Total Trainwreck (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

At four o’clock the next afternoon, I step from Spence’s Bugatti onto the massive front steps of HeaVon’s seaside mansion. It’s even larger than I remember. From the backyard, sounds of a party in full swing permeate the air. Popping balloons, blaring music, kiddie squeals and all. We’re ushered through the house by an army of servants—like I need help finding my way—and led to a veranda where a staircase winds down to the backyard. It’s the same terrace I watched Devon pace the day our Malibu romp hit the headlines. The memory makes me smile.

In my arms I hold the cutest yellow lab puppy money can buy. He’s got a big blue bow tied around his neck, a raging case of puppy breath and velvety soft ears. He is kiddie crack cocaine and every parent’s worst nightmare. It’s the most wildly inappropriate gift I could think of. But hey, I didn’t come to play. I came to fucking win.

“I’ll carry him,” Spence insists, reaching for the fur ball with a dopey smile. In the thirty-minute ride from my house, this little guy has Spence utterly smitten. Spence—a grown-ass man reduced to baby babbling by this pup. No way Heather will be able to tell Angel no when he falls in love, too. Fuck you very much, bitch.

“Sure, just stay close. I want to be sure Heather knows exactly who brought the dog,” I say, and hand him over. The puppy attacks Spence’s chin with kisses. He laughs the way anyone would, causing every head to turn toward our arrival.

I look fabulous. Of course. Makeup flawlessly in place, compliments of Maria, and wearing a flowy peasant top and jeans so tight I can hardly breathe. If there’s anything good about this situation, it’s that my ass is plumped to J.Lo perfection. I seriously couldn’t take my eyes off it in the mirror once I put on the jeans. Maria couldn’t either. She and Spence think I’m crazy. They tried to talk me out of this. But they don’t know. I’ve got this under control.

Devon has to pick his jaw up off the hand-hewn brick terrace when Spence and I descend the stairs. Every kid in a ten-mile radius is drawn to our furry kid magnet. Spence is swimming in a sea of little bodies by the time we reach the last step. Devon recovers enough to greet us. Heather gives me a major side-stink-eye from the bar where she’s talking to two women who look every bit as plastic as she does. My overwhelming confidence is checked for a minute. God, I wish I’d asked Maria to come. She’s good in situations like this. She’s sneaky in a sweet way that no one suspects. I’m so bold and brash everyone immediately thinks I’m up to no good.

“You’re crazy as hell,” Devon whispers in my ear when he leans in for a customary hug. “But you look good enough to eat.”

“I wouldn’t miss Angel’s birthday for the world!” I enthuse, turning on the charm for the benefit of our audience. So what if I’ve never even met the kid? Something inside me switches, like I’ve stepped into the role of a Stepford Wife, and I begin to relish the part I’m playing. I dive into the crowd of kids swimming around Spence. “Happy birthday, Angel!” I hug the little kid I recognize from tabloid photos. “I hope you like your gift,” I add, patting the puppy’s head.

“Whoa!” It’s all he can say. He, just like every other kid, couldn’t care less if the Pacific suddenly turned into a sea of chocolate milk. All they can think about is the dog.

“What are you going to name him?” I ask.

“Dog,” he says, and I don’t know if he’s stupid or just the most unoriginal kid ever. Obviously, I’m boring compared to a puppy. Devon takes my elbow and pulls me from the throng. Spence sits on the grass, the puppy between his legs, trying to fend off a million little hands.

“Spencer, what can we get you to drink?” Devon yells over the squeals.

“Whatever you’re drinking,” he says without looking. Damn. Spence needs a dog. I’ve never seen him like this.

Devon takes my arm and leads me to the bar. People watch us, I can feel their eyes, but as far as I’m concerned we’re just two co-workers having a drink on a day off. At least that’s what I tell myself.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, leaning in, placing a hand protectively in the small of my back to guide me through the crowd. I’m thrilled when I see Heather watching us like a hawk from the other side with her friends. She can’t believe I had the balls to show. I so want touch him right now. To put my hands on him in a million inappropriate ways. But I can’t push things. I can’t piss her off if my plan is going to work. I create some space between us, and nod in Heather’s direction so he sees how many shades of angry red her face is turning. He checks his distance and backs away, too. A young man with café au lait skin slips into the bar line beside Devon. Devon puts his arm around the man’s shoulders and looks at Heather with a nasty smirk. “Carly, have you met Jamie?”

My ears perk at the name. I look at the man in Devon’s grasp and recognize Heather’s lover and Angel’s manny. He’s got the most gorgeous brown eyes. They’re soft and warm and I wonder how a man who looks so normal and sane could love that crazy bitch. He must be using her. How could anyone actually want her?

