This is the third time I’ve unsuccessfully tried to get the fingerprint scanner to read my thumbprint. It’s hard trying to keep my finger steady when there are eight vodka tonics in my bloodstream and five slender fingers curled around my cock.

“Hurry up,” she slurs, tightening her grip. “I want your huge cock inside me.”

My fingers slide clumsily over the scanner again, and I silently curse myself for telling my bodyguards to wait downstairs. “Just turn around and I’ll fuck you right here.”

She giggles as she turns around and lifts the back of her sheer white mini-dress, which is soaked through from the wet bikini she’s wearing underneath. “Be my guest,” she says, looking back at me with a lazy grin.

Her ass is round and smooth, with an odd sparkle to it, like she used some kind of tanning creme with shimmer in it. Turning away from the front door of my penthouse to face her, I lose my balance and nearly tip over as I reach out to smack it. She howls with laughter as she places her hand on the wall so she doesn’t fall over.

“I’ll fuck that ass six ways from Sunday,” I say, grabbing her hips to steady myself.

I slide my hand into the back of her bikini bottoms and smile as I drag my finger forward through her moisture.

“Damn, baby. You’re wetter than a fucking tsunami.”

“Fuck me, Cash,” she begs, her voice sounding more whiny than sexy.

Not that I care. The girl has an ass like Scarlett Johansson and a face like Natalie Portman. This is the first time I’ve seen her at one of my best buddy Dean’s pool parties. This means she’s either a newbie on the scene or a Vegas tourist. Either way, she’s expendable. I don’t even remember her name. I can fuck her tonight and I won’t have to worry about ever seeing her again.

She continues to giggle as I slide my finger out of her slick pussy, then she lets out a loud hiccup. “Oops!”

I chuckle as I push her wet bikini bottoms down to reveal her creamy cheeks. “Fasten your seatbelt, because I’m about to ride you like a fucking roller coaster.”

“Just…fuck me already.” She’s slurring again.

I blink my eyes a few times when her two ass cheeks turns into four. Then I reach into my back pocket. Fuck. Where are my condoms? I turn away from her and stare at the shiny steel elevator doors. Should I go down and ask one of my bodyguards for a condom? Or should I just ask them to come up and let me into my apartment, where I have a whole fucking drawer full of them?

I shake my head. Nah, I’ll just try to open the door again. I’ll get it right this time.

When I turn around again, the hottie with the ass is on her knees. She dry heaves a couple of times into the corner of the vestibule. Then she spews milky white vomit all over the dark-gray carpet. The girl’s heaving body disappears as my mind is whisked away to a dark California beach.

The waves crash like thunder behind me. The moonlight casts a ghostly silver sheen over the water and the coarse sand. The sharp, briny smell of seaweed stings my nostrils as I press the heels of my palms into her chest, but she doesn’t respond. Doesn’t open her eyes. Doesn’t breathe.

Pinching her nose, I slide my other hand under her neck and lift up gently to tilt her head back. Her brown hair fans out over the sand as I blow into her mouth. I can taste the cloying rum on her lips as I blast four more puffs of air into her mouth, and the beach begins to spin underneath me. I hold my hands out in front of me, as if this will stop the spinning. Then, I realize I have to keep trying to save her.

No! I should call 911.

I hastily pull my phone out of my pocket and dial the number, then I close my eyes so I don’t throw up.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My girlfriend is ODing. I think she’s dying! You need to hurry! We’re at… Oh, shit! Where are we?”

“Sir, what’s your name and what’s your girlfriend’s name? And what did she take?”

“Cash. Cash Westbrook. My girlfriend is Vanessa Allen. The actress. She—Oh, God. She took suboxone. I think she only took one.”

I turn around to see if there are any signs sticking out of the sand or near the parking lot, something to tell me the name of the beach we’re on. But the sudden movement makes the Earth tilt and I fall over onto the sand.

“What dosage did she take, sir?”

“Fuck, I don’t know!”

“Sir, I need you to calm down and tell me where you are.”

“Oh, fuck,” I whisper, my heart racing as I stumble to my feet, my sneakers sinking into the sand as I try to get a better look toward the road. “I’m near Newport—wait! Corona del Mar! I remember now. We’re in Corona del Mar. Near the south end. Hurry. Please hurry.”

“Sir, help is on the way. Are you also intoxicated?”

“Yes,” I reply, and I can’t fight back the tears anymore. “I took 120 milligrams of oxy…and a few beers.”

“Sir, can you tell me if Vanessa is breathing?”

