It was tough to make rational decisions when you were that many whiskeys deep. But fuck that asshole, he deserved what was coming to him.

I stood from the VIP booth and scooped up the bottle of Jack from the table, wobbling on one foot before catching myself on the railing. The voices of my entourage sounded like they were underwater; they were calling to me, but I had no idea what they were saying. I didn't give a damn. My head was only in one place: teaching that smart-mouthed fuck a lesson.

Denny’s gonna kill me for this. Every camera in this place is gonna be on me.

Even in my drunken haze the voice in my head still reprimanded me, doing its best to keep me out of trouble. My manager would kill me for this. But at that moment, nothing could've stopped me. I strutted through the pounding Vegas nightclub, whiskey in hand. People were calling my name. I shoved past a girl holding her phone up to try and take a selfie with me, my eyes fixed on the table across the room.

"Chris! Chris Stevens! Your show kicked ass tonight!"

"He's so hot."

"He looks really wasted..."

I ignored the random voices drifting at me like specters in a fog, the faces following my every move and the hands reaching for high fives and photographs. I took a swig from the bottle and the whiskey burned in my belly, hot as my temper.

I spotted him. Ugly son-of-a-bitch. Spray-on tan, slicked back bleach-blond hair, popped collar. One of those Jersey Shore-type motherfuckers. I approached the table and stood over him. The rest of his group went silent—they all knew what I was there for.

"Hey," I said. "What did you say about me back there?"

He turned and looked up at me, smirking. "Yo, bro. Don't even trip about it."

"You said that I look like a queer. Hey." I snapped my fingers. "Fucking look at me when I'm talking to you."

His eyes narrowed. "So, what? You're a fucking celebrity, bro. I can say whatever I want. That's my opinion. It's not my fault you don't like it."

The flames roared higher. I was fucking pissed, and the crazy thing was that I doubted I could’ve exactly said why. I never could explain myself in these situations. It infuriated me if people insinuated I was gay, even as a joke.

Was it because I was scared they knew the truth? Or because I despised myself for the things I'd kept locked away inside?  This wasn't my first time getting into some shit over this. It'd been happening even before I got famous, but I'd be lying if I said that the limelight hadn't made things worse. That pressure had a way of getting to you, especially when you had so much to hide.

My hand moved on its own, lifting the bottle up in the air over the guy's head, slowly tilting the neck so that the contents sloshed from one end to the other. Glug, glug, glug. He jerked in surprise as the whiskey poured through his gelled hair and splashed down his face. Someone gasped. The cell phones were coming out and I knew it, but I was too far gone.

Jersey Shore shot to his feet, his white dress-shirt soaked with the brown liquid. I tossed the bottle aside, sending it ringing across the floor. The music continued to pound, the club lights flashing across the guy's face. I wanted to hit him so badly, and I wanted him to hit me. Yeah, I'm trash. Teach me a fucking lesson. C'mon.

"What?" I shouted. "Let's go! Let's fucking go!"

WHAM. His fist connected square into my jaw and I stumbled back. Normally, I would've caught myself, but my whiskey legs meant I just kept going. I tumbled into a table, throwing glasses and a bucket of ice everywhere. My cowboy boots squeaked across the floor as I tried to get up. The world was really spinning now. He dove onto me, managing to clock me again on the side of my head. I was bleeding; the fucker was wearing a ring.

I grinned up at him. "That all you got?" I swung my knee up into his stomach, and his eyes bugged out as he wheezed like a deflating balloon. I shot to my feet and wobbled as everything around me twisted like I was on some out-of-control carnival ride, and then, BAM, was back on the ground again. I felt something painfully cold against my palm like ice, and I realized I'd fallen onto broken glass.

"C'mon, you piece of shit, let's finish—"

My words were cut off as someone hauled me to my feet by my collar and spun me around. It was club security, followed by my bodyguard, Big Mike. Mike looked at me like he'd seen a ghost. Another security guard pushed past and stopped Jersey Shore just as he tried to jump me again.

"What the fuck, Chris?" Mike said, throwing his hands into the air. Big Mike, six foot tall and three hundred pounds of pure unadulterated blubber. Great guy, but not much of a bodyguard. That was okay. I'd purposely misdirected him to the stripper poles and packed his pockets with stacks of bills so that I could get myself into some trouble.

"Sorry, buddy," I said, shrugging. "He called me gay."

The club security guard pushed me into Mike's pillowy chest, grunting, "get him the fuck out of here." I made my exit, cradling my hand as blood continued to drip down my face, and made sure to throw on a grin for the swell of paparazzi with cameras waiting outside. If I was going to spend another morning plastered across every tabloid paper in the world, I might as well have a smile on my face.

*

Denny's meaty, ring-laden fist hammered the top of his polished oak desk so hard that it made the Grammys on his shelf rattle.

"You moron, Chris. You're not invincible, you know."

It was the afternoon. I sat in my manager's office on the 30th floor overlooking downtown Los Angeles, my head was pounding from the whiskey and punches I'd taken last night. I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples, praying he’d take it easy with the loud noises. His voice was already enough to wake the dead.

"It's nice of you to be so concerned about my physical well-being. That guy couldn't throw a punch if his life depended on it. This is all because of his ring."

