Read Online Hollywood Hot Mess by Evie Claire - Free Book Online Page B

me away from the dark places.
    “Um, do you have a blanket?” I bite my lip and continue to stare down my nose at the seat like it might bite.
    “A blanket? Sure.” He disappears. I pull my hair into a messy topknot and toss my phone on the table. He reappears with a fluffy beige throw. Of course, it’s cashmere. Only the best for Devon Hayes.
    “My god, you look just like Dylan!” Ernest whispers, looking at my topknot like it’s created some miracle makeover. I check my reflection in the black windowpane, but see nothing different.
    “Who’s Dylan?” My face wrinkles in confusion.
    Ernest’s face washes into that slack look people get when they worry they’ve said too much. He chances a glance over his shoulder to Devon, who’s still buried in his scripts. By the time he turns back to me, all traces of shock have vanished from his face, replaced by a soft smile.
    “Just an old friend.” Ernest turns back down the aisle and disappears into the kitchenette without further explanation. Whatever , weirdo. I grab the hem of the blanket and fan it out in the air so it settles over the seat, quickly slipping into place without touching any of the offending leather. I really don’t understand why everyone insists on leather seats. It’s just to show off their wealth. Leather is really a vile material, nothing but hot, sticky animal skin. The thought of it sends another shiver up my spine and I shake it off with a sarcastic gag.
    “Something wrong, Pigtails?” Devon asks from where he sits in the front row like the king he likes to think he is. The urge to punch him resurfaces. I fucking hate being called Pigtails.
    “Don’t call me that,” I snarl. He cranes his head around the side of his seat and snakes one ridiculously muscled arm down toward the floor, a curious smile curving around the highlighter he now has clamped between his teeth. What is it with this man attracting attention to his mouth? His glasses are back on, giving him that preppy, CEO-in-charge-who-will-still-beat-your-ass look that makes women melt.
    “Fair enough. Something wrong, Carly ?”
    “I don’t think cows should have to die to give me something to sit on,” I snap.
    His eyes sparkle as he looks down at the sleeve of my black leather jacket, then back to me, raising an entertained eyebrow before he disappears behind the ivory leather. I roll my eyes at the back of his seat and grab my phone from the table, inserting the earphone plug into its jack. Thankfully the music blares into my ears loudly enough to drown out the stuffy old-man opera music floating from discreetly hidden speakers in Devon Hayes’s flying yacht.
    I close my eyes, and the music takes me to my own world where Mr. Asshole up front can no longer reach me.
    Honestly? I’ve never flown private, something that gnaws at my insides the entire time I’m quietly relishing the experience without blowing my cover. I could have flown private, had I had the kind of parents that gave a shit about their kid’s future. But how in the hell is an eight-year-old supposed to know any different?
    “Wait a minute! Where’s everybody else?” I startle awake, blinking and rubbing my eyes for clarity. Panic floods my stomach when I see the jet is nearly empty. The twinkling lights of the runway are gone when I peer out the oval window. Nothing but a steady red wing light and a flashing white strobe interrupt the black sky zipping by.
    Devon’s up front, his head still buried in a script. Ernest and a hulking black man are eating at the conference table. After a few empty seconds with no response, Devon’s head pops around the chair. His glasses sit low on his nose like a grandpa, and his reading light illuminates his gray hair to silver.
    “They got called back to set last-minute. Some mix-up with something. They’ll meet us tomorrow.” He turns back around, not waiting for a reply. Now, I know exactly what game he’s trying to play. The world blurs when my eyes pull into