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, offering a hand.

“Yeah, you too,” he says, taking my hand. Immediately he turns back to Devon. “Hey, any idea where Ernest went? He’s supposed to start the games.”

“Try the beach. He was taking some kids down to look for shells.”

“Thanks.” Jamie rolls his eyes and shoots whatever’s in the shot glass sitting in front of him.

“So, how are you? Ready to begin filming next week?” Devon starts to talk business in case any nosy ears are listening.

“Yep.” I smile. “Um, I need to use the restroom,” I say, stepping a bit closer to imply this is where my plan begins. His face darkens, but he doesn’t try to stop me.

“Yeah.” He glances at Heather and chews his inner lip, obviously trying to think of a way to distract her. “Use the basement door.” He points to the far side of the back of the house. “Take the back stairs. Heather’s floor is laid out just like mine. If anybody hassles you, tell them I said it’s okay.”

“Thanks,” I say, and squeeze his hand.

I walk as quickly as I can without being obvious. My plan is to get this over with and then disappear. I don’t want to be here. And trying to blend into this world of Stepford Wives is getting really old really fast. I slip through the basement door and up the back steps without being seen. In the week I lived in the house, it started to feel like home. So much like home I make it to her room in seconds. I take care to shut the door as quietly as possible behind me, and place my purse on a chair.

Bedside drawers are always money. This is where I start. Nothing but a donkey-sized dildo, bottles of lube and some nipple clamps. Kinky sex would only make her more desirable in this town. In the bathroom, I scour her prescription bottles. She’s a fan of Quaaludes and Ambien, but that’s totally normal, considering. I’ve got to hurry. In her closet, aside from stacks of papers I have zero time to read, I find nothing. Even though I don’t have a clue what I’m looking for, I was certain I’d find something. A key to a safe deposit box, a receipt from a storage unit, the formaldehyde-preserved balls of lovers past. Something. Only, there’s nothing. I’m losing hope, and realizing it’s time for plan B.

Carefully, I pull a sleek surveillance camera from my purse. It used to sit on top of my fridge. I’ve decided it will serve a much better purpose spying on Heather’s bedroom activities.

Time is running out. Where to put it? Oh, the gods of Peeping Toms are smiling on me today. A large armoire sits opposite her bed. It’s the perfect angle, and I can hide it in the dusty, decorative junk she has stashed up there. I slide the chair containing my purse over to the armoire and start to climb. I’ve just put the camera in place and am arranging some decor to hide it when I hear his voice and nearly fall on my damned head.

“They’ll never buy it,” Jamie says. I gasp and lose my balance, grasping for the armoire’s large side hinges to keep from hitting the floor. He lunges into the room to catch me and helps me find my feet.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
This is not part of my plan.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, brushing my hands down my pants and slinging my bag over my shoulder. My feet are moving toward the door before he releases his balancing grip on me and steps from my path. I need to get out of here. Now.

“A tabloid won’t buy a video that’s filmed in a private home. Legally, they can’t.” Jamie gently grabs my elbow to stop me. Without needing the chair, he reaches up and plucks the camera from behind the candlestick I tried to hide it with. “Don’t want to leave any evidence. She already blames you for everything that goes wrong in her life.”

I stand frozen, holding his gaze and wondering why in the hell he’s telling me this. He’s her man, right? Why would he tell me something so intimate about Heather? She’s way too brash to want anyone to know she’s got a soft underbelly. What game is he playing? He offers me a small smile and then looks away. But before he does, I see something familiar in his eyes. Something that’s also in mine. The sting of being the lover on the side.

“Doesn’t it drive you crazy?” I ask, and open my bag, holding it out for my camera. With a sigh, he drops the camera and picks up the chair I pushed into place by the armoire. Leaning it on his upper thigh, he walks it back to its place and sets it down, lining up the feet with the rug divots to cover my tracks. I suck at spy games. Ray Donovan
would be so disappointed.

“I’ve tried to get her to leave him a million different ways. She won’t.” He sits down on the chair and rubs his hands together.
Wait...what?

I fall into the chair beside him. Silently, we seem to know each other’s shared regrets. And how badly life sucks when you can’t truly have the only thing you want.

“I’m pregnant.” The words tumble from my lips before I have the first fucking clue why. Maybe because I’m too full of secrets already and there simply isn’t room for this one anymore. More likely, it’s because I recognize the exhaustion in his eyes. It’s the same weary feeling that follows me every day.

