“Is this a wake-up call, Bodhi? Are you considering rehab?”
Now popular wisdom dictated you never respond to the paparazzi because everything you said could, and absolutely would, be used against you.
My father nudged me as if to say,‘Smile and wave, Son. Just smile and wave.’
And yes, that would have been the smart thing to do. Old Bodhi would have rocked that fake shit, but not drunk and sugar-hyped Bodhi. Oh no, tonight’s Bodhi had other plans.
My middle fingers went up before my father could stop them and I made aggressive and sexually suggestive hand gestures as the cameras flashed around me. But I didn’t stop there. As my father was hustling me out of the grocery store, I took hold of my waistband and slid it down just far enough to ensure my Barbie doll wouldn’t be the only Bodhi Beckett video worth watching on YouTube tonight.
* * *
Like a death row inmate, bulky bodyguards flanked me on either side. My father, the executioner, walked ahead in silence. He hadn’t spoken since the buttocks incident. After being liberated from the convenience store, I’d thrown up twice. Once out the skylight of the limo and a second time somewhere in the hallway of the hotel after a bumpy elevator ride riled up my stomach.
Once we finally made it to the suite, my father slid a key into the lock on my door and motioned me inside.
It occurred to me to be pissed. “You have a key to my room?”
Tucker seemed wholly unimpressed with my slurred speech and didn’t bother to give me an answer. Asshole.
“Leave us,” Tucker said to the guards. “Wait outside the door and if anyone lets him out, you’ll be terminated of duty.”
“What if there’s a fire?” I challenged, my impaired mind already considering setting one myself to escape.
“There’s not going to be a fire,” he mumbled, shutting the door on our grinning audience. Obviously they found my drunk uncle act entertaining.
It struck me then that the security guards were only following orders. They didn’t want to imprison me any more than I wanted to be trapped, but neither of us had a choice. We were all beholden to the same king.
When the two of us were finally alone, an awkward silence set in. I took to staring at the dent in the wood table and wondering if I’d had something to do with its imperfection. Probably. Destruction seemed to be a theme with me lately.
I could feel my father’s hard eyes trained on me. Finally he spoke, sounding tired and maybe even a little defeated. “What were you thinking, Bodhi? What was that stunt you pulled?”
“It’s called mooning but I prefer the term ‘ass flash’,” I answered, burping up a nasty liquor-filled air bubble. “It’s defined as the act of baring one’s anus in a sign of defiance.”
I couldn’t stop the sloshed snickering. I mean, I did just say anus, and it didn’t matter how drunk I was, the word was always hilarious.
“You think this is funny?”
“Sort of.”
His jaw taut, my father could barely get the words out through clenched teeth. “Do you have any idea what I’m going to have to do to clean up this mess?”
You know, really, on the celebrity bad behavior scale from one to ten, my evening escapades scored a very mild two. I couldn’t even do ‘bad’ with any real conviction. No domestic abuse. No driving drunk. No pissing in a janitor’s bucket. I got hammered, ate some Twinkies, and bared my ass. Big fucking deal. By my calculations it might take him all of fifteen minutes to put a heartwarming spin on my evening.
But now was not the time to ponder such things as sickness began to bubble up from my gut. Without responding, I dashed off to the bathroom.
* * *
The pounding on my door jolted me upright, sending a wave of pain through my head. If I’d thought I would sleep off my drunken stupor and wake up a new man, I’d been sadly mistaken. It felt like a team of basketball players were dribbling in my ear.
“Oh man,” I whined, rolling knuckles over my temples. Why had I thought this was a good way to irritate my father? Any plan where I also had to suffer sort of defeated the purpose. I needed to get more creative with my sabotage.
I flung the sheets off my weakened body, and shuffled to the door so I could peer through the peephole. There were only four people who could get me to open that door, and one of them was standing on the other side.
“Ah, shit,” I mumbled, in no mood for company but also in no position to refuse my guest.
“Open up, dickwad,” RJ demanded. “I can see your dilated eyeball.”
“Fine,” I mumbled, opening the door for him.