"I'm not talking about your physical well-being! I'm talking about your goddamn career! You're walking a damn fine line, Chris. It ain't gonna take much to tip you over the edge into obscurity. People love you now, but they also love to hate."

Denny tossed a stack of supermarket tabloids onto the table, and they fanned out to reveal a spread of colorful headlines in block text above a big photo of my blood-stained mug.

CHRIS BARKER STEVENS GONE BERSERK!

DRUNK CHRIS HUMILIATED AGAIN

CHRIS STEVENS THE HOMOPHOBE?

I groaned and pushed the papers away. "You shouldn’t read those. They’re bad for your health. I'm not a fucking homophobe."

Denny picked up the paper and shook it in my face. "There's videos of the incident all over the internet. It sure sounds like you've got a problem with gay people."

"I don't," I grumbled. I just wanted Denny to drop it. He knew exactly how I felt about it, because we'd gone through this situation before. But Denny didn't know the reasons behind my anger, so it was a fair assumption for him, or anyone, to make. I just couldn't take that shit, someone calling me gay. It infuriated me.

I pushed my palm over my eyes. Damn things felt like they were going to throb right out of their sockets.

"Here."

Denny held out a bottle of cold water to me. I took it and held it to my head.

"Drink it. Rehydrate, you drunk fuck.” He watched me as I opened the bottle and gulped it down. "Listen. Your next album is on the horizon. You can't have this kind of shit popping up. It'll fuck up your release! You're going to have to get it together. No more fights. No more fucking up."

I got up from the chair, pulled down one of the acoustic guitars hanging from his wall, and dropped myself onto the couch.

"Yeah, sure." I strummed out a tune. "Of course."

"That's what you said last time. So, here's what we're gonna do: I'm gonna hire you a bodyguard."

"I've already got a bodyguard," I said. "Big Mike."

"Not anymore," Denny said.

"The fuck you mean, 'not anymore?'"

"I fired Big Mike. You need a bodyguard who doesn't go off and get himself a blowjob while the guy whose body he's supposed to guarding is off getting his ass beat."

Oh, shit. Big Mike wasn't supposed to get caught in the crossfire like this, but I guess I should've known it would happen. I fucked up, big time. "Where is he?" I asked.

"Fuck if I know. Outside somewhere. He should've received the news by now."

I pulled out my cell to text Big Mike.

>ME: Don't go anywhere, man. I'll be right out.

"I'm calling in a specialist," Denny said. "Someone who will make sure you've got your shit straight, at least until the album release show. This guy is gonna stick by you morning, afternoon, and night. You go to take a piss, he'll be there. You beatin' off, he'll be there. This dude is not gonna let you out of his sight, understand?"

"You can't be serious," I growled, using my anger to cover up the fact that the idea of a man watching me while I stroked one out actually got me aroused. "So, you're hiring a babysitter. This is ridiculous, Denny. I don't need someone covering my ass, 24/7. I don't need—"

"That is exactly what you need," Denny roared, slamming his palms on the desk, "until you can prove otherwise!" He jabbed two fingers towards me. "Jesus, Chris. Get the fuck out of my sight. Go home and stay out of trouble until the new guy comes in. You're lucky you make me so much money."

I hung the guitar back on the wall. I knew when it was time to stop pushing Denny's buttons.

In the elevator, I slid on a pair of sunglasses, knowing full well that they didn't do much to conceal the bruises on my face, let alone the bandages covering my stitches. I could feel everyone's eyes on me as I walked through the lobby, but instead of the usual greetings there was silence.

Of course, everyone at Goldstate Records had already seen the video of their number one  artist. It didn't bother me, not at all. Why would it? I'd gotten into that fight because I knew people would see. I wanted to be punished, to be seen for the garbage I was. Nah, I didn't hate gay people. How could I? It was me who I hated.

Big Mike sat on one of the couches in the reception area, taking up nearly the entire seat. He stood up when he saw me, holding his Dodgers baseball cap in his hands. It looked like he'd been crying.

"I'm really sorry, Chris," he said, sniffling. "I really fucked up."

"No, man. I fucked up. I caused you to lose your job. C'mon, let's go."

We walked outside. Even with the glasses on, the sunlight made my head pound.

"I had a great time being your bodyguard," he said. "You're a great guy. I guess I didn't do my job too well. I never seemed to be around when you got into fights."

I smiled apologetically. That was because I always made sure he was elsewhere when I wanted to get myself into shit. "Listen," I said. "This is my fault. I'm not gonna let you go out of work. I'll keep paying you the same amount they were giving you. You can be my... assistant, or something. Someone to do my shopping and stuff."

"You always said you never wanted to have an assistant," Mike said. "You said you never wanted to let celebrity life get in the way of--"

"Yeah, I know," I said. Poor Mike. Great guy, but not the fastest on the uptake. "I did say those things. But I changed my mind."

"You're going to pay me? That's a lot of money, Chris."

I patted Big Mike's ginormous back. My Camaro sat in the VIP spot in front of the building, and I unlocked the door with my key fob. "Not a big deal, buddy. I'm a multimillionaire rockstar, remember?" I grinned at him. It made my face hurt.

"So, who are they gonna get to be your new bodyguard?" He opened the driver door for me and leaned his arm onto the roof of the car to speak to me when I got inside.

"No idea," I said.

I didn't need a fucking watchdog. Whoever they were, I already knew we weren't going to get along.