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?”
