Addicted

“The one and only.”

“Are you serious? I’ll be bored out of my mind!” I protest.

“It’s the only one I could find that would take you,” Dottie says dejectedly.

I shake my head, but not enough that Dottie realizes that I’m royally pissed. I hate how my lifestyle after The Adventures of Talia and Bunny-Bun ended made the press demonize me. Sure, I had a few drunken nights and dated around. But that was called no longer being fourteen. Any guy who got off a kid’s show and dated twice as much as me was “becoming a man.” Just because I was a chick and twenty-four, I was all of a sudden deemed a slut when the paparazzi snapped a picture of me with my hand in the back pocket of a dude’s jeans instead of up a rabbit puppet’s ass. The whole double standard infuriated me. Because if it didn’t exist, I would never have been forced to even consider Dottie’s insane plan.

“Wow, that makes me feel a whole lot better,” I grumble.

Dottie peels herself off the lounge chair and kneels on the cement, then leans down to take my face in both of her hands. I feel the gold rings she’s wearing press against my face, which is most definitely sunburned, I realize, and I wince.

“Listen. You’re a talented girl. I wouldn’t be your manager if you weren’t. Now the director took a big chance on you because he recognizes all that you’re capable of, but if there are no investors, these films won’t get made. You have to do this.” She lightly pinches one of my cheeks and gives me a sad smile. “Now when have I ever steered you wrong?”

I think of the time she convinced me to be the spokesperson of a streaky self-tanner and when I invested millions in a failed chain of sushi-German food hybrid restaurants—Mein Herring—but stay silent.

I know she’s buttering me up because she gets fifteen percent of all my Zombie Prom money, which is the one reason she’d never quit. I sigh. What other choice do I have?

“Fine, I’ll go,” I say while waving a hand in the air dismissively.

“And you won’t cause any trouble?” Dottie asks, a warning in her voice.

I reach up and pinch one of her Botoxed cheeks. “Now when have I ever caused trouble?”

Dottie rolls her eyes before she stands up, slings her bag over her shoulder and walks toward the sliding door at the opposite side of the patio. The heels of her incredibly high tomato-red patent leather sandals click on the pavement.

“Oh, and by the way, Talia?” Dottie calls over her shoulder. “I’d suggest you put some clothes on before Sydney arrives to help you pack.”

Puzzled, I look down at myself and discover I’ve been talking to my nearly eighty-year-old manager for the past fifteen minutes while completely topless.

Maybe I am a bigger mess than I thought.

Chapter Two

Standing in front of my massive walk-in closet, opening the double doors with both hands like I’m Willy Wonka welcoming children into my candy factory, I turn to Sydney and coolly ask, “Now what exactly does one wear to rehab?”

Her focus solely on the clock hanging above my bed, Sydney barely notices my attempt at humor. She looks down at her watch and then back up at the clock, her eyes narrowing.

“Your clock is fifteen minutes fast.”

I laugh because it’s so typically Sydney. She’s been my assistant since I turned eighteen and when I first met her, I knew she was the perfect choice for the job. She was someone who would stick around and be able to handle the pressure—and for the last six years, she had. Before Syd came along, Dottie used to say that I went through assistants like toilet paper. Syd’s from the Midwest, incredibly hardworking and always wears some variation of black pants, a button-up shirt and her hair slicked back into a tight ponytail, making her look like the assistant manager of a chain family restaurant even though she’s just two years older than me. She graduated from college at twenty and despite being much smarter and more responsible than I’ll ever be, it took us a day to become besties. Dottie says Sydney is the exact opposite of me, which is a good thing. In all, Syd keeps my ass in gear.

“Will you calm down, Syd? We’re going to make the flight, I promise. Besides, that clock is fifteen minutes fast so I’m always on time.”

Sydney scoffs. “But you’re never on time, Talia.”

I shrug. “The clock makes me less late, at least. I like it.”

“Well, it’s making me tense. I’m going to fix it.” She flings off her orthopedic-looking sandals and is about to step on my bed when I wave her down.

“No, no, don’t worry about that. You need to help me figure out what I’m going to wear.”

