Trashed (35 page)

My smile is automatic. I relax, and move with Adam naturally as we pivot slightly to give the photographers a different angle. And then he’s twining my fingers in his and we’re moving down the carpet toward the backdrop where Rose and Dylan are posing. They move off toward the theater, and it’s Adam’s and my turn. He has my hand in his, and we stand side by side, hands down and clasped, smiling, turning this way and that, more smiling. I ignore the fact that the flashes have blinded me so I’m seeing spots in front of my eyes.
 

And then Adam is stepping away from me, gesturing to me with a wave of his hand, smiling at me reassuringly. Oh god. Oh god. I’m standing alone, now, facing what feels like a firing squad of photographers. This is nothing like modeling. That was arranged, composed, one guy and a camera, directing me. I have to do this on my own. I stand with one hand on my hip, a knee popped, lift a shoulder, turn my head this way and smile. Look into one lens, change the tilt of my lips and look into a different camera, adjust my pose, turn and give them a look at the back of the gown, and my tattoo, which is scary.
The ache for home lives in all of us…

It’s a statement, and I chose it to make one, but having it be public, photographed and talked about? Oh god. Panic is bubbling up. The tattoo was always ’shopped out in the shots that went to the clients. That’s out of the question now, obviously. It’s out there and the conjecture will begin, the questions, the requests for interviews. They’ve already come, starting when Adam announced me as his date for the premiere.
 

“What’s your tattoo mean, Des?” The question comes from my right.
 

I face the man who asked it. “Adam is the only one who knows the answer to that,” I say, and offer a coy smile.

“He’s a lucky man, then,” the reporter says with a grin. “In a lot of ways.”

Adam steps close to me. “You have
no
idea, pal,” he says, a playful smirk on his lips.

And then we’re moving, Lawrence and his wife coming up the carpet toward us. Adam guides us into the foyer of the theater, where dozens of couples mill about, talking, laughing, smiling for yet more photographers, posing, doing impromptu interviews. We mingle, and I find myself dazzled by the easy manner with which Adam moves from conversation to conversation, greeting everyone by name, the men with a handshake, the women with a friendly hug. They all look at me, introduce themselves, and include me in their conversations.
 

This goes on for what feels like an hour, and at one point we’re cornered by a photographer and a young woman juggling a notepad, a cell phone and pen. She touches the screen of her cell phone and rests it on the top of the notepad and prepares to scribble. She asks Adam a series of questions about the film, which he answers confidently, and then she glances at me.

“So tell me about yourself, Des. How did you meet Adam? What made you quit modeling?”
 

I have absolutely zero clue how to answer that without losing my shit. I glance at Adam, swallow hard, and think fast. “I. Um. I met Adam on Mackinac Island when he was there for a charity dinner. And as for modeling…um.” I have
got
to stop saying um. Fuck. Get it together. “It just wasn’t right for me. New York was too hectic, and the hours just killed me.”

“Is there any truth to the allegations that you assaulted Ludovic Perretti?”
 

I blink. “I—that’s not something I feel comfortable talking about.”
 

Adam steps into me, forcing me to move away from the interviewer, putting himself in front of her. “That’s enough, Amy. Thank you.”
 

He even knows the names of the reporters. It’s crazy. I can’t remember anyone’s name unless I’ve met them more than once.
 

We’re moving through the crowd, and then I feel Adam go stiff beside me. “What the holy
fuck
is
she
doing here?” he hisses.

I scan the crowd, and I see her. Medium height with an hourglass figure, monster tits and sleek hips. Pouty bright red lips. Vivid blue eyes, long chestnut hair brushed to a glossy shine and floating in loose spirals around her slim shoulders. She’s wearing a scrap of slinky dove-gray silk that exposes as much as it covers without being exactly slutty. Four-inch cream heels, diamonds dripping from her ears and draped around her throat, dangling on her wrists.

God, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. It makes me feel immediately inferior, because I can’t deny how intensely, sensually lovely she is.

And she knows it. She’s the center of attention, the unexpected guest.
 

Emma fucking Hayes.
 

