“At least you’re not dead,” Billy whispered as he took his phone from his pocket and clicked off several photos of Ethan lying in his bed. He moved around and took more shots from every angle, finally leaning over the bed and taking close-ups of Ethan’s face.
This is just insurance, he reasoned. This is just in case.
Billy knew there was a shitstorm on the horizon. Never mind that Ethan had been the one to bring him to Vegas, and that Ethan was the one who had flipped out and eaten every upper and downer he could find. In the celebrity hierarchy, Billy knew that as soon as Ethan’s team arrived, he’d become the scapegoat. He needed some ammunition to defend himself and these photos were it.
Billy also knew that no matter how well armed you were, it was still better to avoid the fight if you could, and he started to strategize his escape.
The security goons who had rushed Ethan to the hospital had dragged Billy into the wing alongside Ethan’s unconscious body, and they’d been very explicit in their directions. Do not leave. Do not get photographed. Or else. And it was the “or else” that was pissing Billy off. He needed to get back to LA. He had shit to do.
Sliding silently out of Ethan’s room, he surveyed the hall. The cop appeared to be dozing still, and there was no other movement. He could detect a flurry of activity through the tiny glass windows in the hall doors. Apparently the Vegas press had gotten wind of the story. Billy looked at his phone. No service. He hadn’t had any service since that morning. What the fuck was he supposed to do without service?
He started to sweat. He looked up and down the hallway again. He’d tried to call the elevator twice but the button wouldn’t even light up to say that an elevator had been called. And then he had an idea.
He went back into Ethan’s room. He went to the bedside table and opened the drawer. He found a notepad and a pen inside. He quickly scribbled a note to Ethan’s publicist, the grande dame of Hollywood publicists, Crystal Connors.
Hey Crystal,
Sorry I missed you. If you want to discuss today’s events, please contact my publicist, Gaynor Huerta, at Huerta Hernandez PR. I believe you know the number.
Smooches—Billy XOXOXOX
He placed the notepad on top of the table and took a hospital gown from the cupboard. All of his own clothes were still back at Ethan’s apartment in LA, but he figured they were goners now—and besides, he’d scored the nice free shit he was currently wearing from Ethan’s Fred Segal delivery. He unlaced the Alexander McQueen high-tops, undid the J Brand jeans and dropped them, then pulled the Phillip Lim T-shirt over his head. He looked at the pile of clothing on the floor, easily one thousand dollars’ worth of clothes that basically amounted to something to wear to a baseball game. At least it made the trip worthwhile.
He dragged the hospital gown over his arms and did the awkward reach-around to tie it all up. He rolled the wheelchair from beside Ethan’s bed, stashed his shoes and clothes on the seat, and then wheeled the chair to the hallway, where there was a phone on the wall. He sat on top of his shoes and clothes and spread the gown over them, then picked up the phone and dialed zero.
“Operator.”
“Hi,” he whispered with an edge of panic. “I’m a patient and I must have pushed the wrong button in the elevator and now I’m on level five and it won’t let me out.”
“Let me transfer you to security,” the woman said.
Five minutes later, the elevator door opened, revealing a harried intern nurse.
“How the hell did you get out there?” he asked, darting behind Billy’s chair and pushing him into the waiting elevator. Out of the corner of his eye, Billy saw the cop begin to stir. As the doors slid closed, Billy heard the cop start to yell, so he started to talk loudly.
“I don’t know, man, I don’t know how I got here. I was just taking myself to the bathroom and then I wanted to go out for a smoke and then I was totally locked in and it was like a zombie apocalypse.”
The nurse was nonplussed. The doors closed.
“Which floor?”
“Ground,” said Billy, hoping that was the floor that led to the street.
“Do you need me to push you anywhere?”
“No, I’m good.”
When the doors opened onto a bustling hallway, the nurse didn’t move. Billy rolled himself out into the hallway and guessed that he wanted to go in the opposite direction of everyone else. After twenty yards, a bathroom appeared on the right, with a wheelchair symbol on the door. It was vacant. After several attempts, Billy was able to maneuver himself and his wheelchair through the doorway, and he locked the door behind him. Dressing quickly, he looked at his phone. He had one bar. He opened his Uber app. It wouldn’t load.