Hollywood Prince (Hollywood Royalty #3) - Natasha Madison Page 0,88

I look through them, starting at the very beginning when we were in Montana. Every single time I think of the memory that goes with the photo, I take another chug, the burning less and less. I drift off into the darkness with the phone on my chest and the empty bottle of Jack in my hand. The sound of it falling and shattering on the floor barely has me opening my eyes. I sleep through my alarm the next day, and I only wake when I feel my phone buzzing on my chest. I blink open and slur out, “Hello.”

“Where in the fuck are you?” the woman asks me, and I cringe when I open my eyes and then close them just as quickly when the light is unbearable.

“I’m in bed,” I tell them. “Who is this?”

“It’s Sylvia,” she hisses. “You were due on set an hour ago. I’m outside your door.”

I lift my head, looking at the bedroom door but not seeing anyone. “I can’t see you,” I tell her.

“I’m outside,” she says, and then I hear the banging. “Get up.”

I sit up and groan, the headache that started off as a little throb has turned into full pounding. I climb out of the bed and get up, not realizing that I’m stepping on shards of glass in my bare feet. The sting makes me wince, and I look down, seeing the blood start to pour out. “Four-seven-one,” I tell her the code, and soon, I hear the front door open. I sit back on the bed and hiss when I turn my foot over and see that it’s sliced open. “I need help!” I shout, and I hear her running up the steps. “In here.”

She walks in and sees the blood dripping off my foot and the glass all around me. “Fuck,” she says and grabs her phone to call someone. “I need a doctor to come over to Carter’s place.” She looks at me while she listens to what the person on the other line says. “Yeah, get him over here right now. The set is on standby until he shows up.” She hangs up the phone and leans on the doorjamb.

“Does it hurt?” She folds her arms over her chest.

“Stings a bit,” I tell her the truth.

“Good,” she says and then takes out her phone, and her fingers are flying across her phone. “We are probably going to have to postpone shooting for today.” Turning her wrist over to look at her phone, she says, “It’s already late.”

“Can you go get me some ibuprofen?” I ask her, and she just stares at me. “Please. Between the sting of the cut and the hangover, I don’t know which is worse.”

She turns and walks down the stairs, and I hear the cupboards slamming shut and then the water running. She comes back with two pills and a full glass of water. She watches me, or better yet, she glares at me until her phone rings. She answers it, walking out and then coming back in with the doctor. He comes in wearing a suit and holding a black bag. He places it on the bed.

“I’m Dr. Novack,” he tells me, opening his bag and putting on latex gloves. He grabs a pillow and puts my foot up on it. “You need stitches,” he confirms, “but first, I have to make sure all the glass shards are out.” He looks over at Sylvia. “I’ll need a towel.” She nods and goes into the bathroom, coming back with a towel. He pours something over the cuts, and I lay my head back and hiss.

I close my eyes when he takes out a needle and numbs the area. By the time he leaves, I have twenty stitches in both feet. “He needs to stay off his feet for at least a week,” he tells Sylvia. “I have to see him before then.”

He takes off his gloves and tosses them in the trash near the bed. “A full week?” Sylvia asks. “What if he uses crutches or a wheelchair?”

“He needs the skin to heal correctly, or it’ll be worse in the long run.” She just nods at him, and he walks out.

“Jesus fuck,” she says, taking out her phone and calling someone. “He’s out minimum a week,” she tells the person. “I would make all the arrangements to film everyone else but him.” She listens as the person talks. “Yeah, fine.” She ends the call and looks up at the ceiling.