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Addicted
Zoey Williams
Talia Truman is a manager's worst nightmare. A former child star, Talia traded in her braids and became a smart-mouthed party girl with a penchant for bad boys and even badder decisions.(Usually involving alcohol.) With a massive movie deal on the line, however, Talia needs to keep herself - and her purple thong panties - out of trouble. But sex-addiction rehab? Definitely not her idea…Unfortunately, being stuck in rehab with emerging country music star Matt Skyler - aka The Most Delicious Man Talia Can't Have - is testing Talia's newfound chastity. All she wants to do is fall off the wagon and onto Matt. But Matt isn't exactly the bad boy she thought he was. In fact, Talia is starting to suspect that this cowboy might secretly be a total gentleman. And worse still, she likes that.Now, under the blinding glare of the paparazzi, this not-so-bad boy and trying-to-be-good girl must choose between their reputations…and who they really are.
Talia Truman is a manager’s worst nightmare. A former child star, Talia traded in her braids and became a smart-mouthed party girl with a penchant for bad boys and even badder decisions. (Usually involving alcohol.) With a massive movie deal on the line, however, Talia needs to keep herself—and her purple thong panties—out of trouble. But sex-addiction rehab? Definitely not her idea…
Unfortunately, being stuck in rehab with emerging country music star Matt Skyler—aka The Most Delicious Man Talia Can’t Have—is testing Talia’s newfound chastity. All she wants to do is fall off the wagon and onto Matt. But Matt isn’t exactly the bad boy she thought he was. In fact, Talia is starting to suspect that this cowboy might secretly be a total gentleman. And worse still, she likes that.
Now, under the blinding glare of the paparazzi, this not-so-bad boy and trying-to-be-good girl must choose between their reputations…and who they really are.
Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women
Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon
www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo)
First and foremost, this book is dedicated to my editor and all-around wonderful person, Ann Leslie Tuttle, for believing in me since day one.
Next, I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank my spirit guide, Allison Lyons—the world needs more people like you. Also, a huge thank-you to my best friend/critique partner Mary Williams for helping me every step of the way, and to my lifelong bud Marissa Zimmel for helping to inspire the Nashville setting and letting me pick her brain.
Dear Reader,
When Mills & Boon announced its partnership with Cosmopolitan magazine for the Red-Hot Reads program, I immediately knew I wanted to write something for them. I’ve always wanted to write from the point of view of someone in Hollywood, one of the most high-stakes industries out there. Famous or not, I think we all feel the pressure of other people’s expectations in our day-to-day lives. I’m hoping that everyone can take a cue from how former child star and current party girl Talia Truman learns to tell people to shove their opinions of her and how she lives her life where the sun don’t shine… It may take the dashing budding country music star Matt Skyler a few times to learn this lesson, but you’ll soon find that Talia’s more than up to the task.
This is a story about living your life on your own terms and never changing for anyone. I think that every Cosmo girl can vouch for that. Happy reading!
xoxo,
Zoey
Addicted
Zoey Williams
Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women
Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon
www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo)
Contents
Chapter One (#u0d729afa-4108-5bf1-9345-dce7adae8b2d)
Chapter Two (#u00c9fd29-a2de-5f1c-9ad0-a2fd5a23c0ba)
Chapter Three (#u63ec85bb-826a-5fce-87fe-962acf054191)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
The moment I squint my eyes open—after being temporarily blinded by the hot LA sun—I realize two things: my entire body feels like it’s developed that pinkish pre-sunburn tint and there is something most definitely in my mouth. The sad part is that this isn’t nearly the first time this has happened to me.
I attempt to sit up and immediately lose my balance, the mattress below me feeling like it’s made out of gelatin. The movement sets off a lightning storm of pain in my skull and a wave of nausea hits me. I know that if I took a Breathalyzer test right now, it would probably burst into flames.
Groaning, I swat my hand around in front of my face and find my mouth after a few tries. My fingers grip what’s been between my lips for God knows how long. I lift a hand to my forehead to shield out the sun and inspect it. It’s a party horn, with orange and green stripes, like one you’d blow on New Year’s Eve or at a little kid’s birthday party, except this one is flaccid and sagging like it has given up, the paper damp and disintegrating. And that’s when I notice that my foot is wet, too—because I’m lying on a large plastic float in the middle of my pool. I look down and see that my foot is dangling off the edge of the float—so neon green it makes my head hurt more when I look at it—skimming the surface of the water.
