“Tonight at ten: Jesse Moore’s history of drug use, rehab, and descent into sex addiction.”
“Conservative news outlets blast Jesse Moore for explicit videos, suggest the breach has exposed Moore for the depraved, immoral person he is.”
“The president weighs in: In a post earlier today, the president said, “I don’t know who hacked the failed rockstar’s phone, but I’m glad they did. What a loser. Now the world can see what a twisted guy he really is. This isn’t the kind of guy you want as a role model for your kids.”
“This just in, TMZ releases a list of twelve possible matches for the leading man in Jesse Moore’s homemade porn videos. From athletes to actors to industry insiders–the names might surprise you.”
The sound of my name being repeated on a loop, of my weakest moments and dumb shenanigans that, in this context, paint me to be the worst kind of deviant, get louder and sound worse every time they’re replayed. I can’t make it stop. I can’t hear anything over their voices, over my own voice, over the billion tiny microphones and cameras set on every facet of my life.
Finally, I gather the strength to get off the floor. I look for the remote, but I can’t find it anywhere. I walk to the bar in a daze. My fingertips drag along the bottles, the memory of oblivion imprinted on the pads of my fingers. My hand closes around a heavy, white-frosted bottle. I feel the weight of consequence in my palm, consider the burn of cold liquid, the lie that makes everything louder and quieter at once, that numbs and hurts. I lift the bottle from the shelf.
And fling it across the room.
The bottle leaves my hand and arcs across the room. It hits the center of the television screen with a sound like a gunshot, glass fracturing into a million tiny veins under the impact. The screen blooms white and then black as the circuits die. The whole TV, almost the size of the wall itself, rocks off its mount, weight tilting. It tips and crashes to the floor with a thunder that rattles the glasses on the bar next to me.
The bottle lies intact on the ground. Nausea fills my mouth with saliva, and my chest squeezes tighter.
Silence falls over the room in a moment that feels suspended, but isn’t quite long enough. Finally, the voices commentating on my downfall are quiet, but now there’s another sound. Boots on marble flooring, bodies crashing through the French doors. Cory and Tad have remained outside, trying to give me space, trying to be respectful of the pain I’m in, and likely glad to escape the rabid wounded animal I’m acting like. The crash left them no choice but to intervene, though.
“Jesse?” Cory’s voice is hard and careful as he steps inside the suite, eyes sweeping the mess as well as my proximity to the bar. I know he’s concerned by the way he says my first name instead of my last, but that just gets under my skin, too.
I should be stronger than this. I should be smarter than this. I should have known I’d ruin it somehow.
Cory steps closer to me while Tad opens his phone and steps back into the hallway.
“Are you okay?”
“No,” I answer, pressing my palms into the cold, hard marble of the bar top, vertigo threatening my equilibrium. It feels likeI stood up too fast, but I was already standing. “I’m not okay,” I say weakly.
The fist closes. And the room goes black.
Fingertips brush across my forehead, the familiar, comforting scent of home seeping into my sleep-addled brain. There’s a rhythmic beeping.
“Jesse,” my mother says, her voice low and smooth and melodic. She should have been a singer. I love her voice.
She says my name again, and my eyelids flutter. I’m so heavy and warm, this doesn’t feel real.
“Mom?” My mouth makes a clicking sound it’s so dry.
I try to open my eyes again, but it’s so bright. I hear my mom’s voice talking to someone, a lower timber that’s familiar as well. Naz, I think.
Someone lowers the blinds or curtains, and I try again to open my eyes. Why am I so tired? I–
Fear spikes through me. The beeping gets louder and faster, an alarm going off. “I didn’t– Cory told them not to–”
I want to sit up, but I’m too heavy.
“It’s okay, baby. They had to sedate you, but they used a non-addictive sedative. You’re going to be groggy for a while until it wears off.”
A nurse runs in and shuts the alarm off, watching my heart rate settle. It’s still too fast for her liking, but she sets a warmhand on my arm and encourages me to breathe. There’s a tube shooting cold oxygen straight into my nostrils, and I focus on breathing in one heavy lungful through my nose and back out through my mouth until the beeping settles.
“Good.” The nurse smiles down at me. She’s around my age, has bright, clear blue eyes and a pixie cut. “Welcome back, Mr. Moore. I’m Annie. I’ve been helping take care of you since you came in last night.”
“How long have I been here?” I ask, fumbling over my words and wincing at my sore throat. Naz appears at my side with a cup of ice water and a straw. Annie helps adjust my bed so I can raise my head, and I suck down the water thirstily.
“About twelve hours,” Annie says. “Your bodyguard, I think Cory was his name?” I nod. “He advocated for you really well. He told the EMTs and the hospital staff what you needed as far as your sobriety. We gave you a high dose of hydroxyzine to sedate you after you had an acute panic attack.”
I blink rapidly, trying to recall the night before. My brain feels slow, like my thoughts are wading through molasses. But I remember the voices on the news. The TV crashing to the ground.
