1. Chapter One

Chapter One

C andy

Between wiping nonexistent crumbs off the counter and trying to make sure everything is perfect for Maury's visit, I'm pacing like a caged tiger in my own kitchen. It's so unlike my usual casual approach that I'm scaring myself.

It's just that I seriously wonder if Maury is going to fire me as his client. He's threatened before, but I've always managed to talk my way back into his good graces. Well, he's such a grouch I'm not sure he has good graces, but after all my previous fuckups, he's always agreed to keep managing me.

This time might be different. I've never done something so shocking that it made the front page of major digital media outlets like TMZ, Access Hollywood, Deadline, E! News, and Page Six all on the same day. And none of the coverage is favorable.

Even though what the tabloids described as my "X-rated exit" happened on Friday night and it's now Monday morning, I'm still photosensitive and dehydrated. I take a swig of OJ straight out of the bottle and shield my eyes as I glance out at my infinity pool. The glare off the turquoise water makes me squint. When was the last time I actually took a dip in there? I can't remember.

Even though I'm expecting him, I flinch when Maury rings the doorbell. Am I still hungover after two days without a drop of alcohol? Why else would my head be pounding like a jackhammer?

When I open my front door, Maury grunts hello, a scowl on his face even though he has a cup of coffee in each hand and a bag of donuts curled in his fist. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sugary glaze wafts over me as he brushes past without waiting for an invitation. He slides into one of the chairs at the sunroom table, making himself at home.

Given Maury's mood, I wasn't expecting coffee and donuts. At his seat, I already had a steaming cup of coffee, filled with plenty of cream and three heaping spoons of sugar—just the way he likes it.

I ease into the chair across from him and start the peremptory strike I've been working on in my head.

"Maury, I know I shouldn't have done it. I—"

He puts up a hand with a severe, "Shah!" Once he's certain I've aborted my attempt to explain the unforgivable, he takes a bite of his powdered, raspberry-filled donut and chews. I curb my impulse to flick a finger toward my own lips, a hint that he has powdered sugar on his mustache. Instead, I wait like a terrified twelve-year-old for what I know is going to be a world-class dressing down from the man who is more like a father to me than my own dad.

"Candy, I've known you for what, ten years?"

Why does he always start his reprimands like this? The man may be pushing seventy, but he's got a steel-trap mind. He knows to the day how long he's managed me.

"Since I was twelve. I'm twenty-five now."

"Twenty-five? You were better behaved when you were twelve."

Ouch. He lured me in with a simple question and then whammied me with a scold. I know worse things are coming. He's just gearing up.

"You've seen the tabloids?"

I nod.

"Because you might still be hungover, let me tell you some of my favorite headlines. ‘Starlet's Wardrobe Malfunction: Caught in the Act'. ‘Oops! She Did It Again: Candy's Racy Reveal Goes Viral'. ‘Exposed: Candy Wood Bares All in Public Scandal'. Oh, and my personal favorite, ‘From Fame to Shame: Candy Wood Stuns Onlookers with Public Flash'."

I'm surprised he didn't mention the "X-rated exit headline." It sure caught my eye, although I doubt anyone was too intrigued by the headlines . It was the picture of me getting out of my car with my skirt hiked almost to my hips, my underwear left at home in a drawer, flashing a glimpse of my privates to the whole world.

"I'm not proud." It's all I have to say for myself.

"Understatement of the year," he mutters as he looks heavenward, then takes another bite of his donut.

I know what's coming next. The part I hate worse than anything. It's not the criticism or his barely contained disapproval.

"Candy, I'm so disappointed in you."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs. I kinda love this man. Disappointing Maury Gold is the worst feeling in the world—worse than any scathing tabloid expose or online trolls.

"How did your parents talk me into representing you when you were just twelve years old? I don't rep kids—at least I didn't. It's that I saw something in you."

My stomach is squeezing in agony. I hate Maury being disappointed in me more than I hate being a fuck-up.

"I got you little gigs, let you learn the ropes on commercials and walk-on parts. Then you didn't just earn a role on the Kids Entertainment Network, you became a star . Got your own show at fifteen! I was so proud."

He was. I was more than just a cash cow to him, despite what my parents always said.

"But those KEN showrunners, Sam Raskins…" He shakes his head, jaw clenched tight. "The way they treated you kids, tearing you down, warping your self-esteem…" He fixes me with that piercing stare, the one that makes me feel as though he can see straight into my soul.

I know what he's getting at. The rumors about Raskins and the things that allegedly went on behind the scenes. Word has it that three of my former castmates have come forward on camera in that new documentary, Broken Starlets , but so far, I've kept my mouth shut.