Then it all comes back to me. The party celebrating my big upcoming role. My first big movie role in a little over a year. Last night, my house was full of people—tall, thin, glamorous people. The movers and shakers of Hollywood. Drinks sloshed onto the cement deck around my pool as everyone danced, the bass of whatever the DJ was playing perpetually thumping in my ears, people trying to shout compliments at each other over the blaring music, their voices getting exponentially louder as they got drunker. Now, the place is barren—the hundreds of clear plastic cups strewn across the patio the only evidence that something took place here last night. All is quiet except for the unmistakable crackling of a turntable left on, recordless. And I’m here alone, on top of a raft twirling in lazy circles in the hot sun. I catch a whiff of chlorine and my stomach churns again. My mouth tastes like cigarettes...and I don’t even smoke. My first thought is, Talia Truman knows how to throw one hell of a party. Sure, it’s a little self-congratulatory, but it’s true.
Slowly, carefully, I paddle my hands in the water—it’s the only movement I’m capable of making at the moment—and gently float over to the edge of the pool where I see my phone sitting on top of a rumpled towel. As I get closer, I realize that I’m not alone.
Lying back in one of the mesh lounge chairs lining the perimeter of my pool, her hands clasped in her lap, is my manager, Dottie Arnold. In her late seventies, her gray hair is swooped up into a puff on top of her head; with her skinny neck, it looks like freshly spun cotton candy on a stick. A large pair of dark sunglasses take up most of the real estate of her face, but even though I can’t see her eyes I know she is staring at me disapprovingly. Thin as a praying mantis, she’s wearing one of her signature velour tracksuits—which is what she wears every day regardless of the weather because she believes it’s the only outfit that flatters her. Today she’s chosen a light teal ensemble that matches the color of the pool water. Her legs outstretched in front of her, crossed at the ankle, she continues to sit without moving a muscle, staring at me intensely, frowning, not saying a word. Like a Bond villain. A fashionably challenged Bond villain.
“How long have I been out here?” I ask.
Bending over to her left, she fishes a manila folder stuffed with pieces of paper out from her see-through hot pink vinyl tote bag. Flipping it open, she trails her pointer finger down the page until she finds what she’s looking for. “According to the police report, the party was broken up at four in the morning.”
I give an appreciative nod. “I believe that’s a new record. Usually the LAPD aren’t in such a forgiving mood. I think the latest they’ve ever come is two thirty.” I yawn. “How much did they fine me this time?”
Dottie noisily flips through a few pages. “Three thousand. I’ll have Sydney take care of it when she gets here.”
Sydney, my assistant/best friend, always comes by the house at ten o’clock sharp. It wasn’t like her to be late—I guess in our six years of friendship I hadn’t rubbed off on her yet. “Sydney’s not here? What time is it?”
“Eight thirty.”
I gawk at her. “Eight thirty? Jesus. Why are you here so early? I’m going to go back to sleep.” I drape my arm over face. “See you later,” I mumble.
Dottie loudly clears her throat. “Talia, I have to talk to you. Something’s happened.”
I breathe in deeply. “Can we discuss this later? You know the saying �beer before liquor, never been sicker?’ Someone brought moonshine to the party last night. A cute limerick has never been made up for moonshine because anyone who’s ever drank as much of it as I did last night is probably dead.”
Dottie slides her glasses forward down the bridge of her nose, scoffing. “Moonshine? Isn’t that illegal...and for hicks?”
“It’s the next big thing in Hollywood, apparently,” I sigh. “I think people just drink it ironically. Freakin’ hipsters.”
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?”
“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.
I was told to always leave them wanting more—including the paparazzi—and so I silently follow Sydney, who is carving a path through the throng of people like Moses parting the Red Sea, saying “Out of the way, out of the way” in a raised but bored voice like she’s done this millions of times before, which is because she has.
I lift the complimentary blanket I stole from the plane over my head and for a split second wonder if I should frame it around my face like a nun, but them decide that may be a little over-the-top. Instead, I drape it over my shoulders and my arms outstretched in front of me, looking like a child’s impersonation of a ghost on Halloween. Shielding myself from the camera flashes, I look down and follow Sydney’s steps as I scuttle behind her blindly.
After a few hundred steps, the paparazzi still swarming on either side of me, the drone of questions being shouted at me so loudly I can’t differentiate one from the other, I feel the mild Tennessee weather momentarily surround me, realizing that we’re finally outside, before I hear the click and swoosh of a car door opening. Suddenly, I feel Sydney’s hand on my elbow as she leads me into the private car like a blind person.