“Fuck,” he says, and runs his hands through his hair. “She’ll go apeshit if she finds out.”

“I know.”

“What are you going to do?”

I hold up the camera and wave it in the air. He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. I facepalm, unable to believe how truly insane and rash my plan was. Back to square one...again.

He stands, takes a notepad from the bedside table, writes something on it and places it in my hand.

“Monday. Ten a.m. Stay out of sight and you’ll get what you need.” He tosses the notepad back onto the bedside table. It’s a random street address in the Pacific Palisades, but I don’t ask any questions. Jamie is little more than a stranger to me, but for some reason I trust him. It’s stupid, I know. And if he didn’t have such kind, warm eyes, I’d tell him to fuck off. But he looks at me with the same lost puppy feeling that’s gnawed at me ever since Heather showed up on set. He gets it. And I am fresh out of ideas.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“I know this place!” Maria’s mouth falls open with recognition when we turn off Casale onto Capri Drive and pull to a stop. I need Maria’s help today. Devon barely agreed to a little snooping. No way would he let me do this in my condition. Maria, on the other hand, has been plotting and scheming since I asked her to borrow Ryan’s car. As far as she knows, this is just some mean girl’s game I’m playing to out my Regina George for what she really is. And Maria is one of the original Hollywood mean girls.

“You know these people?” I ask, eyeing the mansion Jamie’s street address led us to. It’s one of maybe ten sprawling expanses lining the street.

“No.” She shakes her head with excitement and points to a barely visible trailhead hiding in the tree line several car lengths away. “This is how you get to Murphy’s Ranch.”

“Who’s Murphy?”

“You mean you never came out here?” she asks. I shake my head. “Not even to drop acid?” she asks again. I shake my head again and she shakes hers along with me. “Man it sucks that you’re sober. This is the coolest place ever to trip.”

“What is it?”

“Some kind of World War Two Nazi bunker. It’s got all these cool old structures that graffiti artists tag on the regular. Being high in here is like living in a Warhol print.” She remembers back like she wants to do it again. “You’ll trip your balls off.”

My phone dings and I’m so anxious I jump out of my seat.

Where are u?

Devon’s texted me ten times in the past hour.

We decided to do a little shopping.

I lie again, because he can’t know what I’m really up to. He’d never let me do it if he knew. In his worldview, everything is too dangerous for my current situation. He’d hit the fucking roof if he knew I was hiding in a car waiting to meet his fake lover’s real lover. As far as he knows, Maria and I have been at brunch and are now shopping.

I want to stop by. When will u b home?

I answer as vaguely as I can.

I’ll text u when we finish.

“Devon again?” Maria guesses. I nod. She taps my arm quickly to get my attention. I follow her gaze from the rearview mirror and hold my breath. A car pulls slowly onto the street, obviously casing the scene. We go silent. Sliding down in the seats like trained stalkers, we watch the car pass and pull onto the street curb just past the trailhead. My stomach knots and I swallow hard. The driver’s door opens and Jamie steps from the car, casually dressed in workout gear.

“Shit. Here we go,” I say, reaching for the door. I pop the handle, ready to slide from the car. The overhead light pops on.

“Wait.” Maria grabs my arm to stop me. Our eyes remain transfixed on the car parked in front of us. “Somebody’s with him,” she whispers like they can hear us. Frantically, I pull the door shut to turn off the light and we slide further down in our seats, watching a dark shadow move in his passenger seat. Jamie looks around, slowly walking behind the car to the other side. He sees us, I think. For a brief second he stares at our windshield, trying to see past the tint on Ryan’s ridiculous ghetto cruiser. He gives the slightest nod and looks down at his phone. My eyes dart to the green dashboard clock. Ten o’clock on the nose. A wave of nausea hits me. Is it nerves or is it my situation? I take a granola bar from my bag and shove it in my mouth.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say out loud with a mouthful of oats when she steps from the car.

“Shh...” Maria quiets me like they can hear us.

“What’s the point? He brought her—the deal is obviously off!” I say through gritted teeth, throwing my hands in the air. Heather Fucking Troy stands beside the car, all bedecked in a skimpy white tennis dress like she missed the turn for the Riviera Country Club down the road. Her long black hair is pulled through the back loop of a hat and her glasses cover her face below that. Surprisingly, the bright red lipstick that always stains her face is missing. She looks around like she’s nervous or something.

“Just chill.” Maria runs her hand over my arm. “You don’t know that. Look at them,” she says, nodding in their direction. “They’re trying to hide something.”

