Free Hollywood Hot Mess by Evie Claire

tiny slits. He really is a fool if he thinks anything like that is going to happen here. I may play his whore on set, but I’ll chop his Sexiest Man Alive penis off if he brings it near me! I square my shoulders, replacing my angry glare with a smug sneer and grit my teeth. I’ll show him how this game gets played.
    In a huff, I grab the stack of magazines offered for in-flight entertainment. Newsweek. Money. Fortune. At least he’s predictable—boring, but predictable.
    Good thing I came prepared. I shed my leather jacket and stomp up the aisle in black skinny jeans and a tight black cami. Devon doesn’t look at me when I pass. He’s too busy pretending to work. Please! Like he really picks his own scripts.
    At the front of the cabin, I arch my back in a sexy stretch, thinking I’m all Sophia Loren, butt and chest poked out as I make an exaggerated production of reaching for the bag he stored in an overhead bin. I glance over my shoulder and suck air through my teeth when his attention is still firmly on the script in his lap. Oh no, he does not get to ignore me.
    I grab InTouch from a side pocket and close the door, flopping down in the chair across from him, ignoring the icy-cold sting of leather against my skin. My legs hang over the armrest, feet dangling in the aisle by his elbow. Still he doesn’t look at me. I clear my throat and open the magazine. Nothing. I swing my feet in the air, accidentally kicking his elbow.
    “You actually read that trash?” he asks. I smile behind the safety of my magazine. He’s playing my game now. Quickly, I peek down at my chest to be sure the V I’ve cut in the neck of my cami shows enough cleavage to make him uncomfortable, before I lower the magazine, smiling sweetly.
    “How else am I going to know what a bad girl I’ve been?” I pout, then delight when his eyes glance down at my cleavage. Immediately—not even taking time to focus on my exposed assets—his gaze pops up and catches me gloating like a sore winner.
    “It’s nothing but lies invented to entertain America, Miss Klein.” He sounds like a condescending academic and I level a cold glare at him now that his attention is elsewhere. What does he know?
    I flip through the magazine until I land on a two-page photo spread near the front.
    HeaVon and Angel—Hollywood power couple Heather Troy and Devon Hayes took time out of their busy schedules last week for a day of family fun at the zoo with their son , Angel.
    “All of it’s lies?” I tilt my head to the side and turn the magazine so he can see it. He looks up once again, squinting like old men do. A smile curls one side of his mouth, and he reaches for the magazine. I jerk it away, teasing him with a smile. Clearly unimpressed with my game, he tucks his chin to glance impatiently over his reading glasses. His look is so brusque I immediately bring the magazine back, fearing he might not play if I wait too long.
    With an I-thought-so nod, he takes the magazine and leans back to his side of the cabin, pushing his glasses up on his forehead as he brings the magazine closer to his face. Old-man eyes must be failing him. He shakes his head and rubs his left eye before lifting his brow. The glasses fall back into place.
    “Is this the current issue?” He runs his fingers over his lips as he turns back to me, resting his head on the seatback. His profile is bathed in soft light.
    “I got it when I left L.A.” I pick at the black nail polish marring my cuticles.
    “These pictures were taken last year when I filmed in Central Park. Heather and Angel stopped by the set. I took him to see the cats between takes.” He tosses the magazine into the air and it lands perfectly in my lap. I face forward with a huff, seething and smacking my lips in disgust. Through the corner of my eye I notice his head jerks up when I plop my grubby biker boots on the polished table in front of my chair. He says nothing and I leave them there.
    HeaVon is—hands down—the