Chapter One
“Miss Rowe… Miss Rowe!”
“How does it feel to be finally sober?”
“Will you make amends with Luke?”
“Or did you switch teams in rehab?”
“Angeline!”
“Miss Rowe!”
Angeline clenched her molars together. She would love nothing more than to raise both middle fingers and tell the paparazzi just where they could shove their questions and all their flashing cameras, but she’d hate to give them a sensational story. Two years ago, she’d ripped a Nikon out of some bastard’s hand and thrown it into the street, where it was immediately squashed by a two-ton truck. Unfortunately, the memory card had survived, and the last photograph on it made the front page in all the rags in five countries. That picture made the photographer rich, but he’d still had the audacity to sue her for his ruined camera and “mental anguish”.
With the photographic evidence, her lawyer urged her to settle. It cost her almost twenty thousand dollars, but it was totally worth it.
“Are you going home to Indiana?”
“Will you grant Good Morning USA the interview you promised?”
She kept walking, focusing on the click of her heels to drown out the pushy reporters. Each step took her farther away from the rehab hospital she’d been ordered into and closer to her long, black limousine at the gate. God, she missed her bodyguard, but in a way, this crowd had been a much-needed ego boost. At least the sleazy tabloids still cared about her, if only in regards to making a buck off her misery.
“Have you talked to your family?”
“Do you think you’ll have a hard time staying on the wagon now that you’re out?”
“Did you gain weight in rehab, Angeline?”
None of your fucking business.
Okay, maybe she filled out her jeans a little more now than six months ago when she walked into Redlands Rehabilitation Hospital, but did supermarket tabloid readers really give a shit? Four more steps and she reached her limousine, where her driver had the door open. She raised her eyebrow but said nothing. She’d fired him—well, her entire staff—when she was sentenced to her mandatory stint in the dehydrator. At least she thought she had. Maybe that was another one of her hallucinations. Once the door closed behind her, muting the reporter’s voices, she threw her purse across the length of the car and let loose with a string of profanities.
“You promised.”
Angeline spun around. Sure enough, her image consultant, Percy Tuttlebaum, sat with his smug little grin surrounded by a red goatee.
“They can’t hear me. You never said anything about swearing in the privacy of my own car.” She didn’t flip him off, but she really, really wanted to.
Percy chuckled as if he’d read her mind. Once the driver was behind the wheel, the limo pulled away, and Angeline didn’t even want to look back. Redlands had been her home for the last six months and eight days, but there was no love lost. If she never sat through another group session in her life, she’d be happy.
She toed off her shoes, the five-inch, glossy red heels she’d worn when she checked in. She’d left everything else there. Let the other residents fight over her pajamas and yoga pants. As if she’d ever have another reason to wear Velcro tennis shoes. Of course she’d never wear these heels again. She’d toss them onto the Interstate if she didn’t know Percy would nag her all the way home because of it. Sliding a glance his way, she huffed, “What are you doing here?”
“I came to pick you up. Obviously.” Percy always had an air of superiority about him. Angeline knew now that it wasn’t so much snobbishness as his infinite patience.
“That’s what the dude behind the wheel is doing here. What exactly are you doing here?”
“I’m a friendly face.” He waved at the front window. “Do you even remember that dude’s name?”
Angeline stared at the smoky glass and the shadowy figure driving her car. She rarely remembered names,
“Miss Rowe… Miss Rowe!”
“How does it feel to be finally sober?”
“Will you make amends with Luke?”
“Or did you switch teams in rehab?”
“Angeline!”
“Miss Rowe!”
Angeline clenched her molars together. She would love nothing more than to raise both middle fingers and tell the paparazzi just where they could shove their questions and all their flashing cameras, but she’d hate to give them a sensational story. Two years ago, she’d ripped a Nikon out of some bastard’s hand and thrown it into the street, where it was immediately squashed by a two-ton truck. Unfortunately, the memory card had survived, and the last photograph on it made the front page in all the rags in five countries. That picture made the photographer rich, but he’d still had the audacity to sue her for his ruined camera and “mental anguish”.
With the photographic evidence, her lawyer urged her to settle. It cost her almost twenty thousand dollars, but it was totally worth it.
“Are you going home to Indiana?”
“Will you grant Good Morning USA the interview you promised?”
She kept walking, focusing on the click of her heels to drown out the pushy reporters. Each step took her farther away from the rehab hospital she’d been ordered into and closer to her long, black limousine at the gate. God, she missed her bodyguard, but in a way, this crowd had been a much-needed ego boost. At least the sleazy tabloids still cared about her, if only in regards to making a buck off her misery.
“Have you talked to your family?”
“Do you think you’ll have a hard time staying on the wagon now that you’re out?”
“Did you gain weight in rehab, Angeline?”
None of your fucking business.
Okay, maybe she filled out her jeans a little more now than six months ago when she walked into Redlands Rehabilitation Hospital, but did supermarket tabloid readers really give a shit? Four more steps and she reached her limousine, where her driver had the door open. She raised her eyebrow but said nothing. She’d fired him—well, her entire staff—when she was sentenced to her mandatory stint in the dehydrator. At least she thought she had. Maybe that was another one of her hallucinations. Once the door closed behind her, muting the reporter’s voices, she threw her purse across the length of the car and let loose with a string of profanities.
“You promised.”
Angeline spun around. Sure enough, her image consultant, Percy Tuttlebaum, sat with his smug little grin surrounded by a red goatee.
“They can’t hear me. You never said anything about swearing in the privacy of my own car.” She didn’t flip him off, but she really, really wanted to.
Percy chuckled as if he’d read her mind. Once the driver was behind the wheel, the limo pulled away, and Angeline didn’t even want to look back. Redlands had been her home for the last six months and eight days, but there was no love lost. If she never sat through another group session in her life, she’d be happy.
She toed off her shoes, the five-inch, glossy red heels she’d worn when she checked in. She’d left everything else there. Let the other residents fight over her pajamas and yoga pants. As if she’d ever have another reason to wear Velcro tennis shoes. Of course she’d never wear these heels again. She’d toss them onto the Interstate if she didn’t know Percy would nag her all the way home because of it. Sliding a glance his way, she huffed, “What are you doing here?”
“I came to pick you up. Obviously.” Percy always had an air of superiority about him. Angeline knew now that it wasn’t so much snobbishness as his infinite patience.
“That’s what the dude behind the wheel is doing here. What exactly are you doing here?”
“I’m a friendly face.” He waved at the front window. “Do you even remember that dude’s name?”
Angeline stared at the smoky glass and the shadowy figure driving her car. She rarely remembered names,
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