The Scene Stealer: A Hollywood Romance

“Yeah,” I breathe out, my voice sounding unfamiliar to my own ears.

“My dad is taking care of everything, okay? He’s not going to let his brother destroy you again. You’ve been doing so well, Devyn. We have a plane to catch in three hours, meet me downstairs in one, okay? Devyn?”

“Yeah, okay,” I reply as I set the phone back on the desk without ending the call, knowing that Tessa will do the honors.

I stare at the mirror before me, not seeing myself as a man, but as the teenager that had to emancipate himself from his parents after my first round of rehab, as the child that craved love and attention but instead only knew how a family was portrayed on television.

My gaze doesn’t waver until Elena turns over in her sleep, bringing my attention away from the mirror. And suddenly, I feel trapped. Trapped by Hollywood. Trapped by my agent. Trapped by my memories.

And I want to escape.

I hurry through packing my things, not even taking a moment to shower, tugging on a black Ramones T-shirt, a pair of cargo shorts, and some sneakers as I toss random items into my suitcase. I don’t fold anything and the luggage barely zips.

Key card in hand I move toward the door and then remember my overnight guest. I try to come up with a way to avoid the confrontation from yesterday when my eyes land on her phone resting on the nightstand. Grabbing the device, I’m surprised to find that she doesn’t have a security lock turned on and I pull up her recent contacts, finding Michael instantly. I shoot him a message to come get her because I’m checking out and then place the phone back on the nightstand.

Without a backward glance, I leave the room. Dick move, I know, but Elena is and was nothing more than someone to scratch an itch and warm my bed.

Down in the lobby of the hotel, I toss my key card on the front desk, knowing that they’ll email me the receipt for the stay, and make my way toward the revolving doors. Just as I step free from the glass enclosure, I stop dead in my tracks. A car rumbles to a halt in front of the valet and my interest is piqued.

The older man steps from the vehicle and I walk right up to him.

“Sir, I will give you a hundred grand right now if I can buy your car.”

~

The Porsche 911 Targa runs like a dream. It’s still unbelievable that the man willingly sold me his car (which he was taking to a potential buyer waiting at a local coffee shop).

Sparing a glance at the map resting on the passenger seat, I take another quick look before ruminating at having no earthly idea where I am. I know that I’m somewhere in Colorado, but I haven’t passed a major town for about an hour and a half. On either side of the road, all that’s visible to my eyes are open fields. I’ve only seen one other car on this highway since I left Pueblo.

It’s open, vast, and empty; a stark reminder of how I feel with my parents popping back up into my life again. I feel so defeated by them that I’m not sure how much fight I have left in me.

Squinting my eyes, I adjust to the bright light beaming off the asphalt as I do a double-take driving by a haggard man walking down the shoulder of the road. His jeans are covered in a heavy layer of dirt, as is his red shirt. A brown ball cap sits on his head, shielding his face from the sun, but I can tell by the weathered skin of his arm that he’s older. The bottle dangling from his fingertips attracts my attention as I zip past him and I begin to wonder if that is where I’ll end up one day. A wanderer with only one thing worth his time – a bottle.

Beneath my hands, the steering wheel begins to shake as the car sputters. Cautiously, I maneuver the vehicle onto the side of the road and lift the hood of the car. I gaze into the engine bay hoping that something pops out at me to tell me what’s wrong, but I’m left staring into an abyss of pipes and coils.

“Dammit!” I shout to no one, merely reminding myself that my life is turning into one big fuck up.

Leaning through the passenger window, I reach for my cell phone just as the man I had driven past a minute ago approaches. A normal person would be wary of a stranger coming closer on this desolate part of the road. Suffice it to say, I am not a normal person.

“Hey,” I call out as he reaches the tail of my car.

The man lifts a hand in the air as a greeting, tips the brim of his hat back from his face, and exposes two dark and trusting eyes. “Hey there, son. You got yourself a problem?”

“I’m not really sure. I don’t know a whole lot about cars.”

“Well, you’ve found the right man. Let me take a look. She sure is a beaut.” The stranger takes an appreciative walk around the car, then dips his head under the hood to examine the engine.

“I’m Devyn, by the way. I appreciate you stopping.”

Lifting his head above the raised hood, he gives me a once-over before cracking a smile against his worn lips. He seems to struggle with the motion as if he hasn’t had a reason to smile in a while.

“I’m Jeff, nice to meet you. Could be the alternator or the distributor, won’t know until I get her to my shop.”

“Your shop?” I question as he re-latches the hood to the frame of the car.

“Yep. I own a shop in the town about fifteen minutes down the road from here. You can walk with me. I’m headed there now.”

“Oh, um. . .” I hesitate looking back at my car, not wanting to leave the $100,000 piece of metal and rubber sitting on the side of the road.