Two Wrongs: A Second Chance Romance (Trouble by Numbers Book 2) Page 20

  ‘Get you, Mr. Big Shot,’ my friend taunts again. My friend. He’s one of the very few who stuck around for what will probably be referred to in the coming years as my asshole year. My actions over the last few months have pissed too many people off as I drowned my sorrows in the bottle while acting every inch the arrogant movie star. Not that I’m short for company; those who want to be pap’d with the right people are always around. People in the business. People looking to get a hand up. Plenty of pussy, too, if I want it, which I haven’t lately. Not since—

  Not gonna think about it.

  ‘Think you could make it two?’ Joe’s voice brings me back to the phone in my hand. ‘Can’t afford to leave Todd behind. The man would be dead before I got back; he can’t boil an egg.’

  ‘You married him. Can’t clean, can’t cook, so what does he do for you?’

  ‘You want me to go there?’ he asks in a tone that makes me answer immediately.

  ‘Hell, no!’

  He does anyway. Deadpan. ‘The man cuts my hair good.’

  We both set off laughing. God, I miss hanging out. Him and Todd, me and Ivy. We had some laughs.

  ‘You do look more presentable since you met him.’

  ‘That’s all Todd’s doing. He’s all about the metro. But seriously, the thing you called to talk about—this legal deal—is there anything you want me to do? I could go tear up some fool’s garden with the machine? Poison his plants?’

  ‘Nah. I appreciate it, but legal are on it. They’ve filed a suit against distribution, whatever the fuck that will do.’ The air between us is filled with a sudden pause, and I know what’s coming next.

  ‘Why’d you do a fool thing like that? Filming her is one thing but keeping it after you were through?’ Joe’s tone is filled with censure, as though the girl in question is his daughter and not my wife.

  ‘I didn’t do it to her. I did it with her.’ With her consent and incitement. Not that anyone would believe me. Sweet, innocent Ivy. Everyone’s nice girl—a nice girl who just happened to like fucking in front of a camera, I guess.

  If the lawyers can’t swing this case my way, the world just might find out how sweet Ivy really is. How hot she is. How sweet she sounds when she comes. See, I’m not sure who or how, but it seems Dynamic Entertainment has a recording of Ivy and me. Yeah, that kind of recording. And they’re talking about releasing it.

  I can’t let that happen. I can’t do that to her.

  ‘Y’all into some freaky shit and I just don’t know what to think. But you shoulda hit delete the minute you were through. That’s just—’

  ‘I get it. Please. I do.’

  ‘And you’ve got to let her go,’ he says softly.

  I thought I had. Was so sure my fucked-up plan would work—get her to LA, make her hurt, send her on her way, and then move the fuck on. Instead, I’m having trouble living with myself.

  ‘So this legal thing.’ His deep voice brings me out of my thoughts again. ‘Think it’ll work?’

  ‘I hope so.’ I let out a breath; my chin dips to my chest, my shoulders sagging along with the exhale.

  ‘And failing that?’

  ‘Her ass is painted all over the internet.’

  Plain and simple. If she’s not broken after the way I treated her in LA, then she’s about to be. The thought causes the fist around my heart to tighten; the lack of control I have over this whole fucked-up situation continues to take my blood to boiling point. The fact that Joe doesn’t know there’s already a recording of us fucking out there on the internet is something I’m not going to change. Because then I’d have to tell him I’d blackmailed her into coming to LA. I’d have to admit my sick motivations to one of the few people I’d call a true friend, which would be painful enough, but then I’d also have to tell him my attempt at revenge failed.

  Instead, my reality was tipped on its head. When it came down to it, I couldn’t let her fuck another man. I had to have her again, opening up wounds I’d covered with nothing more than an anger Band-Aid.

  I’m beginning to think I’ll never understand. Or get over her. And then my lawyer tells me this first recording—the one I’m responsible for releasing, the one from the whole fucked-up blackmail plan—might work in our disfavour. He says it could harm our case against the porn fucks who want to make it the next pay-per-view sensation.

  ‘Who sold it to the porn people, anyway? One of the trolls you’ve been fucking, no doubt.’

