Hollywood Hot Mess Read Free Page A

him his cigarettes. “Thanks for the smoke. Sorry I was a bitch.” He doesn’t say a word, too stunned to move. The chauffeur helps me into the SUV and we slide into traffic.
    I’m not supposed to smoke in here, but for some reason the driver doesn’t ask me to put it out. He must know what a shit experience I just had. I have more than earned this damn cigarette. I try to tell myself it isn’t a big deal. I peed in a cup in front of a woman who spends all day, every day, watching people pee in a cup. Just because I’m famous...or used to be...doesn’t technically make my pee any different. It’s not like she’s going to sell it on eBay.
    What is a big deal is the interview Jerrie scheduled for today. I mean come on. I haven’t had my hair highlighted in months. I look atrocious. The only silver lining I see is this shiny SUV the magazine hired to drive me to and from the interview.
    It’s late afternoon when I slide from the Tahoe’s backseat, black jeans, black tank and my need-to-see-a-stylist blond hair twisted into a messy bun. People on the sidewalk stare. They always do. But no one recognizes me, and I hate the part of me that wants someone to. America used to love me as much as they do Devon Hayes. Now I’m another forgotten child star whose life went tragically awry.
    Jerrie swears this interview is nothing major. A back-of-the-magazine fluff piece the studio hopes will breathe life back into my flatline career. I’ve told myself all day it isn’t a big deal. But it is. Without the movie to talk about, all that’s left is me. Who wants to hear that pathetic fall-from-grace tale of woe? Not me. Standing in front of the coffee shop in a perfect fall breeze, I feel like I’m facing Oprah’s cream leather couch. My stomach churns, and I swallow against the jagged rock lodged in my throat. I tell myself I’m tougher than this and push through the glass door with borrowed bravado.
    Inside, the stale scent of roasted coffee beans and hipsters assaults my nose. It’s all dark wood, burlap bags and chrome. Patrons huddle close to softly glowing laptop screens. Not a single eye turns my way. Until...
    “Carly!” My name is trumpeted from a dim corner and the next second a short, round brunette is hurtling toward me. Before I can duck her, she wraps me up in a stranglehold hug. I’m frozen in some awkward position with one hand shielding my face and the other clutching my cross-body bag.
    The downside of D-list fame? Sometimes you do get recognized. Ten times out of ten, it’s a nut job like this. A few years ago I rolled with it, still desperate to be the little pigtailed girl America wanted. These days, I’m perfectly fine being the bad girl America loves to hate. Being a bitch is infinitely more fun. I wriggle my arms between us and break her anaconda grip.
    “Excuse me. Do I know you?”
    The brunette recoils momentarily, beyond bewildered. Seconds pass before she erupts in awkward laughter that makes everyone stare.
    “Do I know you?” She cackles like a beady-eyed parrot. “You’re funny, Carly. Rehab turned you into a real comedian!” She takes my elbow and pulls me toward the back. I’m so shocked by her reaction I stumble along at her heels. “I’ve gotten us a private table.”
    Wait...what? Is this lunatic my interview?
    We approach a table separated by half-wall partitions near the restrooms. A laptop, tape recorder and notepad sit neatly arranged in front of her seat. Great, I apparently have an interview with a madwoman who thinks we’re long-lost BFFs. This day can’t get any better.
    “I ordered your coffee.” She points to a steaming cup opposite her. “Still take it black with a sprinkle of cinnamon?” Thankfully, her attention is on her laptop. Shock washes over me. Even an obsessed fan wouldn’t know how I take my coffee. Would they? I slide into a cold metal chair. Its icy back freezes my bare arms.
    Jessica is printed across her laptop in hot-pink vinyl letters.