I fall to my knees, brushing her hair out of her face as I look into her wide, glossy brown eyes. “Her pupils are gone. Oh, fuck. Is she dead?”

“Cash, are her lips blue or are they a normal color?”

“They’re blue. Please hurry!”

The memory disintegrates into chaos. Hector—my six-foot-three-inch, 290-pound bodyguard—has my arms locked behind my back as I struggle to break free.

“Get off me!” I roar. “What is he doing to her?”

My other bodyguard, Dex, is hunched over the girl lying at my front door. The girl I was about to fuck.

“Cash, calm the fuck down!” Hector slams me chest-first against the wall.

The force momentarily knocks the breath from my lungs, but my body is coursing with adrenaline now. I’m not ready to give up. I can’t give up. Not this time.

I throw my head back and a sharp pain slices through the back of my head. The distinct crunch of my skull meeting Hector’s nose spurs me on.

“You motherfucker!” he roars, letting me go and spewing nasally curse words as he reaches for his broken, bloody nose.

As soon as he releases his hold on me, I rush Dex, sending him headfirst into the front door handle. He topples over and the smudge of blood on the stainless steel snaps me out of my rage. What the fuck am I doing?

Hector snaps his arms around my chest and wrenches me backward and slams me onto the ground, securing my hands behind my back just as the elevator doors slide open. A team of two paramedics and two policemen enter the vestibule with a gurney. The medics head straight for the girl.

A policeman with a gut that hangs three inches below his belt buckle approaches Hector and me with his hand on his holster. “What’s going on here?”

“She passed out,” Hector replies, his voice nasally and still taut with tension as he continues to fight to restrain me. “We were trying to wake her up.”

“Wha—?” The sound of her voice, weak and disoriented, is like fucking music to my ears, and my limbs go completely limp.

“Why are you restraining him and why is that other guy passed out cold over there?” the officer asks.

Hector can feel I’ve given up, and he quickly lets go of my arms. Getting to his feet, he holds a hand out to help me up, but I don’t take it. I stand on my own, fairly sober now.

“Can you tell me your name?” one of the medics asks the girl.

“Rosie,” she mumbles, and I sigh with relief now that I know her name and she’s awake. “I’m gonna throw up,” she continues as she turns her head and spews all over the other medic’s pant leg.

“You’re awake,” I say as they wheel her past me on the gurney.

She flashes me a loose grin. “I’m not done with you,” she slurs.

I try not to laugh as she makes the universal signal for a blowjob with her fist and her tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek. She’s not so bad. Maybe I won’t ignore her next time I see her at Dean’s.

“What have you two been drinking? Or smoking or snorting?” The other officer with the blond hair and mustache asks.

“I’m swear I’m fine!” Rosie whines as they wheel her into the elevator.

“Officer?” Dex’s deep voice startles me. His eyebrow is cocked at me as he holds a handkerchief on the top of his smooth bald head. “I think she clearly had too much to drink, but there was nothing illegal going on here.”

“What happened to your head?” the blond officer asks.

“I slipped in her vomit,” Dex replies, handing the handkerchief to Hector so he can use it on his nose.

“And your nose?” the fat officer asks. “You slip and fall, too? Bump into a door, maybe?”

“Caught an elbow at a party.”

Fatty doesn’t look too impressed with this lie, but there’s nothing he can do about it. They subject me to a half-hearted interrogation about what Rosie and I were drinking at the pool party—I don’t know what she was drinking, Officer. I only met her about ten minutes before we left together—Then they get in touch with the medics to make sure she’s still conscious before they roll their eyes and disappear into the elevator.

My stomach goes sour as I realize Hector and Dex just lied to two officers of the law for me, to protect me from the consequences of my own recklessness. And it’s not the first time they’ve done it. In fact, I can’t even count the number of times they’ve smoothed things over for me with the authorities. And how many times has David Nichols, the head press officer at Westbrook Oil, fielded questions about my latest scandal?

The tabloid headlines flash in my mind: CASH’S FLING RUSHED TO HOSPITAL AFTER OVERDOSE SCARE… Just like all the headlines from the past two years: CASH AND TARA’S SECRET ABORTION… CASH’S WILD WEEKEND IN CABO… CASH’S JOYRIDE ENDS IN DUI… VANESSA ALLEN DEAD.

My dad’s words echo in my head: No, you can’t get rid of your bodyguards, Cash. They’re there to protect you from yourself.

Maybe it’s time I started protecting them from me.