Sydney’s eyes widen as she raises a hand, her index finger pointed toward the ceiling. “Wait. I think that’s in the patient-behavior manual the rehab sent you.” Sydney sifts through the piles of stuff on my bed until she finds and lifts up a two-inch binder stuffed with pristine white paper.

“Okay, let’s see. Clothing, clothing...” She chews on her bottom lip as she flips through the thick stack of pages like a deck of cards. “Okay, here we go.” She clears her throat before reading from the manual. “‘Female patients are not permitted to wear any sexualized items of clothing, including too-tight tops and pants. Skirts and dresses, no matter the length, and all forms of makeup are not permitted. Sweatpants and loose-fitting tops are encouraged. Jewelry, as long as it’s small and tasteful, is allowed.’” Sydney looks up at me. “Got it?”

“So that means I shouldn’t bring my nipple clamps? Because in some circles, they are considered jewelry,” I say thoughtfully, twirling a strand of my jet-black hair between my fingers.

She rolls her eyes. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

“Okay,” I say on an exhale.

I walk to the far left side of my closet and gather up a section of grungy workout clothes in a bear hug and tug them off the rack, then throw them into one of my open suitcases on my bed next to Sydney, hangers and all.

“Seems good enough to me,” I say through gritted teeth, grunting as I struggle to zip up the bag.

Sydney eyes the pile and sighs.

“What?” I say innocently. “You said we didn’t have a lot of time.”

She glances back at her watch and makes a sound like she just choked. “Yes, yes, you’re right. Let’s get going.”

She bends down to grab my bags—there are three in all—but I put a hand on her arm to stop her.

“Syd, can I ask you a question?”

Most likely surprised by my earnestness, Sydney looks around for a second before responding, “Of course. What’s up, Tal?”

“What do you think of this whole rehab thing? Do you really think it’s going to change the public’s perception of me? And what if I do it and the Zombie Prom investors still hold their ground and I end up doing this whole thing for nothing?”

Syd puts both her hands on my shoulders like she’s a coach giving the star football player a pep talk during halftime. “You’re going to put in your two weeks and it’ll all work out. I’ve got a good feeling about this.” She shakes me gently and a piece of her straight brown hair falls out of her ponytail.

“Really?” I brighten at the thought. “So you think this’ll work?” I ask, genuinely surprised.

“Hell if I know,” Sydney remarks, her green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But it’ll be fun to watch you and find out.”

* * *

We make it to the plane two seconds before they close the gate, Sydney shooting me that I-told-you-so look she’s been perfecting lately as we take our seats. Because we bolted from the limo to the gate—Sydney’s clompy black shoes no doubt leaving tire mark-like tracks on the airport’s shiny polished floor—none of the paparazzi at LAX saw us. But when we land in Nashville, it’s an entirely different story.

Once we pass through security, a sea of eager faces begin yelling at me and thousands of cameras flash like a lightning storm. The crowd is mostly comprised of men with scruffy beards and scraggly hair that looks like its been unwashed for days. Many of them wear all black from head to toe, squinting one eye closed, concealing half of their faces as they draw large cameras to their cheeks. I recognize a few of them, having seen them lurk around Los Angeles many times before; I’m a little shocked that they’d come all the way out here, waiting for me. In true Dottie fashion, she must have tipped everyone off.

“Talia! Over here! Smile for me, Talia! You look beautiful—pull your shirt down a little!”

“We heard you’re going to sex-addiction rehab, Talia. How many guys have you slept with?”

“You look a little skinny, Talia—are you eating? Doing any drugs?”

I roll my eyes, never surprised by their brashness and bold questions. How would they like it if someone said that to their sister or their mother? I can’t help but think. I feel an elbow press against my ribs and, as always, they’re too close. I want to yell at them to back it up, give me some space, but if I do I know they’ll instantly turn on me. My face will be on the front cover of a newspaper with some sort of damning headline—Bad Girl of Hollywood Assaults Photographer—and that’s not what I signed up for. I’m nice Talia now—naive, virginal—and so I lower my head with a meek smile.