She sees me at the same moment that I see her, and she struts straight through the crowd of photographers and journalists and sycophants and panting men. “You must be Des,” she says in a voice that dripping with sultry sexuality.
 

“What the fuck are you doing here, Em?” Adam asks, not bothering to hide his animosity.

Cameras flash, cell phones are held up to record video.

“Well, Adam…I was invited by Drew.” She holds her hand out, and a man I remember meeting at the dinner on Mackinac moves to her side.

He’s tall and handsome with thick blond hair swept artfully to one side, and his hazel gaze rakes over me briefly. “Hey, Adam.”
 

I think Drew is one of the writers, or maybe a producer? I don’t remember. All I know is he seemed like an asshole then, and nothing has changed. He slides his arm around Emma’s waist, a snarky, shit-eating grin on his face. He’s taunting Adam, I realize, who is tense, taut.
 

“I see you’ve finally moved on,” Emma says, glancing at me, looking me over, assessing me, dismissing me.

Adam seems at a loss, for once. He wants to lash out, I think, but he doesn’t want to make a scene, especially with all the press looking on. I want to say something cutting, something intelligent and witty and hurtful.

“Nice implants,” is what I end up saying.

Adam snorts in an attempt to hold back laughter, and Emma goes red in the face, trembling all over. I worry for a moment that she’s actually going to attack me. Drew obviously thinks the same thing, because I see his arm tighten around her waist.
 

She’s silent for a moment, and I can see her jaw grinding. Eventually she sneers at me and says, “Just remember I had him first, bitch.”
 

What a comeback. I roll my eyes. “Which only makes me seem that much better.”
 

Adam pulls me away. “And that’s enough.” He glances back. “Goodbye, Emma. And Drew? Good luck, buddy. You’ll need it.”
 

And then we’re out of the foyer and moving toward the doors leading into the auditorium.
 

The reality of what I just did hits me. I just insulted Emma Hayes in a
very
public setting. I got
catty
. Jesus. What the fuck is wrong with me?
 

I hear people talking behind me, discussing me; the scene that just unfolded, and I twist to see people typing furiously on their cell phones. Tweeting, or Facebooking. Putting the whole ugly exchange out to the world on social media.
 

I stumble, and Adam catches me. “I can’t…breathe,” I rasp. “Get me out of here.”
 

He ushers me into a coatroom. A young girl in a theater uniform is leaning against a wall, cell phone in hand, a bored expression on her face. But then she sees Adam and she goes star-struck, stammers a hello, and starts toward him.
 

“Out,” Adam says, and the girl scurries out, ducking her head. He turns to me. “Des, babe, what’s wrong?”

I bend over, hands on my knees, and force myself to breathe in slowly. “I just…with Emma… ‘Nice implants?’ What the fuck was I thinking?”
 

Adam laughs. “That was probably the worst thing you could say to her, because, and this may be TMI, but they’re actually real. It makes her absolutely furious when people say that.”

“I insulted her at your premiere. Everyone was watching. There’s probably video on YouTube already. I can just see the tweets now: Hashtag catfight, Hashtag Des is a cunt.” Adam laughs even harder, and I finally straighten to glare at him. “Why the
fuck
are you laughing at me? Remember what I said about embarrassing you? Well, hello embarrassment. Yeah, that just happened.”
 

He takes a deep breath and pulls me close to him, holds me to his chest. “It was fucking funny, Des. I’m not embarrassed at all. I’m actually a little turned on that you got in her face over me.”
 

“One, you’re always turned on. And two, you probably just wanted to see us actually fight.”
 

He snorts. “You’d crush her like a fucking bug, babe.”

I press my forehead to his chest. “She’s so beautiful it’s not even fair.” I let out a frustrated sigh. “I mean, her tits are almost bigger than mine, and I’m twice her size. And they’re
real
? Come
on
. Not fucking fair.”

Adam groans. “Fuck me. You’re not going to obsess, are you? She’s beautiful, sure. But she’s not you, Des.”

“Which goes in her favor, I think.”

“Are you forgetting what she did to me?”
 