I flop myself on the plush leather backseat.
“Woo! I haven’t seen a crowd as big as that one since the day I quit my show.”
“That was madness back there,” Sydney remarks, swiping her forehead with the back of her hand. She exhales and lets her head fall back, closing her eyes briefly. “I still don’t think I’ll ever get used to that. I’m exhausted.”
I, on the other hand, feel nothing but exhilaration. After hearing the thunk of our bags being loaded into the back by an airport worker and the trunk being slammed shut, we’re off. It isn’t until the private car passes through the airport exit and merges onto a highway that I finally remember to turn my cell phone back on since I had it off during the flight. It lights up every few milliseconds, pulsing like a strobe light. Ding, ding, ding. Every bell and whistle on my phone goes off, sounding like I’m playing slots and just hit the jackpot. Hundreds of email, Twitter and text-message alerts chirp and beep. I open Twitter and scroll through all the Tweets mentioning me, my thumb cramping after a few minutes of nonstop scrolling. There are thousands of them.
Stay strong, Talia! You can do it! #WeSupportTaliaTruman
We love you, Talia! #WeSupportTaliaTruman
So proud of you, Talia! #WeSupportTaliaTruman
And just like that, I’m trending worldwide. Jackpot indeed.
I open my inbox and there are at least twenty news articles from major publications and networks forwarded from Dottie’s account. Beloved Child Star Enters Rehab; Talia Tries to Get Her Life Back on Track; Talia Truman Repents for Boy-Crazy Lifestyle, Gets Help in Nashville. One of them is accompanied by a picture of me from my children’s television show days—my hair is in two braids so long they fall on either side of my rib cage—juxtaposed with a photo shoot I did last year for an alternative magazine that barely anybody saw. In that photo, I’m in slim-cut leather pants and a lacy purple bra, my pointer finger drawn up to my pouty lips as if I was a sexy librarian telling the reader to be quiet. Shhhh.
Will Talia Truman Kick Her Sexy Habit? one rag mag asks with urgency, as if the answer to that question would cure cancer.
I shake my head slowly back and forth, whistling low. “Dottie, you crazy son of a bitch. We did it,” I whisper to myself.
“What is it?” Sydney asks and I show her my phone.
“See? What did I tell you?” she laughs, shaking her head.
I’m in a daze for the rest of the trip, in awe that the plan showed results so quickly. I scroll through my email once again, finding nothing about the Zombie Prom franchise. I sigh.
A text from Dottie pops up on my screen.
You land yet?
Yes, I write back. The crowd of paps was enormous.
Good. I’ll let the rehab know to expect you in twenty minutes or so.
Wish me luck! I write back with seven smiley-face emoticons, knowing Dottie will pick up on my sarcasm.
DFIU, Talia. Just promise me that one thing. Please make an effort to ensure this whole thing goes smoothly. This place has a zero-tolerance policy for any breach of the rules. One strike and you’re out.
I make an annoyed noise at the phone and Sydney asks what’s the matter. I flash her my phone.
“DFIU?” she asks.
“Don’t eff it up.” I can’t count how many times Dottie’s ever texted me that. I turn to Sydney. “Trust me,” I say, “the sooner the investors come back, the sooner I get to go back to Los Angeles and hopefully start filming. I will not eff this up.”
Got it, I text Dottie back.
I watch as the cityscape rolls by through the private car’s blacked-out windows and though I miss being able to see the ocean, it’s kind of pretty, actually. The sun has started to set. There’s a lot more green out here than I expected for a city and the air smells cleaner, sweeter somehow. Nashville itself is pretty small and soon enough the restaurants, storefronts and apartments start to give way to the more residential outskirts. It seems like every house we pass has a sprawling, pristinely kept yard. All of the neighborhoods have a charming and homey feel, not to mention much more character than the immaculate carbon-copy mansions on either side of the palm-tree-lined streets of my neighborhood. Though I’m hundreds of miles away from where I call home, I’m surprised by how quickly I feel pretty comfortable here. I roll down my window and take a deep breath of the air that is certainly not the smog of LA.
We turn off a main road and, after passing a well-manicured hedge, roll up to a large white gate. Our driver leans out the window to press a white keycard to a panel. The doors slide open and the white Colonial house I saw in the brochure comes into view.
When we stop in the round driveway, Sydney says, “And this is where I say goodbye.”
After giving me a hug she hands me a piece of paper folded in half. “I’ll be staying in a hotel just ten minutes away. Call me if you need to. Otherwise, I’ll see you in fourteen days.”
