught off guard by my response. Everyone’s used to the new Carly, so when this older version rears her bitchy head they’re clueless. “We have to have it off.”

“I don’t see why. You seem like a clever girl—gloves, long sleeves, a bigger bracelet. It isn’t that hard. Do your job. The bracelet stays.” I snap my head and suck air through my teeth like a diva. Conversation over. The two exchange looks over my head, but say nothing more.

“What in the world is going on with your skin?” the makeup artist asks. “I’ve never seen you break out like this.”

“Stress,” I say with zero emotion. Squeezing six days of shoots into three, even if the awful weather and flooding was technically an act of God, is enough to rattle anyone. I’ve never had so many zits on my face. Ever. Acne is so not fabulous. It’s disgusting.

Three days, I keep telling myself. Three days and we’ll be back in L.A. Three days and Mr. Moretti will finally have some dirt on Heather. Three days and Devon will have a bargaining chip that will force Heather to settle for less. I know this is our answer. I can feel it.

“Sweetheart, this is on your jawline. That’s hormonal. Are you about to start your period?” She slathers on a citrus-scented mask like it may help the situation.

“Pfft. I’m on Depo. I don’t have a clue when it comes. Jane, am I about to start my period?” Jane sits on a couch, script spread over her lap, prepping to run lines with me before call time.

“I’ll check that in just a minute.” She holds up a finger without looking away from the page.

“You seriously don’t keep up with your own period?” the stylist teases. Normally I’d laugh. It’s ridiculous to be so uninformed about one’s own life. But that’s the way things go when you’ve got a personal assistant. And I don’t like her tone.

“No, I don’t,” I snap, and give her a you-don’t-want-to-go-there-with-me scowl that puts her in her place.

“Right.” She shrugs an apology and looks away. “This mask needs to sit for fifteen minutes.” Without another word or a goodbye, she leaves the trailer. I facepalm at what a bitch I am. She’s one of the few assistants I like, but I honestly cannot help it. My nerves are like ten-thousand-volt live wires right now. I don’t feel prepared for my scenes. Production has to run like a well-oiled machine these next three days in order to keep the execs off Devon’s back. He’s really worried about the delayed schedule. So, of course, I am too. I have to be perfect, and I’ve never felt further from it.

I exit the chair to go run scenes with Jane, too quickly. The room spins. My stomach flips over on itself. The smoothie I had for breakfast threatens to reenter the world. I slap a hand over my mouth and stumble to the couch. Lying on my side, the room continues to spin, but I coax breakfast back down my throat. I’m left swallowing pre-vomit spit and breathing deeply to stop the twirls. Jane drops the script and appears at my side with a cup of water.

“Are you okay, Carly?” She rests a hand on my forehead.

“It’s just nerves,” I answer weakly, taking the cup from her hand.

* * *

Only, it’s not nerves.

I’m home alone. Well, alone with Jane. Devon’s still shooting, but according to SAG regulations, I’m done for the day—too many hours on set. Normally, I love the union lightening my workload. Today, it is one more problem piled on the production’s—and Devon’s—plate. I was pissed, until karma decided it wasn’t done fucking with me.

I thought Jane was insane when she handed me a brown paper bag from the pharmacy. She told me the math didn’t add up on her calendar and shoved about a million pregnancy tests in my hand. Then I knew she was insane. But I agreed.

Eleven plastic sticks sit on the bathroom counter. Eight of them have double lines. Two have smiley faces. Fucking assholes. How can they smile about ruining my life? What did I ever do to them? Sure, I realize most women have some degree of happiness when they learn they’re pregnant. But what about people like me? Shouldn’t they have a test that reads “Sorry, you’re fucked” when it’s positive? Or maybe just a good old-fashioned middle-finger emoji? That would be much easier to digest than a damned smiley face.

I sit on the floor, back against the bathtub, hitting my head on the cold porcelain like it’s going to change something. Please. There’s no fairy godmother in my tale. Never has been. What the hell am I going to do? I cannot have a baby. I can’t have
his
baby. Period. End of discussion.