I shrug miserably. “So she’s a skank. I bet she gave better head than me.”
 

Adam pushes me to arm’s length. “For fucking real? Destiny. Jesus. She’s my ex. She broke my goddamned heart and did so publicly, without a scrap of remorse. And you’re comparing which of you gives better head? Come on, babe. Let it go.”
 

I just stare at him. “I notice you’re not denying it, though.”

“I’m not going to compare, Des. I
won’t.
You know why? Because there’s no comparison. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted in life. You’re tough. You’re sexy. You’re intelligent and hardworking and you know what you want. You have an absolutely voracious sexual appetite—”

“A voracious appetite, period, you mean.”
 

He nods. “Yeah, and that’s sexy to me too. You enjoy food. You enjoy life. You don’t play games.” Adam takes my face in his hands. “To me, you are better in every way. You kiss me better, you fuck me better, and yes, you go down better. More importantly, you
see
me, as you once said. You know me. You don’t just appreciate me for the way I look, or for the fact that I’m famous. You appreciate me for
me.
”

“Smooth talker.”
 

“It’s not smooth, Des, it’s the raw truth.”

“Well, whatever it is, it’s working.” I can’t help a smile from curving my lips.

“Good.” He touches my chin with an index finger, tipping my face up. His lips graze mine, his tongue drifts delicately across the seam of my mouth, probing, tasting. “Now let’s go watch the premiere, huh?”
 

And the premiere is fantastic. Adam is incredible. Not just the brutal fight scenes or the heart-stopping stunts, but the way he portrays his character, making him self-deprecating and darkly humorous, yet still badass and utterly, primally alpha.

God, this man is amazing, not just on film but in every possible way.

Chapter 18

I never get nervous anymore. I just don’t. I was nervous the first time I started in front of a packed home-crowd stadium at Stanford, I was nervous the first time I jogged out onto the Chargers field, and I was petrified when my first starring role in a big-budget, high-profile film hit the theaters.
 

But none of those experiences can hold a candle to the nerves blazing through me at this moment.
 

Which is beyond stupid. I shouldn’t be nervous. The chances of her saying no are slim to none. I know my girl, and I know she wants this. But I’m still nervous.
 

I’ve waited a long time for this. Months of traveling between Detroit, L.A., and two different shoots in different parts of the globe. I shot the cop drama in Detroit, and then I did a small-budget, character-driven piece shot largely in a studio in L.A. I had two months free which I spent in Detroit with Des. And then that time was followed by a massive historical project filmed in a studio in London and on-location in Germany and Spain.
 

And the whole time, I knew what I wanted. I wanted her, in my home. In my bed. No more brutal long-distance flights, no more splitting time between cities, no more nights alone. But I had to wait. She worked too damn hard for her degree for me to get in the way. So I waited.

And now she’s done. She graduated last week. I arranged the shoot schedule in Spain around her graduation and flew in the day before and surprised her with a custom-designed sapphire pendant. She doesn’t let me buy her a lot of extravagant gifts, so when there’s a reason to get her something that she can’t argue with, I go big.
 

The pendant was only the first part of her graduation gift. The second part is a secret trip. We’re on a private jet right now, flying south out of Detroit. I refused to tell her where we’re going, and I only let her pack a handful of dresses, some shorts and tank tops, and a few bathing suits. So she knows we’re going somewhere warm, but that’s it.

My buddy Dawson and his wife Grey recently bought property in the Caribbean. Now, when I say ‘property’, I mean half an island. And the only reason it’s not the whole thing is because I bought the other half. The salary for the historical war movie I just did was my biggest payout yet, and I haven’t spent much of what I’ve made in the last four years, except for taxes and the penthouse.

So when Dawson came to me with a plan to team up and split the cost of a small island, I jumped at it. Monster, fifty thousand square-foot palaces in Beverly Hills don’t appeal to me, and I suspect they don’t to Des either. The condo is fine, and still more than two people need. But a sprawling tropical estate on a private island, indoor-outdoor living spaces and no neighbors for literally a hundred miles in any direction—except Dawson and Grey on the other side? Hell yeah.