1. Joel

CHAPTER 1

JOEL

A woodpecker is pounding on the inside of my head. I hate him. And I hate myself for drinking so much. I think my eyes might fall out if I open them. Where the hell even am I? And why won't that noise stop?

I think it must be my phone so I fumble blindly through the sheets for it and eventually manage to slap it until it goes quiet. The noise doesn't stop completely, though. Outside, there's the faint rumblings of a mass of people, swarming around the house like a bunch of hungry baby birds. A camera flash shines through the window, and I groan.

Fragments of the night are starting to come back to me, and I realize the reason why my wrists hurt: handcuffs, and not for fun reasons.

Someone shouts my name and I consider pretending not to be in. Stupid idea. They clearly followed me home after last night's misadventure and are ready to shame me on every celebrity gossip website with an embarrassing picture. Look what Joel Lockhart did this time! He got his dick out in the middle of a casino!

At least, I think that's what happened. It's not implausible. Gambling and drink were definitely involved, and I was making out with this gorgeous bimbo that they only put there to make you spend more money. Or something like that.

"Joel!" someone yells at the door. "Will you give us an interview about last night?"

A bunch of voices create an unhappy harmony of similar comments at a volume that doesn't mix with a headache.

"Joel, what motivated you to be so outrageous?"

"Do you think you've hit the limit?"

"What are you going to do next?"

The phone buzzes angrily and this time I peel the covers off myself to squint at it. Seven missed calls from father. Crap. At least he still wants to speak to me, so I guess that's something. Unfortunately, this conversation is more likely to be yelling-at rather than speaking-to.

Out of curiosity, I google my name. I'm often in the headlines — one time, I joked in an interview that I easily make up half the copy for gossip magazines. I might be a little prouder of that than I should be. Seriously, though, it's not like I can't afford bail and it's not like I waste my entire fortune. I spend half of it on stuff like sick donkeys and microscopes, and the rest on making sure I never remember the full events of a day.

There are some photos — me with a girl, me with some cards, me grinning. And then, there I am, shirtless and fly undone, clambering on the blackjack tables. I was arrested for being drunk and disorderly, and as I read the stories, I can't even pretend it was unjustified. Some of the sites are still calling me a heartthrob despite everything, so looks like I'm not totally canceled yet.

My stomach groans pitifully. I have no idea what the last thing I ate was, but I definitely have takeout in the fridge. It might be a few days old, but it's not like I can go out for food right now. As long as it smells okay, it'll do for breakfast.

Not wanting to get caught looking like hell, I roll out of bed onto the floor and crawl my way to the kitchen. I can hear the mob outside and they don't sound like they're going away any time soon. They have enough embarrassing photos of me for one week.

Like a meerkat, I slowly poke my head up and as discreetly as I can manage, close the shades. There's some bustling outside, but I don't think they got me. The refrigerator light is way too bright and makes my head throb, so I quickly grab the leftover noodles and a bottle of seltzer and slump to the kitchen floor.

One time, someone told me that sparkling drinks soothe a restless stomach. She told me she had a doctorate in nutrition and fitness and that's why she was so athletic. I have no idea if she was telling me the truth, but she was hot and I always take the advice of hot women.

It's not always a good idea.

Someone banging on the door startles me into slopping seltzer all over myself. I swear loudly and then more quietly because I remember I'm trying to pretend not to be here.

"We just want a short interview for our magazine. Let's talk!"

Unfortunately, I've been stalked by the media since I was a kid so I'm fully aware how unlikely it is that they'll go away. They're vultures and they're after my blood. I've made the mistake before of going and trying to calm them down the morning after. That's when you're most likely to say something in the midst of a hangover that you really don't mean and that they can twist into something totally different from what you actually said.

I might look like a playboy but it's a cultivated image. Kind of. I'm like thirty percent sensible sometimes. I hold down a pretty important job, even if my dad is the one who put me there.

Getting arrested was an accident. The police getting involved is never a good idea.

It's all coming back to me, in broken parts. It started as a normal night; some charity event where rich people go to try and make themselves look like they care about other people. At a casino because I think the sight of real poverty would probably kill most of those idiots who couldn't be more detached from reality if they tried. Me included.

Then it gets kind of fuzzy. A prize raffle. A big win. Being let loose into the casino, drinking and gambling and flirting. Hot women paid to pretend to like us. Falling for them anyway, just for the night. Kissing and undressing. Taking my shirt off. Seeing cameras and taking my pants off too.

No matter how hard I'm trying, the logic of that one is lost on me. Clearly, I thought it was a good idea at the time, even though it wasn't.

Security and sirens after that, police warnings that I willfully ignored before they slapped me in cuffs and drove me away. And I'm guessing, at some point between the cop car and the station, someone must have paid my fee and had me driven home.

I must have been brought home by someone because I'm here in my own bed, but until the press can tell me exactly what the order of events was, it's as much a mystery to me as it is to everyone else.

I down a mouthful of seltzer and consider my options. I'm going to have to say something at some point but right now lying on the floor until I don't feel sick anymore feels like a great idea.

Distantly, my phone rings again. Crap. I drag myself back onto my hands and knees and crawl back to my room. It takes me a minute to find my phone again, and when I do, I'm confronted by the knowledge that my father is about to tear me a new one. I want to hang up on him with all my heart but if I miss too many messages, he's going to be volcanic and erupt. And I really don't want to make things any worse.

I take a deep breath to try to shake myself into some form of sobriety, my dad's face smiling out of a screen that's way too bright, and let my finger hover shakily over the green button. I have to do this. It might be okay.

I grit my teeth and answer.