Читать книгу Addicted - Zoey Williams - Страница 8

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.