Addicted. Zoey Williams
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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