  Joe’s words sting, but I try to joke them off. ‘Trolls? Have you seen some of the tail I’ve had lately?’ Lately being a relative term. It’s been months since I got laid. Months since I partied at all, but some fuck still hacked shit off my drive.

  ‘Good lookin’ trolls, maybe, but trolls all the same. Hiding their real intentions and making you cross their palm with dollars in exchange for comin’ over their bridge.’

  ‘Not sure which fairy tales you’ve been reading,’ I say. ‘But I’ve never paid for sex. Never paid to come over any bridge.’ I laugh a little, swiping my hand over my chin.

  ‘Till now, maybe.’ And he has a point. ‘Lyin’, stealin’, cheatin’ no-good trolls,’ he repeats.

  ‘Seems whoever sold them the rights claimed to be Ivy, so they’re saying it was obtained by legal means. Legal are on to the supposed proof.’

  ‘No way—no fucking way!’ The inevitable pause. ‘But you asked her, right? Just to be sure?’

  ‘Come on, man. She wouldn’t. You know Ivy; she doesn’t like being the centre of attention anytime. The girl who wouldn’t even tell her family that she’d married me.’

  ‘She was going to.’

  ‘Yeah, so she said,’ I respond scathingly.

  ‘She told Todd the last time we hung out. Said she was looking at flights and had asked Ric about your schedule. Think she had it in her mind to surprise you.’

  Ric, with a c and not a k, is my agent and the pain in my ass I’m looking to swap out. He never mentioned this. And he would have—as a bad idea. The man looks at me like I’m the goose that laid his golden egg. I don’t like it, and I don’t like him. In fact, I like him less and less with each passing week, but I’m told that’s the sign of a good agent. The less likable I find him, the better for business he is. Still, I’m in the market for someone who wouldn’t sell their auld granny and look happy while doing it.

  ‘Could she have money problems?’ Joe asks tentatively. ‘It can make folks do desperate stuff.’

  ‘She’d sell a kidney first.’ Sell a kidney before she even admitted she knew me.

  He begins to laugh, attempting to mimic her accent. ‘Aye, I’m sure that wee girl surely would!’

  ‘Stick to landscaping and leave the accents to me.’

  ‘Like you’re even good at that sort of shit. So this new girl . . . we get to meet her or are we too real for her type.’

  ‘She’s—’ I was going to say she’s not that bad, that the stuff in the papers about her new age spiritual stuff is overblown, but it’s not.

  ‘She seems awfully young.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ I answer honestly.

  ‘The magazines at the grocery store would disagree.’

  I sigh, unintentionally. ‘You reading that shit now?’

  ‘Only while I’m waiting in line. They put your ugly mug on the front, and I want to know why. So I read, but I don’t buy. Between this girl and the singer, who’s way too young for you, and the half dozen between, I can’t keep up.’

  ‘I can’t ask a woman the time of day without there being something more between us as far as the media are concerned. You know that.’

  ‘I do know. I also know a love like you had with Ivy is hard to get over, no matter what went on. Your business; you don’t have to tell me, and I understand. But it’s business that needs to be put to bed before you go inviting someone else in.’

  ‘The truth of it is Georgia’s a friend. That’s all.’

  Not even that, really. But it’s too hard to expla
in. She’s someone who I can rely on for events; someone who wants to be seen with me but isn’t interested in seeing me. She knows I’m not interested in her like that, and truthfully, I think she likes the idea of my rep better than I do. And as for Talia, he’s right; she is too young, and it was purely work. Her people wanted the quintessential bad boy for her new music video, and I just happened to fit the bill. I’m doing well financially, but not so well that I can afford to turn down jobs yet. My working-class mentality is a good thing, according to Ric. He encourages, what he calls, my squirrelling away for those hard, rainy days. Not that he’ll be in that position much longer.

  ‘When’s this court case, anyway?’

  ‘Real soon.’ The sooner, the better. Maybe I’ll sleep better then.

  ‘Well, in the meantime, gimme an address. I’ll go deliver a shit tonne of manure to the porn fucker’s driveway.’

  ‘A literal shit tonne?’

