It looked bad.
“I don’t do that shit, believe me. I know what it does to a person.” My step-mom being the prime example.
“I know that.” Brett sighed. “And you know that. But the media? They’ve just labeled you America’s newest English bad boy. They’re calling you the new British Invasion. My phone’s ringing off the hook with irate producers who are thinking very heavily about not casting you, only because it appears that you’re not serious about your work. Now. Sit.”
I sat this time and moaned into my hands. “What do I do?”
“Stop sleeping around.”
“Be reasonable.” I laughed. “What can I do that won’t make me want to kill myself?”
With an evil smile, Brett answered. “Well, I thought you’d never ask.” Brett pressed a button on his phone. “Yeah, Patty, go ahead and book that trip to Portland for Jaymeson. Get him a car too.”
“Portland?” I repeated. “Oregon?”
Brett folded his arms across his chest. “Nope.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know where he was going with this.
“Seaside, Oregon. You’re going back to hell.”
Was it selfish to wish for a plane to crash?