Addicted

Dottie shakes her head. “Talia, listen to me. The Zombie Prom franchise? It’s dead.”

“No kidding,” I quip, amazed at my wit this early in the morning.

Dottie huffs out a breath, clearly irritated with me. “I’m being serious, Talia. As soon as the investors heard you were starring in those films, they all pulled out. Now the creative team is doing the best they can to—”

I fling the arm from my face, my eyes wide. “What? What do you mean they pulled out?”

“Talia, I don’t think you realize that you have quite a reputation. Ever since The Adventures of Talia and Bunny-Bun went off the air, you’ve done the best to distance yourself from your television persona. And boy, have you. The parties, the drinking, the boys—you’ve scared everybody away. The female protagonist in Zombie Prom is supposed to be a nice, virginal, naive high-schooler...”

“What? I’m nice. I’m virginal—”

Dottie cuts me off with a pointed look.

I raise my hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, so I’m not the Talia from that kids’ show anymore, running around with a puppet on my hand... But that doesn’t mean they can just give me a part and then take it away!” I can hear my own voice edging on desperation and I hate it.

“It’s Hollywood. You and I know better than anyone that they can do anything they damn want. According to the press, there isn’t anything nice, virginal or naive about Talia Truman anymore. And that’s just the way it is.”

My heart sinks.

The Zombie Prom series was a cultural phenomenon—the books had stayed at the top of bestseller lists for the better part of a year and had a ravenous following. The three movies I was set to star in were bound to be wildly successful. Fans were obsessed with the love story of the shy, teenaged outsider, Stella Craven, and the new guy in town, Archibald Benjamin. Archie had been a Revolutionary War soldier who came back to life as a zombie and for some reason, despite all his zombie powers, decides to spend his time attending high school. The three books are essentially one long prelude before the two finally consummate their weird relationship on prom night. Sure, half of Archie’s face is rotting flesh, but apparently he has great abs. Sure, his jaw hangs slack whenever he opens his mouth, but he also showers Stella with compliments and worships her, whenever that mouth’s open, too. High school girls ate that shit up. Even adult women were getting “Archie + Stella FOREVER” tattooed on their lower backs.

It was the absolute dumbest trilogy of books I had ever read—the only reason I got through them was because I was stoned—and the script called for me to bite my lip and faint a lot, but if they paid me as much as the contract said, I’d do the film even if it was just two solid hours of me doing naked cartwheels in a fast food parking lot. Plus, one of the biggest Hollywood heartthrobs had signed on to play Archie and it wouldn’t exactly be hard to suck face with him—while he used all his willpower not to suck out my brains—even if he was caked in zombie makeup.

I’d be making bank, making my career comeback and, most importantly, making out. And now Dottie is telling me it’s all gone. I wasn’t about to give up that role without a fight, that was for sure.

“What can I do to convince them to let me keep the part?” I ask. “There has to be something I could do. I’ll do anything, Dottie.”

Dottie leans forward and steeples her fingers. “I’m so glad you said that, Talia.”

Dammit. I’ve seen that look on her face before. I can only imagine what kind of scheme she’s thought up this time.

“Wha-at?” I ask fearfully, drawing out the single syllable as my eyes narrow.

“I have a rather unorthodox idea, but I think it’ll get you back on the press’s side. Get people rooting for you, supporting you.”

I stare at her expectantly, waiting for her to elaborate.

And then she says it.

“I think you should go to rehab.”

Oh, shit.

“Sex-addiction rehab,” she clarifies.

A ragged sigh of relief escapes me. “Oh, thank god. At first, I thought you were expecting me to stop drinking.” Then the reality of what she expects me to do sinks in. “Wait, what? What do you mean sex addiction rehab? Dottie, I’m not a sex addict.”

She rolls her eyes. “I know that. It would just be a stunt. People do this kind of thing all the time.” She says it like she’s casually suggesting I try a new diet or take up kickboxing. She flips her hand over, inspecting her long fingernails shellacked with a garish sparkly red polish.

“Are you insane? No, Dottie, I’m not going to go to rehab for something I don’t have!”

Dottie fishes a glossy pamphlet from the depths of her tote bag. She spreads her arms a few feet apart, opening the pamphlet up wide. “Really, Talia. Look at this place. It’s practically a spa—there are three pools, a sauna, a hot tub, personal massages, acupuncture, a bunch of holistic crap... I could go on and on. It’s pretty much why half of the people come to this place—just to get away for a few weeks and unwind.”

I sigh deeply and Dottie can tell she’s losing me.

“Come on, Talia. You know how you do those cleanses? It’ll be just like that. Like a vacation.”

“So you’re comparing this whole rehab thing to when I do a juice cleanse and fire comes out my ass? Great. I’m sure it’ll be just like that.”

“No, I mean it’ll be like a cleanse for your mind. You’ll have your own private room. No one will bother you or even see your face outside of the group activities. Just lie low and relax and when you leave, this whole Zombie Prom fiasco will be fixed. What do you say?”

I prop myself up on my elbows and halfheartedly reach for her with one hand. “Let me see the pamphlet.”

Dottie leans forward and passes me the glossy, creased paper. Holding it in my wet hand wrinkles the paper slightly.

I look it over. The building is a giant white Colonial house with an ornate wraparound porch, which seems very outside the norm for California. Vibrant colored flowers fill the flower boxes on every window. Charming. Maybe they’re trying to do the down-home, back-to-your-roots, organic thing that’s so popular nowadays. I flip over the paper and view the snapshots of the amenities. Just as Dottie said, there’s a hot tub bubbling enticingly as a purply-orange sunset paints the background. A “candid” shot of a masseur rubbing down a patient—who has a content smile plastered on her face, her eyes closed—catches my eye. Well, of course she’s happy, I think—she’s in sex rehab getting felt up by a masseur so hot he could pass as a male model. His muscles are so large he’s dangerously close to busting out of his pristine white polo shirt.

I hold up the picture to Dottie. “Will that guy be there?” I tease.

Dottie’s face lights up. “I can check for you!”

I snort. “Nice try, Dottie, but there’s no way I’m going. The only way you’d get me in that place was if you physically dragged me there.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Talia,” Dottie admonishes. “Think about it. It’d just be something to get you in the news, garner sympathy, get people talking. Show people that you’re really trying to better yourself. Go in for two weeks and then hold a press conference talking about how you’re repenting for all that transpired in your former life and how you’re celibate now. Show them that you really are as meek and innocent as Stella Craven.” Dottie removes her sunglasses and cleans them with the hem of her zip-up sweatshirt. “Plus, sex rehab doesn’t have the negative stigma that real rehab does, you know? So depressing.”

I take a moment to take it all in. The woman does have a point. My mind is spinning—and it’s not just from the hangover. There are so many things I want to say to Dottie. I want to scream at the absurdity of it all, laugh even. But, in the end, I look back down at the pamphlet and all I can think of is: Dottie is one piece of work...and kind of a genius.

“How many days did you say?” I ask sweetly.

“Two weeks.”

I shrug. “I can do that.”

Dottie’s chest deflates with relief.

I rub my eye and one of my false eyelashes sticks to the back of my hand. “So where in LA is this place?”

“Well, that’s the thing.”

“What thing?” I ask cautiously.

“Well...” Dottie hesitates. “It’s not in LA. Actually, it’s not in California.”

“Then where is it?” I ask, massaging my temples, feeling a stronger headache coming on. I don’t think I can take any more surprises this early in the morning.

Dottie bites her lip and then finally spits it out. “Just outside of Nashville.”

“Nashville as in Nashville, Tennessee?”