I give her a mock salute. “See you then, Captain Organized.”
I get out of the car and realize the driver has already left all my bags in a neat pile on the porch. I turn back and watch the car drive away. I’m all alone at rehab. This is real.
I turn around and face the house, straightening my shoulders and lifting my chin. It’s gotten fairly dark out—I’m not even sure what time it is—and there’s a faint sound of crickets chirping coming from the bushes and flowers at the bottom of the steps. I feel the cool spring breeze on my face and I take in a deep breath. “Let’s get this over with,” I say to myself.
I walk up the steps of the white wraparound porch and open the door at the top. Inside, the foyer looks like it’s been decorated by a very cheerful grandmother. The hardwood floors are immaculate and large potted plants sit on either side of a light blue antique-looking desk. There are framed cross-stitch patterns with sayings like One Day at a Time and It Gets Better! surrounded by candy-colored flowers hanging on the walls. There’s an ornate carpeted staircase right in the middle of the entrance hall and a vintage-looking upholstered settee at the bottom of it.
I plop my carry-on duffel on the blue desk and discover a chubby woman with a streak of white in her short red hair is sitting behind it.
I jump. “Oh! You surprised me,” I say dumbly.
The woman smiles to herself like she had planned that sneak attack. She’s wearing sparkly bright purple cat-eye reading glasses and looks up at me from her creased paperback book. “Name, dear?” she asks with a slight drawl. She looks more like a sweet Southern grandma than someone who’s in charge of preventing people from touching themselves.
“Talia Truman.”
She gets up from her chair and I easily tower over her by a couple of feet.
“Hi, Talia. I’m Doctor Brothers, but all my patients call me Judy. Welcome to New Beginnings,” she says, shaking my hand. It’s the most generic name for a rehab facility they could have picked and I almost laugh. She shuffles around her desk and picks up a manila folder with my last name written in block letters on the side. “We’ve been expecting you!” she exclaims delightedly. “You’re the television star, right?”
I snort. “Hardly. Haven’t worked in a year.”
“Right,” she says merrily, as if she didn’t hear me. “For now I’m going to be working with you in group sessions and I’ll give you your schedule first thing tomorrow morning. But for right now, I’m going to search your belongings for any type of contraband and then you can come with me for our last meeting of the day, the community meeting. Unzip all of your bags, please,” she orders as she snaps on a pair of rubber gloves.
I unzip my duffel and then bend down to open my larger bags on the floor. Judy comes out from behind the desk and starts ruffling through my things after setting a clipboard down next to her.
“Now,” she says, wiggling her fingers as if she’s just itching to go through my stuff. “Do you have any weapons—guns, knives, bombs, box cutters, pepper spray—”
“What?” I say, taken aback. “No, of course not.”
Judy gives me a slight smile. “I’m sorry, but I have to go over the entire list, dear. Standard procedure. You’d be surprised what people try to sneak in here.”
She looks back at the paper on the clipboard. “Drugs, alcohol, prescription drugs, any illicit substance that could hurt yourself or others?” she says brightly, as if she was asking me to join her for a tea party.
“No.” Though I wished I had some right about now.
She lifts a bra from my bag, inspects it for a second and then puts it down. “A little too lacy for this place, but I’ll let it slide.” Next, she pinches my electric toothbrush between her thumb and pointer finger as if it was the pin of a grenade and tsks her tongue.
“I’m going to have to take this, Ms. Truman,” she says before slipping the toothbrush into a clear plastic bag.
“What? I can’t brush my teeth?” I ask, confused.
“It’s not your teeth I’m worried about you using this on, dear,” Judy says as she pulls her glasses down the bridge of her nose and glances at me over them.
I suddenly get her meaning and laugh. “No, no, no. I swear that thing only goes in my mouth. I wasn’t planning on—”
Judy raises a hand to stop me. “I’ve heard every excuse in the book, Miss Truman. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re given a nonbattery-operated toothbrush before you go to bed.” She cocks her head to one side, smiling tightly as she puts all my stuff back into my bags. “Wonderful. You’re all set for our community meeting, then. It’ll be a nice introduction to the people you’ll be joining in group therapy during most of your stay here.” She looks over my shoulder, behind me. “Oh, here comes one of them now. We can all walk down together. Matthew?”