  ‘I mean it, my friend. That girl might have left your ass, but she didn’t ask for any of this.’

  Joe may not know the full story; he knows enough about our beginning and middle, but nothing about what went down between us at the end, but he’s right about this. ‘I’m doing everything I can.’

  ‘Including telling Ivy?’

  ‘Scotland’s not in the next suburb,’ I scoff. ‘I have back-to-back commitments. Press junket tomorrow.’ I pull the phone from my ear and look at the clock. 3 a.m. ‘Fuck, actually today. I have a chat show to record in the afternoon then one live tonight. More press Saturday morning then the premiere and after party later. And after that few hours of sleep, if I’m lucky, an early Sunday morning flight back.’

  ‘See that thing you’re holding to your ear? It’s called a cell phone,’ he replies not unkindly. ‘I can’t believe the mighty Dylan Duffy, the man whose ego is as big as his billboards, can’t make it a few miles up the road. What’s the use of being a big shot movie star if you can’t do what you want from time to time?’

  If only he knew how owned my ass is. This business is a whirlwind, and I’m inside it, not steering. Besides, the case is heading to court next week, and that’s why I’d called him. I should be sleeping, but I can’t. A few words with my friend is a better decision than the bottle of whisky sitting by my elbow.

  ‘No time to call her. No time to visit? Maybe you should come back and work for me.’

  ‘I do miss working outdoors,’ I reply, playing along, even if it isn’t strictly true. I do miss working outdoors in the cooler months and the freedom I had, but I sure as shit don’t miss the pay cheque or summer swamp ass. Please, God, let me never have to tell her how close she came to winning a porn Oscar. ‘Think you can match my pay or get me laid as much?’

  ‘You’ve never had problems with that. Women dropped their underwear in the street every time you stripped to your shorts. Hell—I could make a sideline in hiring out panty bunting from the stuff left in your wake.’

  ‘It is what it is, my friend.’

  ‘Bullshit is what it is. Go see my girl. Bring her the bad news in person then tell her how you’re gonna fix that shit.’

  ‘Not gonna lie. I’m probably the last man on earth she’d like to see.’

  ‘Then the bad news you’ll be bringing won’t make much difference.’

  God, if you’re listening, let my guys win.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ivy

  ‘Let me introduce our next guest, the star of the upcoming film, Metropolis, Dylan Duffy!’

  Whoops and applause precede Dylan’s entrance as he steps through a garish beaded curtain, twinkling under the studio lights. Andrew Broughton, the slightly built and overly camp chat show host, springs from a bright red retro swivel chair to be enveloped into a tight, manly embrace. I expect he’s died and gone to little gay heaven at the mere whiff of Dylan’s aftershave.

  The audience’s appreciation continues as Dylan pulls back with a million-dollar smile spread wide across his handsome face.

  ‘That’s quite a welcome.’ Another round of applause greets Dylan’s rumbling response as he lowers himself onto a gaudy purple sofa.

  ‘I see you brought one or two people along with. Do you always travel with the fam?’ The presenter titters, covering his mouth with the tips of his fingers as though he’s said something scandalous.

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’ Dylan smiles shyly then waves in the audience direction. ‘Auntie Ann, keep the appreciation down, would ya? It’s kind of embarrassing.’

  I’m pretty sure Dylan doesn’t have an Auntie Ann.

  ‘Y’reckon they know each other?’ Natasha asks without turning her head.

  I don’t answer much beyond a shrug. Much like hers, my eyes are glued to Dylan. Dressed in a deep blue suit, he crosses one ankle over the opposite knee, a picture of manly ease and confidence. Most men look fine in a suit, but Dylan wears the shit out of his.

  ‘Are all famous people like that? All lovey-darling and insta-mates?’ In the periphery of my vision, I can see she’s turned her head along with her question. But from my position on the other end of the sofa, I don’t answer. I just shovel another forkful of Thai noodles into my mouth.

  ‘Like what?’ I mumble in answer, when it’s clear she’s waiting. The chants and whistles from the audience begin to settle, the pair on screen settling down for their interview. His hair is longer, and he hasn’t shaved. Across from me yet four hundred miles away, Dylan spreads his arms across the back of the sofa like he owns the place. Like he’s a goddamn movie star.