I stand and stare at the line of pee sticks. Every single one of them mocks me, except for the one I made Jane take, certain something was wrong.

A wave of nausea hits me, but this time it’s not morning sickness. It’s the kind of dread one experiences when you see your life flash before your eyes. If this story leaks, life as I know it will be over. Devon and I are so close to getting what we want I can taste it. Mr. Moretti is going to find a way for us to get rid of Heather for good. But if this breaks, it’s all over. People aren’t stupid. Unlike me, they can do the math. Even with Heather out of the picture, our love child would create a scandal of epic proportions. And Devon loves kids so much he’d probably insist we keep it.

If he knew.

No, there’s only one thing to do.

Dread quickly turns to blind anger. I ball my fists and punch a towel hanging on a nearby wall. My knuckles whack the plaster so hard they crack.

“Ouch!” I howl, clutching my hand to my chest, hopping around in a circle on one foot while I squeeze the pain away.

“Carly?” Jane bursts into the bathroom, fear pinching her face. “What’s wrong?” She rushes to me and lays her hands on my shoulders to calm me.

But nothing can calm me. I’m way too screwed to ever be okay again. Tears puddle on my lower lids. Tears for me. Tears for us. Tears for what this baby would take from us. They piss me off. Everything pisses me off. How could this happen? I’m on the fucking Depo shot. That’s birth control even I can’t fuck up. So why am I facing a countertop full of yeses when all I want is one damn no?

I want to hit something. I need to hit something. Jane stands in front of me, but I can’t hit her. Instead, I grab the damn tests in my hands and throw them against the same wall that just crushed my hand. Fuck ‘em! Fuck ’em all! The plastic strips hit the wall and fly into the air like pee-soaked confetti. But it doesn’t work to calm me. I’m in a blind kind of rage I can’t see my way out of.

My fists ball and fly from my face to my sides and back again. I’m turning in useless circles. The room grows blurry. Breath is hard to come by. My chest heaves. My mind races. I’m so jerky I can’t find center. I need to feel something. Something real.

“Hit me!” Jane screams, sensing I need a release. I shake my head without even looking at her. I close my eyes, still shaking my head like I have Tourette’s. “I said hit me,” Jane growls. She’s insane, but she’s fucking asking for it. I don’t tell her no again. With all my anger flowing into my fist, I rear back and let it fly in her direction.

In some FBI Quantico-type takedown maneuver, she diverts my swing with her hand and twists me into a bear hug, immobilizing me. I fight her with all I’ve got. Using every bit of rage, I kick, punch and scream. It feels awesome. We tumble from the bathroom into the bedroom and fall to the carpeted floor. It doesn’t stop my blind rage. I somehow work my body to the top of the pile. I’m getting the best of her when she turns on her full strength. In one motion, easy as shooing a fly, she pins my arms and holds me to the ground. Arms behind my back. Cheek pressed to the carpet. I cannot move.

“You give up?” she asks breathlessly. I lurch, trying to get away. No such luck. “Do you give up?” she asks again, tightening her grip to show me she can.

“Yes,” I pant through clenched teeth. She releases me and I shoot up. We’re both on our knees, breathing like marathoners, staring at each with vicious glares. What the hell started all this? Why am I pissed at Jane?
And then I remember. It’s not her I’m mad at. It’s me. I lean back against the bed and crook my knees. I brush the carpet lint off my jeans and then rest my arms over my legs. “I’m fucked.”

“Yeah. You are.” Jane sits beside me, automatically knowing the situation in my belly isn’t the kind a girl gets giddy about. It’s the kind she gets rid of.

“He can’t know.” I swallow hard against the lie I’m about to tell. He can’t know. He can never know. She nods. We sit in silence. The rage dissipates. My body is restored to its new un-normal state of queasy ill-temper. Jane just kicked my ass. Like seriously kicked my ass. Hell, she could probably take down Tiny if she wanted to. I’ve never in my life seen a woman move like that. I’m talking Ronda Rousey MMA-type shit. I start to giggle at the absurdity of our wrestling match. “How’d you know I needed to hit something?” I ask.

