Total Trainwreck Read Online Free PDF

catwalk models from the revolving door, dressed head to toe in designers we can’t pronounce, certain we look absolutely fabulous. Maria is smiling like the old Maria Rhodes, and Devon Hayes is the last thing on my mind. The chauffeur takes our shopping bags and holds our doors. I splurged—even bought us new Louis Vuitton duffels. Because why not? I’m rich, bitch.
    “How hot does Maria look in that dress?” I slap Spence’s arm playfully, because he has yet to take his eyes off her. Maria fakes a demure blush—a trick I’ve got to get her to teach me—and slides into the backseat with a smile. It is indeed true that serious shopping has the same effect on the female brain as hard drugs. I should know. Looking at Maria and me, you’d think we just took down a lion’s share of pills and booze.
    “Where ya taking us for dinner, Spence?” Maria asks. We share a second-row bucket seat, because who wants to ride way in the back by themselves?
    “Look at you two,” Spence says admiringly. “I knew you couldn’t stay mad at each other forever!” He laughs at us good-naturedly. “My investment guy is meeting us at Soho House.”
    “Soho House?” Maria exclaims. I swallow my excitement, trying to act like this isn’t such a huge deal. Soho House is a members-only VIP club. Cool kid central for the entertainment industry. It’s so exclusive no one has the first clue how in the hell you become a member. It just appears one day in your life and you’re like, okay, maybe I am a badass! The best part is no paparazzi and no annoying hanger-on types. Just creative industry professionals. Which is totally what I am these days.
    We pull into an underground garage and are whisked up to the penthouse level in a plush elevator that reeks of Hollywood money. The foyer greets us like an old friend. It’s carefully crafted to make you think you are dining at your coolest companion’s personal home. It’s beyond fabulous, but in a comfortable, relaxed way that is so anti-Los Angeles. The materials are real—reclaimed herringbone wood floors, worn-to-perfection armchairs and couches you want to sleep on. A pergola-covered rooftop garden teleports you to Tuscany. But the most coveted seat in the place is one along the sweeping 360-degree view of L.A. Natives have a love-hate relationship with this town. But when you see the city from the top floor, far enough away to drown out the annoying people that populate it, you fall in love all over again.
    We’re enjoying the view, waiting on Spence’s money manager to meet us, when I see him.
    My throat constricts. My insides crumble. My heart ricochets off my brain and crashes to my toes. And apparently I’ve lost the ability to think clearly, because I’m running across the room to him before I realize what I’m doing.
    Devon Hayes sits at a prime table under the Tuscan pergola. Like the king he is, slightly above the crowd, on display for all to see. Beside him, an untouched salad and water glass branded with harlot-red lipstick sit at a place that should be mine—a place I so desperately want to be mine. The whore it belongs to is MIA.
    His face turns down. Swirling his scotch, he looks a million miles away and absolutely miserable. My god, I need him. I want him. I have to have him. And I’m seconds away from getting him when a body blocks my path.
    I’m totally blindsided, caught off guard and beyond confused. Hands grip my forearms and forcefully push me back to a quiet alcove.
    “No!” I protest being dragged away. Devon hears my cry. His head snaps around like a whip and for one glorious second our eyes lock. Immediately, the miserable cloud hanging over him blows away. Relief lights his face. His mouth falls open to speak. A single hand rises in my direction. The next second, Tiny appears at his side, places a hand in his lower back, whispers in his ear and begins to lead him away.
    Devon breaks our gaze and doesn’t look back. Tiny ushers him to a nearby exit