I turn to see who she’s talking to and my breath catches. Sauntering down the hallway, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his chin held high—almost in defiance—is one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen. He’s tall with broad shoulders, a tapered waist and jet-black hair. His sweatshirt sleeves are pushed up to show off his meaty forearms. As he eyes me up and down, I feel a shiver run through me. Then our gazes meet. Despite his punkish gait and facial expression, he has a young-looking face complete with baby blue eyes and two dimples that flash on his cheeks when he smirks at me before he looks away so fast I wonder if I imagined it.
“Talia, this is Matthew Skylar. Matthew, would you mind showing Talia to the community meeting room? I’ll be right behind you two.”
Matt shrugs his shoulders, turns and begins to walk down the hallway. For a moment, I’m frozen in place and then I realize, oh, right, I’m supposed to follow this guy. I start to move, but Judy calls out after me.
“Oh, wait. Talia?”
“Yeah?” I answer distractedly.
“Before we go, I forgot to ask you for your cell phone. I need to lock it up. Cell phones are used for one hour each night under supervision.”
“What?” I ask, still not quite hearing her.
“Your cell phone?”
“Oh. Sorry,” I murmur before taking my cell phone out of the kangaroo pocket of my sweatshirt and look at Dottie’s text one last time before placing it in the doctor’s plump, outstretched hand.
DFIU, Talia.
It’s then I realize that I am completely and totally fucked.
Chapter Three
Don’t look at his ass.Don’t look at his ass.Don’t look at his ass. I keep repeating the mantra to myself, but as Matt walks down the hallway in front of me, it’s the only thing I find myself doing as I shuffle down the corridor behind him. Even in his sweats, the fabric stretches over his lower body in such a way that I see his muscular butt and the little indentations on either side of it. I was told this place has a gym and it’s obvious that Matt has been putting it to good use. His ass is hypnotizing.
I feel as if Judy, who’s walking a few steps behind me, is studying me as I stare at Matt. I glance back to check and she eyes me from over the top of her glasses again, giving me the same warning look that she gave me when she thought I was going to jack off with my toothbrush. I jerk my head back around and snap to attention, chin parallel to the floor, eyes forward. Like I’m in the army or something. My staring at Matt feels forbidden, dangerous under this doctor’s watchful eye, and a sense of giddiness—dare I say a thrill?—runs through me.
We pass a room, its door slightly ajar, and I get a brief glance of a massage therapy table with fresh white linens on it, the top sheet pulled down slightly as if in invitation. Suddenly, in my mind’s eye, I see myself facedown on the table, Matt shirtless above me, his large hands—which are currently in fists by his sides—massaging my naked body thoroughly.
Farther down the hallway, we walk by the sauna, its frosted glass door covered in condensation, and I think of Matt pressing me up against it in an embrace, my hand leaving a steamy print just like Rose—or Jack? no one knows for sure—did in the scene with the car in Titanic.
I hear Judy clear her throat loudly behind me as if she overheard my thoughts and I jump. I turn back around with a sheepish smile. I consider how this woman thinks all I do all day is daydream about sex and that’s exactly what I’m doing. Thankfully we don’t have to go past any more rooms because suddenly there is a group of people coming from the other end of the hallway and, like a school of fish, they turn abruptly and enter the door in front of me. “Here we are, Talia,” Judy says as she falls in step with me and gestures to the doorway with one arm as if she was presenting a game-show prize.
The room has cheery yellow walls and smells like a combination of fresh paint, hospital disinfectant and something waxy. About ten bright blue folding chairs have been arranged into a circle on the cherry-red carpet. Taped to the large picture windows are some hand-drawn pictures, the products of art therapy, I assume. Stick-figure people, a triangle on top of a square to make a house, large scribbles of gobbledygook as if the artist abruptly changed his or her mind—all of the Magic Marker creations faded and bleached by the sun. Coupled with the primary color palette, the room looks like it belongs in an elementary school classroom more than a rehab.
The group takes their seats and, like a game of musical chairs, I sit in the only one left that’s vacant, which, of course with my luck, happens to be right next to Matt. Dammit. I can’t look at him anymore, I have to be the old Talia—nice and pure, her pigtails swinging as she sings and dances with a puppet. And so I survey the people sitting around me instead. The woman on the other side of me is tall and thin, sitting ramrod-straight in her chair. She has a pixie cut and large doe-like eyes that frantically dart from one person to another like a pinball. The only other woman besides manic-pixie girl and me has platinum-blond hair with a loose curl that reaches the back of her kneecaps. Rapunzel has her head down as she picks at her chipping yellow nail polish, her lips in a perpetual frown, like a trout.
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