Raskins was inappropriate with me. I don't know why he never went as far as he did with my friends. Dumb luck, I guess. Maury has point-blank asked me about it more than once. I don't think he fully buys my denials.

"It must have been hard to grow up and age out of kids' shows. You basically lost your career at seventeen, but babe, you defied the odds! Made a U-turn, began a musical career, and were headlining venues by age twenty."

He's building up to something, I can tell. Buttering me up before he lowers the boom. He brings out the big guns as he sighs, his shoulders drooping. "Why are you self-destructing? How many of these public displays do you think you can weather before the public hates you? The drunk and disorderlies, showing your tuchus in front-page headlines, having an affair with a married celeb—"

"He told me they were divorcing!"

"It's the optics , Candy."

I bite my tongue, swallowing back all the things I want to say in my defense. He's right and I know it. I've been spiraling lately, unsure of who I am or what I want. My music career is soaring, but I feel emptier than ever. I know millions would kill for my life. That doesn't make it any easier.

"Do you want to know how many gigs you've lost in the last forty-eight hours?"

Shit! I knew my shenanigans lost me money at the box office, but losing gigs? This is catastrophic. My stomach was in knots a moment ago, but now it feels as though it's whirling in a blender.

"How many gigs have I lost?"

"You had twelve on the books. All but two canceled. And those two? They're only hanging on by a thread due to my sweet talking. Candy, you need to clean up your act… soon."

"Are you going to fire me?" I wince as if I'm expecting a physical blow.

"Am I going to do what I promised to do the last three times you fucked up half this badly?" He exhales loudly, the sound harsh in the tense silence. I wonder if this is hurting him more than it is me. No. That's not possible.

"One more chance, kid. I'm going to give you one more chance."

Relief sweeps through me like a cool breeze on a scorching day. I'd been dreading this. Out of everything in my life, Maury's my rock, my biggest supporter, my friend. I don't want to lose him.

"I'll stay with you, help you through this on one condition."

My heart skips a beat as I wait for him to continue.

"I've hired someone. Half sober companion, half bodyguard, half drill sergeant."

I don't interrupt him to mention that's one and a half people. I'm on a win and don't want to spoil it with my smart mouth. Besides, this is new. Maury's never taken steps like this before.

"Clean out your spare bedroom. He's moving in. He'll be your fucking shadow. No, not your shadow. Your second skin. 24/7 supervision, keeping you on the straight and narrow."

The thought of some stranger invading my space, watching my every move, makes my skin crawl. But I know I'm in no position to argue.

"A live-in babysitter, huh? Sounds like a blast." I try for glib, but my voice wavers.

Maury's eyes narrow. "You should be thanking your lucky stars I'm not packing you off to rehab. This is your last shot, Candy. Don't blow it."

I swallow hard, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

"Okay," I manage. "Okay. I'll do it. Whatever it takes."

"Good." He nods, looking marginally less pissed off.

"Your new shadow will be here tomorrow. I suggest you use tonight to throw out all the liquor and drugs you've got stashed."

I start to protest, but he puts one hand up in a don't-even-start-with-me gesture.

"And for God's sake, keep your pants on and away from the cameras." With that parting jab, he heaves himself out of the chair and sees himself out, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the mounting dread in my gut.

I flop onto the couch with a groan, throwing an arm over my face. A live-in babysitter. Fan-fucking-tastic. As if my life weren't already a mess, now I'll have some wannabe tough guy watching my every step and pawing through my underwear drawer looking for contraband. But as much as I hate to admit it, Maury's right. I'm out of control. I need help, or I'm going to fuck up everything I've worked for. My career, my friendships, my last shred of self-respect.

Although he threatened to send me to rehab, we both know that's not really the problem. I abuse substances, but I'm not addicted. It's just that I've never recovered from shit in my childhood. I know, wah, wah, wah, poor little rich girl. But it's true, I'm an emotional mess.

I think of Sam Raskins, of the Kids Entertainment Network, even though I've tried so hard to forget. It's eaten away at me for years. I've tried to bury it under booze and bad behavior. Maybe it's time to face my demons. Perhaps now's the time to finally deal with my shit, to get my head on straight.

Maybe this new babysitter won't be so bad after all. I snort, shaking my head at my na?veté. Who am I kidding? This is going to be a disaster. A hot, chaotic disaster. But bring it on. If Candy Wood is going down, she's going down swinging. With a newfound sense of determination, I heave myself off the couch and head for the spare bedroom.

Time to make way for my new shadow. Lord, help us both.