  My heart. It’s pained.

  ‘Y’ken that Andrew Broughton’s gay?’

  ‘I do.’ Beyond his trademark pink suit, he’s often pap’d with his boyfriend and shitzu. Those two are a bit of a giveaway.

  ‘And what d’you think?’

  ‘I think what he gets up to, or whatever gets up him, is his own business.’

  Nat snorts. ‘For you, that was almost funny. I meant in relation to dickalicious there.’

  ‘I really wish you wouldn’t call him that.’

  ‘So I should stick to the mighty aubergine on account of—’

  ‘You know what? Dickalicious is just fine.’

  ‘And to think, you could have gone down there and had a wee keek yourself.’

  ‘Yes because little Vlad here would look good in a catsuit.’ Over her own bowl of noodles, Nat frowns. ‘You know, breaking and entering? Sneaking into his room?’

  Because as it turned out, I wasn’t brave enough to turn up on his hotel this weekend. I doubt I’d have gotten past his security detail anyway.

  ‘So,’ Andrew B begins, turning my and Nat’s attention back to the screen, ‘the upcoming remake of an oldie. Metropolis was originally released in 1927; a German film, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. It was released in the Weimar period and so ahead of its time, as far as futuristic film goes.’

  ‘An urban dystopia,’ Andrew B reads from a card in his lap. ‘And the love of a sexy robot.’ His shoulders are almost at his ears as he adds, ‘Sounds like fifty shades of tin!’ Dylan laughs and begins his denials, cut off by the presenter again. ‘Dylan Duffy, we see you’ve become a teensy bit of an enfant terrible gone good these days.’ He holds his thumb and index finger together in some semblance of measurement. ‘Just a teensy bit, I think?’

  ‘Well, I . . .’ As though lost for an answer, Dylan slides a hand through his thick hair. As a distraction, it works well on me. Reminds me of my husband, not the man responsible for little Vlad. The one who’d open doors for me, the one I’d laughed with, danced with, drank with.

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’ His answer is part tease, part sexy smile.

  Cue the exhale of sighs and quivering ovaries because the audience is probably ninety-nine percent women and one percent men. Gay men.

  ‘Elaborate a little, shall I?’ Andrew B almost claps with glee. ‘Bon enfant, Dylan,’ he says, addressing a crowd, ‘has found himself the love of a good w
oman, hasn’t he?’ My Thai noodles turn to snakes in my stomach, slithering and cold. ‘Do we hear the tinkle of wedding bells?’

  ‘The fuckin’ beard,’ Nat grumbles.

  ‘If you’re hearing bells, I think you might’ve bumped your head.’ All drawling words and twinkling eyes, Dylan leans over and rubs the back of the much smaller man’s head, studiously avoiding his bald spot.

  ‘Look, he’s droolin’. Reckon he’s imagining him rubbing his other little head,’ scoffs Nat. ‘If that piece of man-meat was gon’nae go gay, it wouldn’t be for a twerp in a tartan three-piece suit, that’s for sure! He looks like he’s wearing a pair of curtains nicked from a hunting lodge—and bald men should never wear turtlenecks! He looks like a wee roll-on deodorant!’

  ‘When have you ever visited a hunting lodge?’

  ‘The point’s irrelevant. Watch your man.’ She points back at the TV screen with her fork, unaware how much of my man he really once was.

  ‘It wasn’t too long ago you were all for telling anyone who’d listen that Dylan Duffy was gay. And come to think if it, a few seconds ago, you called his potential fiancée a beard!’

  She shrugs, entirely unconcerned. ‘She is a beard, just maybe not in the pretend to be straight sense. I think she’s a studio plant.’

  ‘I can get with that.’ A Venus flytrap.

  ‘Really?’ Grabbing the remote from the cushion between us, she pauses the show with Dylan frozen in a moment of confident repose. Putting down her bowl, she turns bodily to face me, cross-legged. ‘You think he’s bisexual, too, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’ The word is expelled on the breath of a sigh. ‘He’s just really good at getting people to do what he wants.’