Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
It wasn’t my first stint in rehab, not by a long shot, but it was the first time I stayed the full ninety days. Every other time, I walked out within a month and relapsed before Cliff even realized I'd given up. But sobriety gripped ahold of me last year and I worked the program as reality sunk in.
And reality, it turns out, is a bitch to an addict.
“Here, drink some water,” I tell Serena, handing her a bottle. “It’ll help you feel better.”
“What will help is a pick me up,” she mutters, chugging some water before looking at me. “You don’t have anything, do you?”
“You know I don’t.”
She scowls, chugging more water before stomping away. The crowd around set seems bigger now. If people didn’t know we were out here yesterday, they do today.
“The missus seems a little testy,” Jazz says, strolling over to blot the sweat from my forehead. “Honeymoon over, superstar?”
I stare at her. She thinks she’s slick, but it couldn’t be more obvious what she's doing. “If you’re referring to Serena, she’s just not feeling well.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, not convinced, as I take a sip from a bottle of water, not wanting to get into Serena’s business. “She’s not knocked up, is she? You’d make a good daddy.”
I choke. I seriously choke. The water pours down my windpipe and I start fucking heaving, losing my breath, turning colors. People rush to intervene, smacking my back and forcing my hands up, trying to get air in my lungs as I violently cough.
Inhaling sharply, my chest on fire, I wave everyone away and glare at Jazz. “Don’t even fucking say that.”
“What?” she asks, acting innocent as she presses her hands to her chest. “It was just a question.”
“She isn’t pregnant,” I say. “It’s not possible.”
Jazz brushes it off with a laugh, but now she’s got me frazzled. You’d make a good daddy. My chest is tight, burning from the inside, the knot barely loosening by the time we’re due back on set. Serena returns a lot more chipper, her pupils like fucking saucers. It’s obvious she’s high, but nobody says a word. I notice Cliff is watching her, though.
Serena’s on point now, wide-awake and feeling beautiful, while I keep fucking up, take after take after take. It’s a mess. The movie's going to be a goddamn disaster if we can’t get our shit together.
“Cunning, your timing is off,” the AD says. “What did you two do, switch places?”
“I’m getting it together,” I say, stretching. “I just need to clear my head.”
Serena steps closer, whispering, “I got more if you want it.”
Do I want it? Fucking right I do. I want it all day, every day. But I don’t need it, and I sure as hell shouldn’t have it, so I shake my head. “I can’t do that anymore, Ser. You know that. And you shouldn’t be doing it, either.”
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “You’re not the boss of me, you know.”
“I know, but I am—”
“Quiet on set!” a voice shouts, cutting off our conversation. “Let’s try this again! Give us a good one this time!”
We do. We give them a good one. Hell, we give them a few. But after nightfall shit starts deteriorating again. Serena runs out of coke while I run out of patience for her attitude.
“Ugh, this sucks,” she growls, messing up her hair as she clutches her head. “I feel like shit.”
“You’re more cocaine than woman at this point,” I say, frustrated that we’re not through yet. “I’m surprised you can feel anything anymore.”
“You’re such a prick,” she snaps, shoving me.
“Oh, whoa, whoa!” Cliff gets between us as she clenches a fist like she’s about to swing at me. “This is not happening. You’re frustrated? Fine. Get a room and screw each other's brains out. But this? Oh, no, no, no… not going down.”
“What needs to go down is some detox,” I say. “Some counseling.”
“Shove your judgment up your ass, Johnny,” Serena says. “Just because you went full-blown junkie doesn’t mean the rest of us will, too. I’m fine. So why don’t you worry about how much of a fuck-up you are and leave me alone!”
She storms off set, crying, and the shoot is postponed—officially, because Serena Markson is under the weather.
Unofficially? Turns out, I'm an unsympathetic asshole.
I run my hands down my face. “Could this day get any worse?”
“Never say that,” Cliff says. “Because as soon as you say that, it’ll get worse.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Look, give her time to calm down,” he says. “Give her time to come down. We’ll come back tomorrow with a clear head.”
I go to wardrobe, getting out of the suit, grateful to be back in jeans and a t-shirt. I don’t wait around after I’m changed, because I'm damn sure not riding in the limo back to the hotel with Serena, so I order a car and skirt past the lingering crowd to meet it on the corner, not wanting to wait for it to pass through security. A few folks catch up to me. I sign a few autographs but turn down requests for photos, enough cameras flashing in my face.