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“Jesus, who doesn’t know how to work a freaking phone?” She snatches her phone from me, clicks something and then hands it back to me with a roll of her eyes.
“So, what am I looking at?” I ask with disinterest.
My eyes dart from article to article all over the Apple News homepage. There are so many colors and flashing icons that I feel on the verge of an epileptic fit. Whoever the hell designed this site must be on some serious drugs.
Hey, they’d fit in well in here.
“Luca Winslow boob job?” I guess. Not that I really care.
Sasha rolls her eyes. “Try the one below. I’ll never understand these women. I mean, breaking into a celebrity’s hotel room so you can get your rocks off on his bed?” she snorts, showing her disapproval. “Where’s her self-respect?”
I nearly drop the phone.
Please tell me this is some other hotel and not…
The Royal.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I scan the article, my heart pounding as I take in every word. I’m waiting for my name to pop up, or at the very least, the word dildo. My stomach is churned so tight I feel like I’m about to pass out, but after a quick Google search, I’m satisfied that nobody knows it was me.
I take a few deep breaths as my heart resumes its normal rhythm and then I hand Sasha back her phone. I’m trying my best to act like nothing is wrong. I’m worrying for nothing, because even if I looked guilty as hell, I’m pretty sure that me being the girl who masturbated on Brix Wilson’s bed wouldn’t be in her first twenty guesses.
God, nobody would connect that dot.
“Loser,” I agree, forcing myself to laugh. “What the hell was she thinking?”
“I know, right?” Sasha shakes her head. “The poor guy is probably looking at the next few weeks as a vacation from all the psycho women he has to deal with.”
“Are you talking about Brix?”
I look up to see two other nurses have joined our conversation. One of them I know as Lisa, only because everything I say she seems to contradict. I’m not sure what I ever did to rub her the wrong way, but she really doesn’t like me.
I sit back, feeling uneasy, as they gossip among themselves in hushed whispers, like they’re afraid he could walk in at any moment—I know what that feels like. I shift in my seat, the agitation inside me growing. It’s like I’m just waiting for someone to bring out surveillance footage that shows my half-naked ass dashing across the parking lot. Okay, it didn’t exactly happen like that, but it could’ve.
“Yeah, it’s crazy how far some chicks will go for a bit of celeb action, huh?” Sasha giggles.
“Oh, who the hell cares?” I all but shout, irritability creeping into my voice.
All three of them turn to blink at me in surprise. Sure, I’m not known for my sudden outbursts, but I thought pleasuring myself on a celebrity’s bed was beyond my capabilities too. It turns out I’m capable of a lot of things.
“I just mean why is everyone suddenly so interested in what Brix Wilson is up to?” I back track, working hard to recover myself. “He’s always in the news, tomorrow it will be something else.”
Sasha looks at me strangely. “Are you being serious? Do you even pay attention in the staff meetings we have?” she questions me while the other two girls giggle.
“Sure, I do,” I say.
Sort of.
“Really? Then you’d know the last four have all been about Brix Wilson,” Lisa says, her voice as sour as the expression on her face. “Which kind of does make his latest antics relevant, wouldn’t you say?” She crosses her spindly arms over her chest and gives me a look that makes me want to punch her right in her cat anus lips.
I’m confused as all hell. “But why would they talk about Brix…” My voice trails off.
Oh God. Please, not here.
Out of all the rehab centers in California, he has to stumble into mine?
Now I know how the dude in Casablanca felt.
Sasha nods, her lips spreading into a knowing smile, like she can read my mind.
“You gotta love court-appointed rehab, huh?” she says. “Or at least, we’re all loving it. There has been full-on wars erupting over who is going to get the special job of minding him,” Sasha continues.
“Minding him?” I snigger. “What is he, a puppy?”
“No, he’s so much cuter and cuddlier than a puppy.” Sasha sighs.
“But his toilet habits and the leg humping probably aren’t much better,” I joke.
But Sasha had that dreamy look in her eyes reserved just for those special arrogant, self-absorbed asshole celebrities, who stumble their way in here. What that really means is anything negative I say is just going to go right over her head.
“So, what did he do to land himself in here?” I ask, remembering the court-appointed rehab comment. I’m also still trying to work out why he needs a babysitter.
