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