She shrugs. “My dad was a welterweight champ. He taught me some stuff. I know when shit needs hitting.” She rises to her knees to straighten a chair we knocked over.

“Thanks,” I say with nod of appreciation.

“I can teach you how to spar if you want. It’s really good for stress.” She makes a small boxing gesture and lands it on my bicep. I look at her with eyes that are completely lost. She gives me a half smile. “It’s going to be okay, Carly. This isn’t the end of the world.”

I take a deep breath, nodding on the inhale and looking to the ceiling on the exhale. I’m not the first girl to find herself in this situation and I won’t be the last. At least this problem has an easy answer...if I don’t think about it too much. “Yeah.” Tires crunch up the gravel drive. “Shit!” I leap to my feet. “Will you clean all this up?” I’m wide-eyed, running around the room, fixing my hair and pulling my shirt back in place.

“Go!” Jane shoos me to the den on her way to the bathroom where our tussle started.

I make it to the couch, script in hand, the instant the door swings wide.

“Hey, handsome!” I enthuse like my world is all peachy-keen jelly bean. But I freeze when I see his face. He’s still in partial costume and his look is murderous. How could he know? No one knows. “What’s wrong?”

“Fucking studio is on my ass. We’re not going to finish.” He walks straight to his scotch bottle and pours a stiff drink. One he downs without ice or air. I remember those stiff boardroom suits. They’re the same ones who sat me down and played god with my life. All they care about is the almighty dollar, and going over on shooting, especially when we’re up against the final cut in a foreign country, is a financial tsunami in their eyes. “I need to shower. Can you wait on dinner?” he asks, pouring another drink and stalking to the hallway. I nod. He stops cold. He looks at me with a sideways scowl. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I nod away his concern. “Why?”

“You look a little flushed.”

“Oh, Jane taught me how to spar.” I mimic the punching motion she did earlier and smile. “Enjoy your shower.” He turns without another world.

“Oh, sorry, Jane.” He sucks against the wall, carefully holding his drink out of the way when they nearly collide.

Jane slinks by, a paper bag tucked behind her back. God, please don’t let him ask what’s in that bag. He doesn’t. He walks silently to the bedroom and shuts the door.

“Do you want me to make an appointment for you?”

I shake my head. “I’ll take care of it as soon as I get back to L.A.”

“Call me if you need anything. Dinner’s in the oven.”

I let my head fall back against the couch cushion the moment she’s gone. Rocking it back and forth like it somehow makes surrendering to all this taste less bitter.
I’m not the first person to find myself in this situation. I’m certainly not the last
. I repeat what is quickly becoming a mantra in my head. Yeah, it sucks big fat donkey balls. But what else can I do? I have to protect us.

Devon’s footsteps shuffle down the hallway. My back is to him. He says nothing and I assume he’s going for more scotch. But he doesn’t. He walks to me. His face is blank. Unreadable. Fuck. Is it something more than the production company? Is it something he didn’t want to say in front of Jane? I sit up straight, keeping a wary eye on him. He sits on the coffee table.

“We need to talk.” He rests his arms on his knees and crosses his fingers.

“O-kay.”

It’s his conversation. But he looks at me like I’m supposed to say something. I shake my head, look around the room and shrug. “What?”

Like some kind of damned magician he pulls a pee stick from his hand. My entire body goes rigid then slack, and I want to melt into the sofa. Hide beneath the cushions. Pretend I’m not here. How in the hell?

“Where’d you get that?”

“It was floating in the toilet. Do you want to tell me something?” The look on his face is still unreadable. So darkly unreadable that I think for a brief moment maybe he does realize how awful this is. Sweet relief washes over me. Okay, so I’m not going to have to lie to my quasi-husband. I sigh and rest my hand on his.