Heather dashes to the trailhead at the tree line, peeking from the underbrush to look in every direction. We parked close enough to a nearby house that she doesn’t notice us. Our windows are so darkly tinted she couldn’t see us if she tried. The street is deserted except for their car. Heather points up the road. Jamie looks in the direction and then shakes his head.

“What’s she pointing at?” I ask without looking away.

“There’s another entrance farther down,” Maria answers.

Heather impatiently waves Jamie onto the trail. He nods then acts like he’s forgotten something. He goes back to the car and retrieves a piece of paper. A piece of paper he drops where only we can see as he walked back to meet Heather. They clasp hands and disappear into the woods.

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Maria and I turn to one another, the same open-mouthed what-the-hell-just-happened look on our faces.

“I’m going to get that piece of paper,” she says sliding from the car. What a smart, sneaky bitch. I slide from the car, too, closing my door as quietly as I can. Sounds echo in the woods and I suddenly feel like this moment depends on me being church-mouse quiet. “Perfect!” Maria quietly squeals when I look over her shoulder. “They’re going to the power station,” she says, pointing at a circle drawn on a hazy printed map.

“How do you know that?”

“Soap star,” she says, proudly pointing to herself. Holy shit, she’s right. She’s going to be the best damn soap queen ever with her conniving ways. “I hope you wore comfortable shoes,” she says, leading me to the trail.

“Won’t they hear us?” I ask, treading lightly behind her.

“We’ll break off this trail in a minute and take the other way around. It’ll be fine. You have your phone?” I take it from my pocket and hold it up to show her. She nods. “Put it on silent.” Quickly, I fumble with shaky hands to do as I’m told.

Maria wasn’t kidding about the trail. The first two hundred steps on the trail are literally steps. Straight down. We descend into the canyon on a cement staircase carved into the earth that looks more like an irrigation ditch than stairs. Who in the hell built a place like this?

Vegetation grows wildly unchecked. In some places the brush reaches over the path creating a tunnel that feels like a living, breathing cocoon. Flowering bushes burst with color underneath a canopy of trees. Every now and then the sun breaks free overhead. It filters into the forest, bathing everything with a yellow-gold tint. It’s remote and creepy, but in a totally
Alice in Wonderland
awesome kinda way. If we weren’t smack-dab in the middle of one of L.A.’s poshest neighborhoods, it would be the kind of place serial killers would bury their dead. But because you know the upscale glamour on the other side of the trees, it isn’t the least bit intimidating. It’s a surreal beauty that would make for an awesome acid trip.
If only,
I think, following Maria on tiptoes.

We hit another trail. Maria stops and bends down, looking at the ground like she’s some Old West native tracker. “They kept straight,” she announces, and quickly stands to turn onto the other trail. “Come on, this one’s longer,” she says, and takes off at a slow jog. I start running behind her. But two minutes later I’m huffing so hard we have to stop.

“I can’t,” I say breathlessly.

“It’s cool. We’re almost there.” We’ve made our way off the steps and onto a red dirt access road. Ahead, a row of terraced cement gardens growing nothing but weeds pops off the canyon floor. Maria turns to me and puts her finger to her lips. I nod and follow. We trace a path through the gardens. Maria sinks lower to the ground, squatting behind the last row of raised beds. She points beside herself and I fall into place. Together, we lay our bodies over a barren flower bed and peer farther into the valley.

Over the hill, down about fifty feet, sits a cement building painted with the most glorious graffiti I’ve ever seen. The building isn’t big, maybe the size of a normal garage, with several smaller structures around it. Everything is made of thick cement walls and covered over with I don’t know how many layers of spray paint. The ground lies littered with empty paint cans, beer cans and paper, all mixed with dead leaves from the overhead canopy.

“Where are they?” I ask, leaning further over the garden bed.

“Just wait,” she says patiently. “They’re coming.” She points up a trail where the forms of two distant bodies take shape through the tree trunks. “Duck.” She puts her hand on my head and forces it down so they can’t see me.

Heather pops out first, damn near skipping down the trail in her bright tennis whites, leading Jamie behind her. They’re laughing about something. I get my phone out and start snapping pics. Heather’s sunglasses are tucked into her shirt. Her hair hangs freely down her back, her ball cap stuck in Jamie’s back pocket. For the first time in recorded history, Heather looks happy. And in love. Not at all the bored-to-tears, stuck-up starlet bitch of glossy tabloid fame. She fake screams and starts running toward the powerhouse. Jamie laughs, grabbing at her ass and chasing behind her. He catches her around the waist and swings her around. She squeals again and he bends down, throwing her over his shoulder and giving her several good spankings. She squirms and protests loudly. Too loudly. Aren’t they worried about being caught?

Why the hell do I care? I’m taking pictures as fast as my camera will go. I can’t believe how brazenly in love they are out in the open where they can so easily be seen.

“How many people know about this place?” I ask Maria.

“Not many. You hardly ever see people. Ten a.m. on a Monday morning? Ghost town,” she answers. “Why would he stop you from hiding the camera but invite you here?”

she asks in a whisper.

“He said the tabloids wouldn’t buy anything shot inside a private home,” I answer.

“Right.” She nods her head. “You don’t get any more public than the great outdoors.”

Jamie and Heather disappear inside the building.

“Fuck!” I whisper. “What are we supposed to do now?” I frantically search for another vantage point, phone still ready to snap more photos. What I already have is damning enough. But I need to bury the bitch.

“Carly!” Maria whispers. I turn back. She nods toward the powerhouse. Jamie is leading a reluctant Heather into the open. They reappear through the empty doorway. I hit the ground, lying as flat as possible and crawling back to the bunker behind the garden wall. They’re close enough to hear.

“Jamie, no,” Heather says. “What if someone comes?”

“Nobody is out here at this hour. Besides, we’d hear them coming before they could see us,” he pleads, then puts his lips over hers, silencing any further protest. Holy shit! Excitement sings through my body.

iPhoto can’t keep up with the rate my thumb is clicking pictures. I slow my roll. My hands are shaking. I take time to zoom in, focus and snap several photos that are worthy of a
Hustler
centerfold, if I do say so myself.

Whoa, it’s getting hot! I snap the mother lode of all paparazzi pics when Heather pulls back and proceeds to slowly lick the sweat glistening on Jamie’s neck. Heather Troy making out with a man who isn’t Devon Hayes in public. The tabloids will be scrambling over this like prized cocks in a fight ring. I tap Maria’s shoulder.

“Ready to go?” I silently mouth the words so they don’t hear. She nods and we start to back away. I’m almost out of sight enough to stand when she grabs my sleeve and pulls me back. “What?” I whisper. She nods back toward the powerhouse.

“Holy shit,” we whisper at the same time. Jamie wasn’t playing when he said I would get what I need. He now has her bent over a railing. A white lacy thong circles her ankles. Her skimpy tennis skirt is pushed over her back to reveal a brazenly bare ass. He smacks it so loudly it cracks through the trees like a whip. Heather moans.

I clasp a hand over my mouth to stifle the inhale that rips from me. My eyes are dish-plate wide, and when I look to Maria hers are too. She’s got her phone out, filming every lurid detail of the foreplay unfolding against brightly painted cement. It’s like a kaleidoscope, all the colors mixing in a way that makes the eyes go crossed if you stare too long. And how could anyone help but stare at the show these two are putting on. In the middle of all the spray-painted chaos, Heather Troy in her gleaming tennis whites is getting her clock wound to within an inch of her life by her kid’s manny. It’s far from your basic, boring missionary fucking, which until recently is all I thought her capable of. Honestly, I’m kinda proud of the frigid bitch for knowing how to go at it like an animal in heat.

He’s got her bent over a railing, sliding his hand over the curve of her ass. He rears back and slaps it hard enough to leave red marks and scare the birds from the trees. Maria and I jump every time we hear it, even though we know it’s coming. Every time Heather moans like it’s the most delicious thing she’s ever felt. Keeping her head down, she reaches back for Jamie. He leans over her, planting a kiss on her shoulder before trailing his lips over her back. Then ever so gently, he places delicate kisses on the red handprints he’s left all over her ass. Without realizing it, I press my thighs together, somehow turned on by this display.

Heather stands. Jamie sweeps the veil of long black hair over her shoulder and starts kissing her neck. She spins in his arms, throwing hers around his neck and planting her lips on his. I raise my phone and begin taking pics again. My mouth goes dry when he lifts her off the ground, tucking her legs around his waist and walking her to the wall of painted graffiti. With an unseen hand, Heather pushes his shorts down until they fall to his ankles. When he’s got her back firmly against the wall he starts pushing. She grips him tightly, leaning her head back and taking in every thrust like her life depends on it. Damn, she’s a screamer.

“Jamie! Oh, Jamie!” she yells, her voice growing louder with each pulse. For someone who didn’t want to get caught, she sure as hell couldn’t give zero fucks right now. I zoom in as close as I can. She’s biting her lip and her face is so screwed up in pleasure she’s almost unrecognizable. Still, I snap as many photos as I can get.